LFC News

Andoni Iraola is officially building his new-look squad at Liverpool FC following a fifth-place Premier League finish and the subsequent departure of Arne Slot.

Summer Transfer Activity

The Reds have moved swiftly to offset high-profile squad exits by triggering release clauses and finalizing pre-agreed deals.

• Victor Muñoz Signed: Liverpool triggered the €40m (£34.3m) release clause to sign the highly-rated winger from Osasuna.
• Jérémy Jacquet Arrives: The French centre-back's pre-agreed £60m move from Rennes has been made official. He has already integrated into the squad following shoulder injury rehabilitation.
• Dara Jikiemi Secured: Well-known transfer journalist Fabrizio Romano confirmed Liverpool have sealed a deal to sign Scotland's U16 captain from Celtic.
• Luca Stephenson Departs: The young midfielder has finalized a permanent transfer to Championship outfit Bolton Wanderers.
• Major Free Exits: On July 1, 12 player contracts officially expired. This included departures for club legend Mohamed Salah, Andy Robertson (who joined Tottenham), and Ibrahima Konaté (who joined Real Madrid).

Pre-Season Plans & Backroom Changes

Preparations are underway at the AXA Training Centre before the team heads to the United States later this month.

• Management Backroom Assembled: Iraola has brought in four former coaching staff members from his time at Bournemouth.
• Training Camp Returns: Players who missed or had an early exit from the 2026 World Cup—including Harvey Elliott, Stefan Bajčetić, Conor Bradley, and Wataru Endō—have already started training under Iraola.
• USA Tour Squad: 15-year-old winger Josh Abe has signed a scholarship terms contract and will travel with the first-team squad for the US pre-season tour starting 20 July.

Latest Transfer Rumours

• Gilberto Mora & Enzo Fernández: Reports indicate Liverpool are tracking Mexican World Cup wonderkid Gilberto Mora. Rumours also suggest Iraola has requested a pursuit of Chelsea midfielder Enzo Fernández.
• Virgil van Dijk: AC Milan are reportedly tracking the Liverpool captain's situation, though the club remains completely reluctant to sell him this summer as his contract runs until 2027.
• Sergio Arribas: Reports from Spain link Liverpool with a £21.4m move for the Almería attacking midfielder.

Dockside - Chapter 6 - Under the Desk and Behind the Skip

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The Copperas Hill sorting office was at its most chaotic during the late afternoon shift change. Billy Harrison walked through the rear doors, trying to move naturally despite the large, crinkling lump of cash and flyers stuffed down the front of his Post Office jacket. Every step felt loud, the plastic scraping against his uniform like a beacon for attention.

"Harrison! In here! Now!"

The voice belonged to Mr. Vaughan, the assistant supervisor, a man whose permanent scowl was fueled by ulcers and a hatred for union interventions. He was standing at the door of his glass-fronted office, holding a clipboard like a weapon.

Billy swallowed hard, adjusting his stance to look less bulky as he stepped into the small, smoky office. "The van just gave up on Penny Lane, Mr. Vaughan. George said the bulkhead..."

"I don't care about the bulkhead, Harrison," Vaughan cut him off, slamming the clipboard onto his desk. "I care about the two pouches of mail that should have been through the doors of the south docks business units an hour ago. You’re lucky your old man is who he is, or I’d have you on suspension for negligence before you could take your boots off."

Billy kept his arms crossed tight over his chest, terrified that a twenty-pound note might slip out from his zip. "It wasn't my fault, sir. The vehicle—"

"Just get back to your frame and finish sorting the night mail," Vaughan snapped, waving a hand in dismissal. "And if I see you slacking off with that mate of yours, Ste, you’ll both be facing a disciplinary tribunal. Get out."

Billy practically backed out of the office, his shirt soaked with sweat. He hurried down the corridor toward the locker room, desperate to hide the cash before his dad came looking for him. The money felt like a ticking bomb, and the countdown was getting dangerously close to zero.

Down at the south docks, the darkness had swallowed the river completely, leaving only the amber glow of the distant oil terminals reflecting on the black water. Mikey Gallagher’s knees were knocking together from a mixture of sub-zero temperatures and pure terror.

The low, rumbling growl of a car engine crept into the derelict courtyard.

Mikey pressed his face against the cold, rusted steel of the skip. He peeked around the edge, his breath catching in his throat. A black Ford Capri with tinted windows crawled through the broken gates, its headlights cutting through the grey mist like twin searchlights. The car stopped twenty yards away, the engine idling with a menacing, deep purr.

The passenger door swung open. A man in a heavy leather trench coat stepped out, his leather gloves making a sharp snapping sound as he pulled them tight.

"Mikey!" the man called out, his voice smooth, local, and utterly devoid of mercy. "We know you’re down here, lad. Ste told us you’d come this way. You’ve got something that belongs to us, and we don't like waiting for our dividends."

Mikey squeezed his eyes shut, clutching the small silver cross around his neck. Ste had grassed him up to save his own skin. He had no money, no transport, and nobody left to call except his nan—and she was currently sitting on Dockside crescent praying over her rosary beads, completely unaware that her grandson was about to pay a very heavy price for a bad bet.

Back at number four, the kitchen was silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator. Sandra was sitting at the table, staring at a cold cup of tea, while Chrissie stood by the window, her fingers twitching against the curtain fabric.

A loud, aggressive knock rattled the front door, making both of them jump.

Chrissie moved first, her face hardened by a day of fighting bureaucratic walls. She pulled the door open, expecting another council worker or a hostile neighbour. Instead, she found old Mrs. Gallagher standing on the step, her eyes wide with panic, her hands trembling as she held a damp tissue.

"Chrissie, lasses," the old woman gasped, her voice breaking. "It’s Mikey. A lad just came by the house... said some fellas from town took him down toward the old warehouses by the south basin. They’re going to hurt him, Chrissie. My Billy’s not home, and Jim’s at a meeting. Please, you’ve got to help me find him."

Chrissie looked back at Sandra, the eviction notice forgotten as a real, immediate danger arrived on their doorstep.

Dockside - Chapter 5 - Broken Gears and Heavy Purses

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The yellow Post Office recovery truck arrived forty minutes later, its orange amber beacons flashing a rhythmic, depressing light against the wet sandstone walls of Penny Lane. Billy Harrison stood on the pavement, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, trying to stop his knees from shaking.

The recovery driver, a gruff older fella named George who had worked with Billy’s dad for twenty years, hoisted the bonnet of the red van with a metallic grunt. "Clutch cable’s gone right at the bulkhead, Billy lad," George said, wiping his greasy hands on a rag. "You’ve been riding it, haven't you? Your old man tells me you drive like you’re at Aintree."

"Just old age, George. The van, not me," Billy forced a laugh, but his eyes were locked on the passenger footwell.

Through the dirty glass, he could see the edge of the plastic shopping bag peeking out from under the seat. Three hundred pounds of illicit student rave cash, wrapped in cheap flyers. If George decided to hop in and steer the van onto the flatbed, he’d kick right into it.

"Right, hop in the cab of the truck," George ordered, gesturing toward the massive yellow breakdown vehicle. "I’ll winch her up. Supervisor’s already phoned through. He wants to know why the afternoon mail delivery for the south docks is sitting in the back of a broken-down motor."

Billy felt a cold sweat break across his neck. "I’ll just grab my personal bits out the front, George."

He scrambled into the driver’s seat of the dead van, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Reaching blindly under the passenger seat, his fingers wrapped around the crinkly plastic bag. He stuffed the heavy bundle straight down the front of his oversized postman’s waterproof jacket, zipping it up to his chin. It felt massive, a hard lump pressed right against his chest like a stolen brick.

As he climbed into the recovery truck, the lump dug into his ribs. He looked out the window, watching the neat terraces of south Liverpool slide past, wondering how a lad who only wanted a decent pair of trainees had ended up carrying enough dodgy money to get himself sacked and arrested before tea time.

Down at the south docks, the watery afternoon light was dying fast, casting long, jagged shadows across the derelict brick warehouses that the council hadn't yet touched.

Mikey Gallagher was shivering behind a rusted iron skip, his breath rising in white plumes. His tracksuit was soaked through from his sprint from Penny Lane, and his stomach was roaring with hunger. He’d been stupid. He’d taken twenty tickets from Ste’s supplier on credit, promising the money by Tuesday night, but he’d spent the cash at a bookies on County Road trying to double it. Now, the lads from the city centre—proper fellas who didn't care about union rules or council boundaries—wanted their money or his skin.

A car door slammed in the distance, echoing off the empty concrete basins. Mikey pressed his back against the cold metal of the skip, pulling his hood tight, praying to the God his nan always talked about that it was just a police patrol and not a black Ford Capri.

Back on Dockside crescent, Danny McCarthy was packing away his window cleaning gear. His arms were aching from the freezing wind that had whipped off the river all afternoon, but his mind was already in the weekend. He had a brand new 12-inch import record from America hidden in his bedroom, and he was dying to mix it into his set at the club.

"Danny! You finished?"

Danny looked up. Tommy Higgins was walking down the pavement from his Transit, looking exhausted.

"Just done number twelve, Tommy," Danny said, tossing his damp scrim cloth into his bucket. "You look like you’ve done ten rounds with John Conteh. Duke Street a bit lively, was it?"

"The city’s a tinderbox, lad," Tommy sighed, leaning against the low wall of Danny’s front garden. "Jim’s trying to hold the line, but the lads are angry. And now those two girls at number four are getting the push from the housing department."

Danny paused, his squeegee hovering over the bucket. Everyone on the crescent knew Sandra and Chrissie, even if some of the older residents looked the other way when they walked past together. "They can't do that, can they? They’ve lived there since the bricks were new."

"They're doing it," Tommy said grimly. "And if the council can throw two quiet lasses out on their ears, they can do it to any of us. You watch your step down at those clubs this weekend, Danny. The town's changing. It's getting nasty."

Danny looked down the street toward number four. The curtains were drawn tight, but a single light flickered from the kitchen window. The warmth of the community felt very far away.

Dockside - Chapter 4 - Broken Gates and Broken News

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The heavy oak doors of the Dale Street union office banged open, letting in a swirl of dead leaves and the low rumble of city traffic. Jim Harrison stormed through first, his donkey jacket smelling faintly of diesel and wet mortar. Tommy Higgins followed, muttering under his breath, his massive knuckles still white from gripping the steering wheel of his Transit.

"We’ve got forty-eight hours before Henderson tries to slip those lads back on site," Jim barked to the receptionist, not looking left or right. "Get the shop stewards from the docks on the phone. I want—"

Jim stopped dead in his tracks.

Sandra and Chrissie were still sitting on the taped vinyl chairs. Chrissie sat upright, her jaw set, while Sandra looked at the floor, nervously tracing the seam of her worn coat. The hallway went dead silent except for the rhythmic clack of a typewriter from the back room.

Jim let out a long sigh, his shoulders dropping an inch. He knew both of them; he’d gone to school with Sandra’s dad before the yard closures tore their social circle apart. "Sandra. Chrissie," Jim said, his voice dropping its militant edge. "Lasses, I’m sorry. It’s a madhouse today. The gaffers are trying to break the union on Duke Street."

Chrissie stood up instantly, pulling the council letter from her canvas bag. "We wouldn't bother you if it wasn't desperate, Jim. The housing department. They're evicting us from number four. They’re saying the tenancy isn't valid."

Tommy leaned against the wall, crossing his bricklayer’s arms. He didn't look unkind, but his face carried the hard pragmatism of the era. "The council’s clearing house, lasses. They're skint. If your names aren't down right on the book, they'll use any excuse to get rent-paying families in."

"We are a family," Chrissie said, her voice sharp, her eyes darting to the receptionist who suddenly found a stack of filing incredibly interesting.

Jim took the letter, his eyes scanning the harsh, bureaucratic type. He knew the subtext. In 1986, two young women living together on a newly built council estate faced a quiet, venomous sort of resistance. "They've used a technicality on the joint-tenancy clause," Jim murmured. "Give me until tomorrow. I'll speak to a lad I know in the municipal offices. But I can't promise miracles, Chrissie. The city is falling apart at the seams."

While Jim stared at the letter, his son Billy was staring at something far more terrifying.

The red post office van was parked haphazardly on the kerb near Penny Lane, its hazard lights blinking against the sandstone wall of the local church. Inside, Billy was frantically pumping the clutch pedal, but it sank to the floor with a sickening, floppy lightness. The cable was snapped.

"Great. Just brilliant," Billy muttered, slamming his palms against the steering wheel.

Underneath the passenger seat sat a plastic shopping bag containing three hundred pounds of illicit rave ticket money. If a recovery truck turned up, the supervisor would search the cab. If they found the cash and the stack of unsold flyers, he wouldn't just lose his job—his dad would find out he was trading with the university crowd.

The driver's side window rattled. Billy jumped, his heart hammering against his ribs.

A young lad in an oversized, dirty tracksuit was leaning against the door, his face pale and eyes bloodshot. It was Mikey Gallagher, old Mrs. Gallagher’s grandson. He looked like he hadn't slept in three days.

"Billy," Mikey whispered, his voice trembling as he looked over his shoulder toward the main road. "Billy, lad, you've got to help me. I need a lift down to the south docks. Now."

Billy rolled the window down two inches. "I can't go anywhere, Mikey. The van’s conked out. What’s wrong with you? Your nan’s been frantic. She was at the window with her beads this morning."

Mikey grabbed the wing mirror, his knuckles shaking. "Tell her I’m alright. Just... tell her I had to get away for a bit. There’s some fellas from the city centre looking for me, Billy. Serious fellas."

Before Billy could ask who, the distant sound of a police siren echoed from the direction of Smithdown Road. Mikey panicked, turning on his heel and bolting down a narrow alleyway behind the shops, his trainers splashing through the grey puddles.

Billy watched him vanish, the weight of the cash under his seat suddenly feeling twice as heavy. The storm wasn't just coming to Liverpool anymore; it was already on their doorsteps.

Dockside - Chapter 3 - Pickets and Pockets

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The Duke Street site was a mess of grey mud, half-finished scaffolding, and bitter resentment. The wind howled through the exposed timber of the roofless tenements, rattling the corrugated iron fences that cordoned off the work zone.

Tommy Higgins slammed his van door shut, his boots sinking two inches into the sludge. Behind him, Jim Harrison stepped out of his Austin Cambridge, his face set like granite. Word had traveled fast from the sorting office. By the time they arrived, a dozen local bricklayers and joiners had already formed an angry semicircle around the security gates.

"They're inside, Jim," one of the local lads yelled, pointing a gloved finger toward the half-built foundations. "Three of them. Scabs from across the M62, laying brick like they own the place."

Jim didn't answer right away. He adjusted his donkey jacket and walked straight past the shouting men, heading for the site agent’s caravan. Tommy followed closely at his shoulder, his massive frame acting as an unspoken threat.

Inside the caravan, the heating was blasted so high it smelled of scorched dust. The site agent, a nervous man named Henderson with a pencil tucked behind his ear, didn't look up from his blueprints when the door banged open.

"We have an agreement, Henderson," Jim said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Local labor. Union rates. No exceptions."

"The council changed the parameters, Jim," Henderson stammered, finally looking up and wiping a bead of sweat from his upper lip. "The budget was slashed at midnight. If I don't use these lads for the groundwork, the whole project gets mothballed. You want fifty local lads on the dole instead of three out-of-towners getting a bit of cash?"

"Don't give us that rubbish," Tommy barked, leaning over the desk. "You're pocketing the difference on the lump, you sly dog. We know how this works."

"Keep it civil, Tommy," Jim warned, though his eyes never left Henderson. "If those men aren't off this site by midday, I’m calling a full stoppage across every council build from here to Bootle. You think your budget is tight now? Try paying penalties for a dead site for the next six months."

While the old guard dug their heels into the mud of Duke Street, the younger generation was operating on an entirely different currency up at Mount Pleasant.

The university campus was a sea of duffle coats, political badges, and the smell of cheap patchouli oil. Billy Harrison felt entirely out of place in his postman’s uniform as he followed Ste through the concrete courtyard of the Student Union. Students were milling about, arguing over flyers about the miners' strike or Apartheid, completely oblivious to the real-time poverty grinding down the docks just a mile away.

"Watch the leather," Ste muttered, nodding toward a group of students in oversized vintage coats. "The union president is a proper militant. If he catches us trading tickets without paying the student entertainment levy, he’ll have the university security on us."

"I don't like this, Ste," Billy whispered, his knuckles white around his empty mail bag. "My dad’s down the road trying to save jobs, and I’m here scalping tickets for a rave."

"Your dad’s fighting a war that’s already lost, mate," Ste said, spotting his contact—a second-year student named Julian who wore a pastel yellow cardigan. "Alright, Jules? Got the goods."

Julian smiled, reaching into his satchel. "Brilliant. The Manchester crowd are desperate for these. Apparently, the DJ is playing some new import tracks from Chicago. House music, they call it."

Billy watched the exchange of crisp, twenty-pound notes—more money than his dad would take home from a week of grueling union negotiations. It felt dirty, but as he looked at the money, he thought of his mother’s worn slippers and the empty pantry back home. The old rules didn't apply anymore.

Back down at the regional union office on Dale Street, Sandra and Chrissie were sitting on a pair of vinyl chairs that had been patched with brown tape. The receptionist had told them Jim was out on an emergency dispute, leaving them stranded in a corridor that smelled of old tobacco and floor polish.

"We should go," Sandra said, her voice small against the clatter of a typewriter from the adjacent room. "He’s not coming back, Chrissie. Look at the posters on the wall. 'Save Our Services.' 'Fight the Cuts.' They don't care about two girls getting kicked out of number four."

Chrissie gripped Sandra’s hand, tighter this time, ignoring the receptionist who was currently looking anywhere but at them. "We stay, San. If we walk out of here, we’re admitting we don't belong anywhere. And I’m done hiding in the kitchen with the curtains closed."

The door to the main street opened, and a gust of freezing Liverpool air rushed into the hallway, bringing with it the distant sound of a police siren echoing off the river.

Dockside - Chapter 2 - Sorting Letters, Sorting Lives

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The smell of damp canvas and stale tea always hung heavy in the Copperas Hill sorting office. Billy Harrison tipped his heavy leather bag onto the metal sorting table with a dull thud, the sharp metallic scent of ink hitting his nose. It was barely past seven in the morning, but the fluorescent lights overhead hummed with a depressing, flickering drone that made his eyes ache.

Around him, the room was a blur of blue shirts and red elastic bands. The older posties worked in a steady, hypnotic rhythm, slots filling up with letters for the terraces of Toxteth and the grand houses near Sefton Park. But the air today was thick with something else. Friction.

"Alright, Billy lad?"

Ste, a lad Billy’s age with a bleached crop and a permanent smirk, leaned against the adjacent sorting frame. He wasn't sorting. He was flicking through a stack of brightly coloured flyers printed on cheap, glossy paper.

"Watch it, Ste," Billy muttered, throwing a bundle of final notices into the Dockside cubby hole. "The supervisor’s got his eye on this section today. My old man says they’re looking for any excuse to sack lads before the strike vote."

Ste snorted, shoving the flyers into his back pocket. "Your old man lives in the dark ages, Billy. Jim’s still waiting for the revolution while the rest of us are just trying to buy a pair of decent trainees. Look at these." He patted his pocket. "Legal tender. State of Mind at the university union this Saturday. Five quid a ticket. I’ve sold fifty to the students up at Mount Pleasant already. Made more than my week’s basic, and I didn't have to carry twenty pounds of junk mail up three flights of flats to do it."

Billy hesitated, a letter for Mrs. Gallagher hovering in his hand. The temptation was a physical ache. His postman’s wage barely covered his board to his mum and a few pints at the weekend. The city was skint, yet the university campus was a bubble of southern accents and grant money. "It's dodgy, Ste. If the managers catch you trading on the clock..."

"They won't," Ste whispered, leaning closer. "Unless someone tells them. And you're not a grass, are you?"

Before Billy could answer, the heavy double doors at the end of the floor swung open. Tommy Higgins walked in, his heavy boots caked in dried grey mortar, a thermos flask clutched in his massive fist. He wasn't supposed to be in the sorting area, but Tommy went wherever he pleased.

"Billy!" Tommy shouted, his booming voice cutting through the chatter of the room. "Is your dad still down at the regional office? Tell him he needs to get his backside down to the site on Duke Street. The gaffer’s brought in three lads from Manchester. Non-union. They’re laying the damp course now."

The sorting office went dead quiet. The word non-union hit the room like a brick through a window.

Billy dropped the letters. "Manchester lads? Dad said the council promised local labour only for the rebuild."

"The council says a lot of things when they’re spending money they haven haven't got," Tommy spat, wiping a streak of brick dust from his forehead. "They’re paying them cash in hand, Billy. While we’re sitting here arguing about overtime, they’re cutting the legs right out from under us."

Outside, the rain had stopped, replaced by a biting cold that turned the puddles on Lime Street to sheets of black ice.

A few hundred yards away, Sandra and Chrissie were walking briskly past the grand columns of St. George’s Hall. Chrissie was moving with purpose, her boots clicking aggressively against the stone, while Sandra lagged a step behind, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The city centre was bustling with shoppers rushing between Blacklers and TJ Hughes, but to Sandra, the crowds felt suffocating.

"Chrissie, wait," Sandra called out, stopping near the fountain. "We shouldn't do this. Jim Harrison has got the weight of the docks on his shoulders. He doesn't want us turning up at his office crying about a council flat."

Chrissie turned around, her face pale but determined. "It’s not just a flat, San. It’s our home. If we don't fight the council on this, who will? Jim's the union convenor. He represents the community, not just the fellas on the cranes. We’re part of this city too, whether the busybodies on the crescent like it or not."

Sandra looked away, targeting her gaze at a passing green Liverpool bus. "What if they ask questions, Chrissie? What if the paper gets hold of it? 'Two girls fighting the council.' My dad will see it. He hasn't spoken to me since Christmas, but he'll see that."

Chrissie walked back, her expression softening. She reached out, tentatively touching Sandra’s gloved hand, mindful of the shoppers passing by. In 1986, even a touch on a public street felt like an act of defiance. "Let them look," Chrissie said softly. "We’ve got nothing to be ashamed of."

As they turned the corner toward the union headquarters, neither of them noticed Billy’s post van turning onto the street, or the look of absolute panic on Billy's face as he stared at the dashboard.