Great goal, pity it was all for nothing

WE’VE checked the family tree of every single player and there’s no trace of Swedish ancestry.

I only mention this in order to head off conspiracy theories about last Tuesday’s referee and our sensational victory. Riise is Norwegian though, so let everyone blame that if they so wish. “Scandinavian Scandal”, the headline could read.

Liverpool won in Europe and that generally means one thing: less than subtle disparagement of the achievement no matter how ludicrous it appears. I’ve rarely seen a team score four goals having been outplayed and lucky. You learn something new every week.

Readers may be thinking I dug a huge hole for myself last week by dismissing Arsenal’s penalty appeals and riding my rather large hobbyhorse called Simulation.

One could adopt the flustered hectoring tone of the Chauvinist and embroider an elaborate defence for young Ryan. Fabregas and Toure both had a little peck at him but once again the ease with which modern footballers tumble towards terra firma cannot be denied.

When a clearer opportunity presented itself in injury time the pull on his jersey wasn’t enough to deter him, raising cynical eyebrows yet another millimetre.

Let us not be too caustic about our players. If Babel’s clincher eerily echoed Michael Thomas’ in 1989, Arsenal’s equaliser and would-be winner also evoked a scarring comparison with that fateful night.

A minute before that goal John Barnes had the ball by the corner flag. Rather than waste time, as is the modern wont, he tried to beat the defender and score. He failed, and the rest is history and a still painful memory.

As Walcott gathered speed I’m afraid my initial reaction was to urge any player to ahem “take him out”. I’m neither subtle nor proud.

They either resisted temptation or were incapable of catching him. It was a stunning goal but a minute later it had been consigned to the trashcan of irrelevance. Whether Bernard and his fellow Gooners will let sleeping pens lie is another matter.

Even 19 years hence you can set the vein in a Liverpudlian temple a-throbbing by claiming Alan Smith did get a touch to that cross after all.

But for Hillsborough I’m sure it would still spark massive paranoia today. Back then it seemed somewhat trivial in the scheme of things.

Yesterday we’ll have said prayers and kept silent for a minute at 3.06pm, remembering all the while that it is just a game. That ethos may be sorely tested if we get past Chelsea and meet ‘them’ in Moscow.

The media were caught between being churlish about Rafa’s irrefutable triumph and wallowing in the excellence of the game itself. That’s easy for us to say obviously.

Whenever Liverpool conceded four in defeat (Palace in 1990 for example) I’ve been extremely reluctant to talk about the game’s aesthetics.

Gooner enquiries about the whereabouts of Anfield’s famous atmosphere rebounded in fine style. Of course they played brilliantly in the opening segment, but games last 90 minutes.

Seasons also last till May and Rafa is now incredulously receiving plaudits for rotation since, by comparison, Arsenal have quietly imploded.

A glance at the table might keep the perpetually pessimistic at their bilious worst (who, me?) and the difference in the crowd for European champagne or domestic dregs cannot be refuted.

Add Hicks’ attempt to bully and bluster his way to majority rule by starting a feud with the previously despised Parry, with the manager as the unlikeliest of allies, and Sunday could have been a booby-trap.

Thankfully Gerrard and Torres made sure that didn’t happen, even if more theatrics blotted the copybook.

Yet despite the great results, more intrigue and backstabbing is around the corner, of that you can be depressingly certain.