If I ever met Jurgen Klopp I’d say “omg if we have a baby we should call it Klipp” just so he’d raise an eyebrow at me and tell me I’m a moron and I’d be so naked by the time he’d finished doing that.

I’m quite stressed out by all this “real life” stuff going on but one thing really keeping me sane are these hopping mad fantasies about marrying sensible Jurgen Klopp.

We’d go to IKEA and I’d be like “oh this lamp is so cute” and he’d say “No Laura we are just getting the things we came here for.” But then at the till he’d let me have a bag of Dimes anyway cos I’m cute. Then we’d drive home in our nice Volvo.

We’d be getting ready to go out on a Saturday and I’d say, “Do I look fat in this?” and he’d say, “you have a pretty reasonable body fat amount I think but if you’re unhappy here are some fitness regimes you could get into.” And then we’d sensible fuck.

I’d ask him what he wanted to watch on TV and he’d say, “Actually, I’ve already had a lot of screen time today I think I will do the vacuuming and then read my book. Unless there’s anything you’d like to do?” And then even the pants I wasn’t wearing would be ruined.

We’d be snuggled up on the sofa and I’d say “oh my god babe I saw on twitter earlier that the govt are going to...” & he’d say “do you have at least 2 corroborating sources?” And I’d say, “no, but...” & he’d say, “well then don’t share it like facts.” And my bra would snap off.

I’d lean over to him and say, “what’s the most craziest thing you’ve ever done...?” And he’d take off his glasses, look me in the eye with THOSE blues and, rubbing my cheek with the back of his hand he’d say...

“Once, driving on the motorway, this guy was in the middle lane the whole time not caring how much worse it makes the road for everyone else. So when he pulled over into a service station I killed him with bare hands.” He blinks at me hoping I understand and BAM I’m so pregnant.

Every morning he’d eat Weetabix because it’s “not that sugary crap” and I’d have my pop tarts and he’d roll his eyes but not criticise out loud because he’s not been to medical school so it’s not his area of expertise.

For Valentines Day he’d learn all of the characters in The Gilmore Girls and the complex forces that drive Lorelai and then he’d set aside 2.5 hours for us to discuss the show. He’d know better than to mention “those extra ones”.

At Christmas, he’d calmly hold my mums hand and explain that my lack of appearance on Mock the Week is not indicative of my career being a failure. She’d listen and believe him and stop mentioning it for almost 3 days.

We’d be cuddled up in bed and he’d take a really cute selfie of us and even though I looked hot I’d say, “ ah please don’t put that on Instagram I look gross” and he’d look at me sternly and say “I don’t have Instagram I’m a grown man with a job” and then we’d open mouth kiss.

He’d buy me a box set of DVDs of old episodes of Transworld sport.

I’d offer him a biscuit and he’d say “No, it’s ok, I am not hungry.” And I’d say, “darling don’t be silly you don’t eat biscuits because you’re hungry, you just eat them until there aren’t more.” And he’d tuck my hair behind my ear and say “I think this is why you are unhappy.”

Walking home from the dry cleaners having collected his baseball caps for the upcoming week, he would take my hand and say “Your short legs have terrible stride efficiency, I would not play you up front.” And I’d say, “you played me up front last night” and he’d smirk knowingly.

Unable to find him, I‘d peer out the windo and see he’s in the shed again, angry. I’d take him a cup of tea, “you ok?” I’d ask. “Yes”. He’d reply tersely. “Idiots comparing the BBC licence fee to the cost of Netflix again?” But the pain in his eyes would be all the answer I need.

“What you doing?” I say sidling yo behind him.
“Sending emails as you can well see, Laura.” He replies.
“Haha, if you signed off with your initials it would be like - AH I WAS ONLY JOKING THIS WHOLE EMAIL. That’d be funny.”
“Laura if you suggest that once more we will divorce.”

“Good morning” He says rolling over.
“Don’t look at me, I look awful without make up.” I say pulling the duvet over my face.
“Make up is a falsity you do not need.” He says shortly, & I lean in to kiss him. “It’s toothpaste you should worry about in the mornings.” And he gets up.

“We are late.” He calls from the hall.
“I don’t have any shoes to go with this dress.” I wail, and he enters the bedroom.
“Are you planning any elaborate styles of motion tonight?” He asks.
“No.” I sniff, staring at his dappled beard for comfort.

“Well then any shoe will go on your body at the same time as this dress.”
He picks up a shoe and slides it onto my foot, as his hand touches my calf my dress flies off.
“You can’t go out that like though.” He smiles sternly and we miss the party to bang with regular water breaks.

“Will you still love me when I’m old?” I ask him, feeling needy and insecure.
“It depends what has happened in the intervening years.” He says looking up from the variety of newspapers he reads.
My knees go weak & we couple well away from the newspapers so they’re not spoiled.

His hand slides over my bare back, every nerve in my body knows we will soon be one. “Tell me I’ve been a bad girl.” I say, looking up at him through thick eyelashes. “8 times today I have had to turn lights off after you. You are more than a bad girl.” He turns out the 9th light

He's looking at me so intensely "What are you thinking about?" I ask.
"I was wondering whether I love you more than football."
I blush "And what did you decide?"
He takes a slight breath "I do not, no. But I love you more than 5 a side." I am powerless in the wake of his honesty.

It's Tuesday and we've just finished watching an 8part indepth true crime doc.
"My god that was intense," I say, "Do you think he did it?"
"I do not know." he says.
"But which way are you leaning?" I ask, lip quivering in excitement.

"I know none of the people involved nor have I seen any of the evidence or had training in this field. It would be irresponsible to make up my mind based on something made for entertainment." He's in my mouth before the sentence is over.

He is behind me so quietly and quickly that I don’t notice. He kisses the top of my head gently and takes the box out of my hand. “Put that back,” he says softly, “the supermarket own brand one is just as nice and for half the price.” We hold hands all the way to the frozen aisle

“I’m going to put a wash on, is there anything you want me to put in?” I call through to the front room.
“Any thing I need washing is in the wash basket already as that’s where it should be. Yes, I’ve removed all pocket tissues.”

The humidity in my pants causes a faint whistling

“I can’t persuade Klipp to eat her crusts.” I complain late one night over a glass of red.
“Why should she?”
“Aren’t they good for you?”
“It’s the same dough as the rest of the loaf just cooked more. It has no greater nutritional value.”
I slide off the sofa for various reasons.

I shiver, my skin breaking out into tiny goosebumps.
“Are you cold?” He whispers, his lips brushing my ear, making the fine hairs ripple.
“A little.” I grin, pressing against his thigh.
He runs a hand down the curve of my spine... “You should put a jumper on.”

Buy the book (complete set of new material and will have these original tweets included): https://www.waterstones.com/book/klopp-actually/laura-lexx/9781529348217?awaid=3787&utm_source=redbrain&utm_medium=shopping&utm_campaign=css&gclid=CjwKCAjwqpP2BRBTEiwAfpiD-7qvBXJGQzyoD4nJBRVm00Rhclz__2UL87LTXZFlksMJl6nMtzm0LBoCfkQQAvD_BwE&awc=3787_1589997387_849aa646ec25c2ff231a63b8bfcff961