Lin Biao was the most interesting of his generation of Chinese rulers. Scared of clouds apparently. Was he murdered? Or did he really die in that plane crash, showing he was right to be afraid of clouds after all?
Ah, we're back. What a strange season it's been already. The season's a fortnight-ish old, I've reported on a fistful of games, but haven't actually attended any until now. The reasons aren't quite as straight-forwards as you may imagine, but it's mainly been down to a row between the newspapers (except for the Expresses who march to the beat of their own drum) and football authorities.
Simply put, rather than handling press accreditation themselves (no rocket science, this) they've franchised it out to a company who need to make a whopping profit and they tried to toughen the terms of the archaic deal done before social media had been invented. Naturally terms were stiffer. The newspapers baulked and found themselves locked out. Doing matches from television/radio doesn't mean you can't be insightful, witty and shark-eyed, but it's not the same. Hopefully the readers notice, much as I'm trying to make them not. At 3am on Saturday they had in their hands a piece of paper, we had peace in our time and as the sun rose I was off to Anfield, petrol in tank, spring in step, able to Tweet during games.
It's impossible to park around Anfield now - then again since I didn't know I was coming I couldn't ask for a space, but they're not as accommodating as Everton - so it's a long slog from car to ground. There must be a better way, but I can't think of it. Where do all those Liverpool-supporting cars I see on the motorways come to rest?
Anyway, there's an overcrowded press frooom, there's scouse pie, manly tea and there's a few people to nod to if not chat to. We're back in the swing of things.
The game is a treat. Having treated Roy Hodgson shabbily (maybe Liverpool were too big for him, but we'll never know will we?) and been treated shabbily by their previous owners, Liverpool are in the throes of a glorious revolution. They spent heavily in the summer, although not in their problem centre-half area and their purchases look mostly inspired, especially the brilliantly simply notion of Stewart Downing putting in some crosses for Andy Carroll to head some goals. And for the first half with Luis Suarez dehumanising Kieran Richardson they look unplayable. 1-0 is a travesty of a scoreline.
Then, something happens. Sunderland are going through their own revolution. Steve Bruce's summer purchases have improved them immeasurably, but the strangest thing was that apart from the injured John O'Shea, he chose to start with only a couple of them. After the break, they take the game to Liverpool, score a terrific equaliser and had Asamoah Gyan and Stephane Sessegnon been more interested, they might have snuck three points.
Afterwards, Kenny Dalglish is at his most Sphinx-like. There's a new smiley, patient aura to him. He's untouchable and he knows it. He said it's early days (argue if you dare; I couldn't) and that, less surely, his players were nervous. They didn't look nervous in the first half. But, hey, it's early days.
Steve Bruce, on the other hand, is delighted. Whether he believes he's a tactical genius, the Lin Biaio of football management, or he thinks he's got lucky I know not. He seems to have forgotten last season's dismal ending and argued that he didn't want to squelch the hopes of those who'd done so well last term so he didn't pick his new signings. It doesn't make sense of course, but his team's performance made a whole lot more sense. On this showing, they'll do just fine, although nobody can quietly implode quite like Sunderland. But hey, it's early days.

Playlist:
David Bowie, Absolute Beginners
Further proof that it's not been a complete washout since Let's Dance. Stately and graceful, but anxious and moving. Why don't I know any cover versions of this?
ON THE BEST OF DAVID BOWIE, 1980-'87, EMI, 2007