Our foolproof fraud playing the Toon

EVERYONE at Liverpool will be in the dock soon.

The charge? Perpetrating the biggest fraud since Salif Diao wrote “occupation: footballer” on his tax return.

They’re all in on it. The manager, the players, the life president, the chief executive — even the fans.

If it weren’t for the legal and financial might of Dubai, prosecutors would probably be trying to drag the sheikh in too, as a co-conspirator.

It’s an extremely elaborate hoax, fashioned late last year in a dark room in the darkest recesses of Anfield.

Its purpose: to separate two Americans from their goldmine.

It’s actually an intriguing twist on an old con; usually dumb colonials are fooled into paying fortunes for something that’s actually worthless.

Remember the gimp that bought London Bridge, thinking it was Tower Bridge? Think about it. We’d sold the club to the wrong people, that was obvious. So how to get it back? Simple; make them think they’ve bought the wrong club.

A manager out of his depth. Greedy, disinterested footballers. Demonstrations of fan discontent. Embarrassing results against lower opposition. Tabloid manna from heaven.

It’s crystal clear; we’re trying to trick Hicks and Gillett into thinking they’ve bought Newcastle.

It’s so obvious I feel stupid for not solving it before. It might have saved me two months of mania and heartache. How could I have ever doubted them? Our finishing couldn’t be that bad. We couldn’t possibly be this disjointed under the most methodical manager of the era. We would never have a rotation policy that makes you think a blindfold and pin is somehow involved.

We wouldn’t allow Titus Bramble to score at Anfield to help Wigan get a point. Two goals in three minutes for Villa, a draw at Luton, a non-league team in the lead at Anfield (twice), a Championship side with an atrocious away record coming from behind to win. It’s not possible.

Remember Carragher’s uncharacteristic lunges that gave away crucial penalties at Reading and West Ham? When it begins to look a shade too obvious, we throw them off the scent.

Even those idiots would have caught on if we’d not beaten Derby County, but we left it late for added drama and made it look like a fluke.

I only hope Saturday wasn’t too blatant. Losing to Barnsley might tip off even the dimmest billionaire.

But it’s the manager who deserves the bravos and encores. It’s been an astonishing portrayal of a man drowning in his own vacuity; babbling about controlling games and missed chances, with a side-order dollop of glutinous sentiment for the wonderful, wonderful fans as a bonus. Rafa really should do King Lear one day.

We fans have done our bit too. Protesting, marching, petitioning, booing the final whistle, staying after games to howl our disapproval, whining to anyone with a TV camera.

We’ve drawn the line at exposing our fat guts to the elements and leaving huge empty spaces in the stands with minutes to go. You don’t want to overplay your hand.

I especially enjoyed the way we made Barnsley’s keeper look world class. Every shot was tricky but not impossible to stop, and handing Kuyt the goal after months of nothing was a subtle touch. Hyypia tried to give them the late penalty but we forgot refs are ingrained into giving the big four everything.

A slight glitch in the plan, but we allowed them a free shot on the area’s edge and all resolved itself.

This elaborate plot is almost played out. With our club rapidly turning into a catastrophic mess, not worth a big fat zero to anyone, the Americans will as they say “haul ass” soon, begging the Arabs to take this ramshackle, crumbling edifice off their grubby tremulous hands.

Once we’re saved, what a transformation you’ll see. Inch-perfect passing, shots flying into top corners, the best XI appearing weekly and leaving the field dripping with sweat after 90 minutes of ferocious endeavour.

Minnows swatted with consummate ease while United and co will be battered to a twitching pulp instead of being meekly offered the points.

Get your money on the Reds for the grand slam of 2009. It’s the safest bet in town.

Trust me.