Mate, let me tell ya about dragging my backside to Liverpool FC Museum last Tuesday. Wasn’t even planned, honestly. Woke up with a proper stonking headache – might’ve been that dodgy takeaway – and the sky looked like it couldn’t be bothered either, pure grey. But hey, paid for the trip, figured why not.
Figuring Out How to Get There
Google Maps told me it was a walk from the city centre. Took me bloody ages. Got turned around near the docks, construction everywhere, proper maze. Saw this big old building with the Liver Bird logo plastered all over it, hard to miss once you stumble close enough. Queue outside wasn’t too bad, maybe ten folks, mostly tourists snapping pics. Ticket counter guy said it was eighteen quid. Nearly choked. Eighteen quid just to look at old football boots? Bloody expensive football boots.
Inside the Gates
Paid up, grumbling. They give you one of them audio guide thingies. Big mistake. Mine kept cutting out near the big trophy cases. Whole place felt like walking into someone’s giant football attic.
- First bit was all ancient photos. Black and white lads kicking heavy leather balls. Looked painful. Some proper scratchy film reels playing on loop.
- Second room had boots from the 1950s. Like bricks with laces. How anyone ran in those, I’ll never know.
- Then the trophies. Whole room glowing gold. European Cups lined up, proper shiny. Lot of people just gawping. Even I got a bit of that… feeling, y’know? Like this wasn’t just metal.
Walked through bits about Hillsborough. Quiet there. Heavy. Saw some faded scarves left by fans. Real quiet.
The Bloody Boots & Final Bits
Further on, they had boots worn by legends like Gerrard and Rush. Under fancy glass cases. Felt like looking at holy relics. Steven Gerrard’s boots looked scuffed to hell – like proper work boots. Could almost smell the grass and mud. Heard some kid ask his dad, “Did he really score with those?” Made me chuckle.
They have this mock-up of the dressing room, benches all tidy. Smelled faintly of deep cleaning spray, not sweat and liniment like you’d think. Bit fake, that. Last bit was some interactive screen thing. Tried testing my LFC knowledge, got half wrong. Kids nearby were smashing it, showing me up.
Was It Worth It?
Came out blinking into the drizzle, three hours later. Feet aching from standing. Head still fuzzy. Grabbed a coffee nearby, proper weak stuff. Thought about it. Eighteen quid? Still hurts. But… sitting there with that rubbish coffee, I realised all that history – the awful boots, the shine on the cups, the scuffs on Gerrard’s boots – it wasn’t just stuff. It’s the whole reason people lose their minds over a leather ball. It’s the stories, the pain, the joy stuck to every old shirt and ticket stub in that place. Not just Liverpool’s history. Football’s history. Every club has pieces like this buried somewhere.
Glad I went. Would I go tomorrow? No, my feet are still moaning. But if you care about the game, really care, even half a lick, it’s worth the dough and the dodgy audio guide. Just wear comfy shoes.
