So - where are you from?
There's a good chance it's Liverpool. There's also a pretty good chance it's not; it may not even be England, or Europe. We are all aware that Liverpool is a truly global club.
Liverpool spread its name across the world with its exploits in the European Cup. Once again the club sits proudly at that summit, while participation in the World Club Championship may entice a new generation of fans.
A recent magazine review of 'Golden Past, Red Future' said that "the very soul of Liverpool Football Club underpins the entire book". Which I took to be the greatest of all its compliments, given I am not actually from Liverpool.
I like to think I'm a fairly astute commentator on the club, but I would never dream of claiming to be the 'voice of the fans', or an expert in Scouse culture. Writing about the football itself has always been my interest. I hope my passion and commitment is obvious; but I don't claim to be the most passionate, or the most committed.
Perhaps it's a different kind of love to that experienced by locals, but it's mine all the same. As in all walks of life, everything depends on the individual. We all feel and experience things differently. Generalising about any group of people is always dangerous.
My love of LFC began when I was a young boy; in fact, from when I was too young to know any different. I recall staying up late to watch the Reds in Europe in the late 70s.
Who are we supporting?" I recall asking my family. "Liverpool." And so there it was: I was a Liverpool supporter. At first, only for a night, but the next morning I was still bewitched. At the age of seven I had no idea that you were supposed to support your local team. Besides, I didn't really have a local team.
People from cities like Liverpool and Newcastle - footballing hotbeds -can fail to understand or appreciate what it's like for football fans born in towns (or even countries) with no real footballing identity, and no obvious local team to support. Not everywhere has the sense of community that Liverpool possesses.
I grew up in a working-class area outside west London. There were probably 20 professional clubs in a 25-mile radius; but none was much closer than 20 miles away. At my school your choice did not boil down to Red or Blue. It wasn't that clear cut.
I think I chose Liverpool; but maybe it chose me. Whatever the circumstances, I did not become a Liverpool fan to annoy anyone else.
Outsiders
We are the white rappers of the football world. We have entered into a movement that is not part of our local history or tradition, but one which, for one reason or another, we have been drawn to, and love nonetheless.
We struggle for credibility, constantly having to prove we are worthy, when, to members of that community - at least the ones who do not know us personally - we might be considered misfits.
Just as white rappers speak with an affected African-American accent, we too have been known to occasionally slip into Scouse vernacular, at the risk of being found out.
We strive for the credibility of Eminem (who can be rub shoulders with Dr Dre - a Liverpool fan, coincidentally-50 Cent and D12), but all the while we fear being another Vanilla Ice.
There can be no denying that Liverpool Football Club 'belongs' to the people of Merseyside by way of heritage and location - that it was passed down to them from their forefathers. The club was founded on the passion and pride of the locals, without which it may have floundered many decades ago.
Over the years it was they - the Liverpudlians - who made the club what it is today, with its famed Kop recognised worldwide for the unique wit and volume of the 24,000 who once stood on its terrace.
But times change.
History
Anfield was constructed, in piecemeal fashion, at the back-end of the 19th, and the early part of the 20th century, so that men - and it was almost exclusively men - could walk through the surrounding Victorian streets in order to stand shoulder-to-shoulder, gathering as a mass to watch a game of football.
When the location was first used for organised football, in 1884, electricity was still in its infancy. No one had successfully flown in a series of attempts at aviation. The world's first practical internal combustion engine-powered automobile had only just been pioneered by Karl Benz. Cinema did not yet exist, let alone television. That was the world into which Anfield was born.
Football used to be solely about the local community, as that was the only practical way to support a club. Anything else would have been illogical (not that football support usually involves logic). There was no alternative, especially as it was a working-class game, and as such, with limited finances and the basic transport of the day, it could only exist in its local roots.
Thirty years ago it all began to change. As Liverpool's success of the 1970s was transmitted, in glorious technicolour, to a global audience, then many had no resistance to falling in love. Just as the world fell head-over-heels for the Beatles, Liverpool's footballers captivated those who, inyears gone by, would have had no access to the team.
It would be fascinating to go back in time, to the 1890s, and try to explain to those men clomping through the cobbled streets in their hobnail boots, just how the game would change towards the end of the next century, and that a good percentage of regulars at Anfield would not be their descendants, but men and women from all over the UK, and far further afield.
Can you imagine explaining to the working-class Victorian shuffling down Walton Breck Road in his thick winter coat that, in years to come, people will be sitting in a fully-seated arena, watching superstars from all over the world kick what to him would be considered a balloon, as up to a billion people around the world tune in to view the match on small boxes?
Given the Wright Brothers had yet to take to the air, can you picture his face as you outline the notion that hordes of people fly to matches from Ireland, Scandinavia,Asia, America and Australia? I imagine you'd receive a mouthful of Scouse wit peppered with with a few profanities.
Football moves with the times, and evolves naturally. Global media - satellite tv, the internet - has made the whole world 'local'. Even so, not every club has a romantic appeal.
Anyone from outside the city needs to respect the tradition they are entering into, andlearn the correct protocol necessary at Anfield (if a match-going fan). It's not about pretending to be Scouse, but understanding how the club evolved. Some traditions naturally expire; others - songs, the nature of the support - need to stay strong.
But we are all legitimate fans. There is no dictate that labels us otherwise. Liverpool is a global club, based on Merseyside. If Liverpool FC belongs to the locals in many senses, it is also theirs to share. We all contribute to the club's finances, through tickets and merchandise. We all play our part, to help keep it strong.
Defeat hurts us all
How deeply does a bad result cut?
"If you prick us, do we not bleed (Red)?", said Shakespeare. (Or was it Tony Cascarino?)
Locals suffer after a bad result due to the ribbing of Evertonians (not that they can do much gloating at present). Bragging rights are crucial, and Evertonians also goad Liverpudlians about the Out of Towners (OOTs) - using the worldwide support of Liverpool to suggest that Everton is the 'true' club of the city.
An alternative (and more accurate) view is that Everton are parochial, with narrow appeal.
OOTs, and overseas reds, can face umpteen hours on the road or in the air. I don't think too many OOTs take going to gameslightly as a result. It is not 'casual'. I once spent ten hours on the motorway - for a game that was cancelled.
One fan's story
Let me end by telling you the story of Nadeem. He is a friend of Jonathan Swain, a valuable contributor to 'Golden Past, Red Future'.
It is 2003, and Jonathan and Nadeem are attending a game against Arsenal at Anfield:
We edge inch by inch to the ground, having left Cardiff hours earlier. Pull up as close as possible, barter with a policeman to let us stop and get the ramp fitted and the big man out. The surge of excitement as you pass through those gates ... the singing's already well under way and although he's wrapped up in two coats and scarf andgloves I swear I can see him shivering in anticipation as the Reds come out of the tunnel.
The Kop is in full voice and the hairs on my neck are at attention, a wall of sound that beats the Ultra Sur at the Bernabeu without even trying. Find our seats, beautiful, right in the corner ... his ventilator means he can't scream and shout, but he's drinking it in.
Afterwards he's in real pain. He'd never moan and his eyes are shining with what he's experienced - even though Pires has ruined the day with a curler into the top corner - but you can see it. We spend forty minutes in the disabled loo, holding his hands up to the dryer to get some warmth back and the blood flowing again. It will take him maybe three days to actually feel his hands properly after this cold and rain, but does he care?
About the cold? No.
Copyright - Paul Tomkins
About Liverpool? Of course.