The red smoke of a thousand flares rolled in across Anfield Road, engulfing the disciples in a garish haze of rapture. Liverpool had witnessed its share of giddy communions but perhaps never one as intoxicating as this, where even the arrival of the team bus was heralded by a man-made fog so thick it briefly blocked out the sun. “This means more”: it is a slogan that frequently antagonises rival fans, with its suggestion that whatever this club accomplishes must somehow be imbued with a deeper significance than you would find anywhere else. And yet this was one occasion where you could hardly fail to be swept up in the self-mythology, in the sense of one half of a singular city surrendering to a party 35 years in the making.
I spent the day in Liverpool and it convinced me it does ‘mean more’
