‘‘‘Chim chiminey, chim chiminey, chim chim cher-ee”. Why Jürgen’s departure ain’t so bad, you’ll see’
As I left the last of my teenage years behind me, a truly world-class German striker — and forgive me for foot-splaining for those in the know — called Jürgen Klinsmann signed for perennial sleeping giants of North London, Tottenham Hotspur. The very dry wit of this largely considered Jewish club, by dint of its catchment area and following, found what I remember as a hilarious way to welcome him. He was serenaded with a chant of ‘Chim chiminey, chim chiminey, chim chim cher-oo, Jürgen was German and now he’s a Jew’. Still one of the best chants of all time.
Now by rights I could have — and much to my Dad’s best friends’ chagrin, perhaps should have — been a Spurs fan. But after crying, aged eight, at my first game that ‘Uncle’ John took me to — which could have been a familiar experience had I been loyal, but hey, how would I have known that then? — I rejected his beloved Lilywhites. For some reason I had supported the red-shirted Southampton, who lost 3–2. Cue the waterworks.
Still wiping my tears away on the way home, with John desperately embarrassed and regretting taking me, I read the programme notes on a certain Kevin Keegan, who had put in a tired appearance for The Saints. He was towards the latter end of his career, and here was a player I knew from avidly reading ‘Roy of The Rovers’. And a quick bit of research through his career led me away from the South Coast and back to his days at the Mighty Liverpool. So via this circuitous route, my love of The Redmen began. It didn’t hurt that they were top of the League, all conquering, and frankly then — in 1983 — the greatest team in Europe, possibly the world, by far. Try and argue against it. I’ll die on that hill. Seriously. It’s been 41 years and that team in those years was proper boss.
Which brings me to the real Jürgen. The man, the miracle, the mentality-monster creator: Jürgen Norbert Klopp. I mean, ‘Norbert’, really? He even makes that middle name cool. By some quirk of fate, within the space of twelve hours in October 2015, two events happened that changed my life forever. Jürgen duly arrived to be announced at Anfield and was confirmed as Liverpool manager. And my beloved first child — who sneakily bears the middle name ‘Delfina’ (an anagram not too hard to unscramble) — came smiling into the world. When I talk about Jürgen, I sometimes wink and tell her I’m not sure which day was more important. I’m only half joking y’know?
In some ways, both of them saved my life. The latter gave my life meaning, purpose and the ultimate motivation to be the best version of myself I possibly could. The former? Well, among other things, he laid a thirty-year hoodoo. That’s right. Just seven short years after I started following The Redmen, their unparalleled run of winning the League seemingly every year, well, that dominance was over. You can call me a glory-hunter at the start. But I stuck with them through the leaner years. And I love them still.
I’m that fanatic who, once bitten by the Liverpool bug, obsessively devoured everything I could about them, tracing their history back through Shankly (don’t get me started) and all the way to 1892, and back. So I felt somewhat qualified when Klopp announced he could take us from ‘doubters to believers’ to proclaim him as Shankly 2.0. A perfect fit who understood what football means to Liverpool, what Liverpool means to football. Understands the passion and power, the struggles of Scousedom, the humility to connect with the people, and the energy and charisma to take us back to the top.
Now you might not be surprised to know that I have sometimes been just a wee a bit, well, hyperbolic about some things. But not even at my most bullish could I imagine what would unfold. And beyond that, how would I feel when the shock of his glorious eight-and-a-half-years coming to an end slapped me round the face like John Cleese wielding a giant wet turbot. Yup, I’m not shy of an obscure reference or two. Sue me.
Perhaps I may feel differently once Klopp’s Last Dance is over in just a few short weeks. But I went straight to gratitude. I had told my nephews to enjoy the ride, especially in *that* season of seasons, 2019–20. Yeah, the one where we bagged a ridiculous 61 out of 63 points — twenty wins and one draw — from the first 21 games of the season. A team that reached the peaks of that team in 1983, and subsequently The Mighty Reds of 1987–88, possibly the greatest Liverpool team I think I had ever seen. The first team to win the League in the Premier League era (newsflash: football didn’t start in 1992–93, shock horror, but it seemed to end for us for three drought-laden decades).
‘Don’t cry because it’s over, laugh because it happened’ is most definitely my vibe. From doubters to believers? And then some. Leaving not just a legacy behind but a rebuilt team that could yet scale close to those heights. Shankly, dear Shankly, needed a decade to build his second great team. Jürgen has done it in about eighteen months. But more than that, he made us smile again. A smile that’s nowhere near his enormous grin, something that beams as bright as the setting sun on a perfect day in May (and what a perfect day it could be this year). And I can’t stop smiling, no matter what.
I hope my fellow Redmen will remember — as I’m certain Kloppo would remind them — that no man, player or manager, is bigger than this club. And I’d like them to consider this: amongst the pantheon of Liverpool managers, the Mount Rushmore style carving in my minds’ eye is book-ended with Jürgen Norbert Klopp. For me, the line runs straight through Shankly, Paisley and Dalglish, all the way to Klopp. That’s special. Fagan, Houllier and Benitez all legends as well. But this Fab Four are, in my humble opinion, just peak. Shankly died just before I was born. I just missed the Paisley era, but saw King Kenny play, and the tremendous, torturous years of Dalglish the manager. I never lost faith after that when things dried up, but damn was it hard. And I can tell my daughter, as if she could ever forget, that I was there for every minute of Jürgen Norbert Klopp. What a priviledge.
As for Johnny Harris, the man whose Tottenham team I rejected, which — to arguably their greatest ever fan (that’s for another time, but I’ll fight you on that one too) — was quite some slap in the face, sadly he’s no longer with us. But all credit to him, after coming to terms with my tears and treachery, he took me with him to Anfield, year after year, to see Spurs lose. Somehow, we always seemed to play them in May in the 1980’s, or at least that’s how I remember it. As the story goes, John one day woke up from a heart attack — after thirty-five years of going to every single game, home and away, following Tottenham Hotspur around the world — and peered at the Doctor. He beckoned him closer. And whispered… ‘What was the score?’. Well, John, I may not have taken on your love of Spurs, but I’m pretty sure I’m your kind of fanatic. And I’ll see your ‘Glory, Glory Tottenham Hotspur’, and raise you a ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’. Here’s to you and Jürgen both.
