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    ‘Where’s the jack?’ I asked.
    ‘Don’t know.’
    ‘Come on, Al, you need to open the boot.’
    ‘How do you open the boot?’
    ‘You’re hopeless. Leave it to me.’ Having managed the straightforward task of opening the boot, I removed the spare and jack and began changing the wheel.
    ‘By the way, you’d better flag somebody down because we’re going to be late,’ I said, crouching down by the wheel. A car soon stopped, Richard hopped in and dashed to Kirkby where he explained the situation.
    ‘Big Al’s got a puncture,’ said Richard. ‘He and Kenny won’t be long.’ Graeme Souness was never sluggish in spotting a sporting challenge, so he immediately said, ‘Let’s have a bet on whose hands are dirtiest when they get in.’ When Al and I finally arrived, Graeme made us present our hands for inspection and, sure enough, as everybody predicted, Al’s were spotless.
    Settled into the Daresbury, I’d climb into bed and watch whatever was on the television at nine, whether Bouquet of Barbed Wire or Budgie . I’d lie back and run through the match in my mind, thinking about whom I was facing, goalkeeper and defenders, and how I’d react to any situation. Would I chip the keeper if one-on-one? Would I lay the ball off? More rituals. At 10 sharp, I’d fall asleep for 11 hours.
    Having woken at nine on the dot, I’d read the papers in bed, do the concise crossword and then conduct one of the important steps in my ritual – the pre-match shave. Superstition again dictated the format. If Liverpool had won the previous week, I’d move the blade in exactly the same direction as before. If we’d lost, I’d change direction. It sounds trivial, and I should really have been locked up, but it was a ritual and so deserved respect. Getting dressed, I’d never wear clothes that I’d worn when we lost. Shirts, underpants, ties and socks all got binned if they hadn’t brought the right result. No mercy, out they went. I’ll admit I had to address my lucky suit addiction. If I wore a new suit, and Liverpool won, I thought I’d better buy another to keep up the momentum. That was getting serious, and expensive, so I compromised on keeping the same suit during a winning run. After breakfast of tea and toast, it was time to get the coach to Anfield.
    By now, with kick-off approaching, the superstitious nature of the whole squad would begin to show. When the bus turned into Utting Avenue, the long straight up towards Anfield, we’d try to work out from how many cars were parked along the road what the total crowd would be – ‘38,000,’ I’d predict, ‘35,000,’ Souey would shout, ‘36,000,’ said Big Al. The Tannoy announcer would give out the crowd figure, and there’d be some crowing in the dressing room from the ones who’d been closest. Ronnie Moran, nicknamed ‘Bugsy’ after Bugsy Malone, often got it right. Money never changed hands, so Bugsy never profited. Such silly little games were important, not just to pass the time during a period inevitably strained with nerves for many players, but also because the banter bonded us even closer.
    The Daresbury routine lasted until 1983 when Joe took charge and we were allowed to spend Friday nights at home. My routine expanded then. I’d be in my bed at eight sharp, clutching a bottle of Irn Bru and a big bar of Dairy Milk chocolate – always the same combination, always the same respect for tradition. Marina broke off the same two squares from the bar and if she ever took more than two, or a different two, there was a riot. Marina’s naturally of a mischievous disposition but she would never, ever tamper with my chocolate. I’d always eaten chocolate because it gave me extra energy and it became habit. Marina would be out on the landing on patrol, making sure the kids kept quiet. Usually, little disturbed my sleep and if I was struggling, I’d just swallow a tablet supplied by the Liverpool doctor.
    Even the route from my home in