Our mammies are a bit like soccer clubs
As I awoke from my not necessarily needed beauty sleep on Sunday morning, it felt like any other day.
I got up, did my routine 100 push-ups and 100 sit-ups and hopped in the shower (not all of that last sentence is true. See if you can spot the lies).
Both social media sites were dominated by one thing: well wishes for the mammies.
As I scrolled through them, something hit me. All of these people were wishing their mammies a great day and telling anyone who'd listen (or read) that their mammy was, in fact, the world's best mammy.
And then it dawned on me, how can everyone's mammy be the best?
Only one mammy out there can be the dog's proverbial testicles, only one can be the Don, and, since it's my mammy, what were these other eejits on about?
And then something else occurred to me (it was a day of epiphanies).
Mammies are like football clubs.
I don't mean that they can be bought by mega-rich oil tycoons or that they are the object of millions of men's desires, although perhaps it could be said of my mammy.
Anyway, enough about Susan.
I could say what I like about her because she hasn't seen a sports section of a newspaper in her life.
Here, I'll prove it; Susan is as blind as a bat, is an awful dancer and fancies the pants off David Caruso (the red lad from CSI who delivers a killer one-liner and puts his sunglasses on just as The Who scream 'WOAHHHHHHH').
She'll never see this so can't punish me for it, the filthy farting fecker.
Now, back to sport.
Football clubs are a funny thing. Most of the time, your football club is handed down to you by a parent or brother or uncle.
What starts off so innocently will grow and manifest and become a massive part of your life.
Some unfortunates inherit clubs like Leeds United or Blackburn Rovers but then they'll say that's how they like it because it's their club. And that's my point.
Liverpool Football Club was my first love until the Boss Lady came along.
There is a gravity-like force that draws me to them.
Nobody else in my family likes football (weirdos) so I was left to my own devices to make the life-changing decision of who I would devote my life to.
And it was while watching a video tape called Ballistics 96 that I made up my mind.
It was essentially a compilation of screamers, bloopers and funny moments of the year 1996 and one of the goals came from Stan Collymore, when a nothing shot from the Liverpool striker took a wicked bobble on the pitch and deceived the goalkeeper.
An innocuous moment but a turning point in my life because for whatever reason, little seven-year-old me took a shine to Collymore and his shiny red kit and that was it, I was sold. Santa Claus had new merchandise on his list.
Five years later I watched on as the mighty Reds racked a treble of FA Cup, League Cup and UEFA Cup.
I was still a bit young to realise what was going on but cheered and hollered appropriately nonetheless.
At 16, I realised the significance of everything as Liverpool won the Champions League in Istanbul but on reflection, I definitely think the me of now would appreciate it more than the me of 2005.
Win, lose or draw, I'll always love Liverpool.
My stomach will always do a little somersault when we score and my bowels will always do a little collapse as we're about to concede.
I'll always scream and go red in the face when we hang on for that vital win and I'll never stop becoming mopey and a pain in the arse if we fail to win (failing to win also means a compulsory avoidance of Match of the Day).
I don't think my passion or love for the club will ever wane but as I get older, it might have less of an effect on me externally.
Or maybe I'll get worse, who knows?
Mothers and football clubs; can't live with them, can't live without them.