Young Boris and I joined the crowd up at the church tonight to watch the Champions League Final. After being hugely dissapointed at Man Utd's loss on Saturday, my football mad seven-year-old was allowed to stay up late in the hope that Liverpool might once again overcome the odds, the pundits and a better team, in this their 2007 quest for European glory.
I still remember the final two years ago, and the scenes of ludicrous over-excitement from some Scouse friends in the church, (you know who you are!) as the so-called 'miracle of Istanbul' was played out. I won't forget the near-pandemonium that happened when Liverpool first equalised and then clinched victory in a nail-biting penalty shoot-out.
Tonight alas, it was not to be. Boris and I left the terraces (well pews anyway) and headed for home imagining what might have been. As for Boris, he was caught between the dismay of two finals going the wrong way for him in a week, and the joy of having been able to stay up far too late to watch footie on the big screen.