Gone are the days of the heaving biomass. Gone is the noise.

One dimensional football fans are dead. Football fans used to be a hive mind organism we would see bulging in a stand on television or find ourselves a part of on the way to a match. A big screaming finger jabbing food consuming monster with no coherence or academic faculties. An organic biomass wearing thirty thousand replica jerseys and only exercising it's vocal chords. A mobile worship unit for the hero of the day. 

But now. Oh, but now. This biomass has been spliced and diced and each newly severed entity has been implanted with opinions and thoughts and preferences and wants and hopes and formations and this and that. Go onto twitter right now and you will find someone who has written a blog about what fingers Xavi scratches his arse with. Dig deeper and you will find someone writing a counter argument. It's that scary. 

No wonder Anfield has turned into a crypt where the only noise is Bill Shankly turning over in his grave to wipe the vomit from his mouth at Stewart Downing prancing up and down the wing, each kilometer bringing him closer to his titanic sized pay packet. 

The unthinking biomass is gone and in its place are the football hipsters. Each one dissecting the performance and identifying the false 9's here and there in anticipation of updating 'Musings on the Game via Bauhaus design principles and Curry Cheese Chips' when they get home. Downing is of course pioneering his own niche position, the false footballer. 

I run a blog on Joseph Kony & Arjen Robbens cleaning lady. I run a blog on Rastafarianism & how Gary Pallister has nothing to do with it. I run a blog on Blogs & how they affect introverted wingers. I pick my nose and draw pictures of Bill Cosby on the side of Petit Filous containers which I then arrange in 4-4-2 formation and photograph it. And the list goes on and on and on and on and on. And the stadiums get quieter and quieter and quieter….