UNLIKE my Mancunian counterpart, I’m rarely privy to inside information from the dusty corridors of Anfield.

HOWDY Y’ALL.Excuse me for slipping into the vernacular for a cotton-picking minute. It’s obviously a direct result of reading all those tedious e-mail circulars.

FROM “Big Picture” to parochial snapshot: what a strange week it’s been.

WITHOUT a game to watch on Saturday (thanks, Jerzy) I’m reduced to making the insignificant substantial.

AS WITH most things in football, finding the right balance is essential even to those of us on the margins. Last week’s rare whiff of positivism struck a chord with readers who have bafflingly come to see me as a miserable old warthog.

FROM Fortress Anfield to a castle made of sand. From one of the best coaches in the game to “Bungling Benitez”. A season brimming with possibilities consigned to the dustbin.

EVEN my best friends are getting annoyed now. Two read last week’s column and said in unison: “Are you EVER happy, with anything?”

DOES anyone know where they stand with this team of ours any more?

I LIKE prison films. Cool Hand Luke, Birdman of Alcatraz, Shawshank.

IT doesn’t pay to be cynical sometimes. I’d received a text saying “three definite bids, club will pick one Monday” and I replied “Whatever”.