Fighting the boredom as international reality bites

I’M indebted to the kind soul who inquired after my health recently.

Fears arose because of a marked difference in the column. “You seemed upbeat, optimistic, almost… happy. Sure you’re okay?”

Everyone’s a comedian these days.

If you can’t smile when your team scores eight, then further opportunities for merriment will be rarer than hens’ teeth. Besides, there’s nothing like an international week to slap you back down to reality. It’s so, so dull.

I won’t bore you with the “Liverpool as a separate state, the unofficial capital of Ireland” speech again. Frankly, I’m not terribly bothered about your lot either.

One’s teenage years are the most formative of one’s life, and back in the 70s — ignore the picture of Dorian Gray above, I really am old — England failed to qualify for three consecutive tournaments as the Reds swept all before them. There was no choice to make.

For the über-patriots it was bleak back then. Imagine how that would be amidst the media overload and tabloid shriek-athon of today.

The shamed coach would no doubt be required to commit hara-kiri, preferably with a rusty fork on live television in order to satisfy the crazed bloodlust of those who believe England still rules the waves.

There are certain similarities to the big four. A manager cannot cite injured players or bad luck, even when there’s a glut of both. You’re expected to WIN and nothing should stand in your way.

Not that McClaren filled anyone with confidence from day one. As with players, limited opportunities for “our” managers are entirely the fault of Jonathan Foreigner Esquire, it would seem.

You’ll get nowhere by reminding such fools that England were a lot poorer in the days when the worst crimes against the language were committed by Kenny Dalglish.

A period of calm will prevail since there’s no way Croatia can block England’s fortuitous path to Switzerland. It’s a sign of football’s moral vacuity that some thought Israel v Russia would be a stitch-up thanks to Abramovich’s “generosity”. We really do believe the worst nowadays.

In Liverpool, there were futile attempts at livening up the week, and it was hardly a surprise that they involved Gerrard. He had to explain a thoughtless remark about England being “bigger” than us, which inevitably was twisted in a variety of ways.

He’s not my favourite person and I’ve been chastised more than once for things said on this page, but there comes a time when you can’t blame him for all the woes of the world.

Yes, his remark about foreign players was inconsiderate to the majority of men he’s supposed to be leading and of course his manager. I don’t think he’s callous, just self-absorbed and a bit thick.

He’d have been better off keeping quiet, especially as his decision to play with a broken toe in September played a part in our loss of momentum.

Now he’s back in form, our prospects look rosier, and there are enough outsiders driving wedges wherever they can without adding to them.

The two main men at Anfield both suffer from fans’ double-shyness once bitten. Whenever we’re cautious, Rafa is plagued by comparisons to Houllier, and if Gerrard shows the slightest bit of patriotism he’s Owen Mk II. Some of Rafa’s tactics are boring, but Gerrard has one crucial difference over Michael; he stayed.

What’s happened to Owen since might be the single greatest example of karma ever. Even a year ago news of another injury would have had me rolling on the floor in ghoulish synchronicity. Not in pain, only in stitches.

Boredom made me dig out a tape of his first 100 goals and I started to mellow. Roy Evans was insisting as early as 1998 he had to be treated like a glass sculpture if his career wasn’t to end prematurely.

The tape played on and there was the boy king, arms aloft sparking bedlam at the Millennium Stadium after slotting his second past Seaman.

I don’t get teary often but the occasional lump in the throat will not disgrace the macho code. Now look at him; despised by his former worshippers, disliked and distrusted by perennial screw-ups Newcastle, unable to play consecutive games without shattering into fragments.

Only a heart of reinforced concrete could fail to break at the sight.