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”.

DON’T get me wrong. At half time in the JJB you won’t have found a smugger smirk than mine.

WE’VE just won seven games out of the last nine, so why the long face? Are we such ungrateful curs? It’s like getting to sleep with Cameron Diaz and moaning about the price of condoms.

IF PICTURES paint a thousand words, find one of Rafa scratching his head and I’ll meet you at the bar.

IT WASN’T supposed to be an interesting week. The Cardiff Cup held few surprises, despite one giant disappointment in the loss of Sissoko.

DID you ever pretend you were a rock star in your bedroom as a kid? Pick up a tennis racket and whirl your arm like Pete Townshend? I broke a thousand light bulbs that way.