Football, what football? It’s a soap opera

SO here’s the story so far. Tom hates George. George hates Tom. Tom really hates Rick, but can’t get rid of him until George approves (which he won’t).

Rafa hates all of them but he REALLY hates Rick so he’ll say he likes Tom until such time as it’s convenient and self-serving to say otherwise.

The fans hate everyone but Rafa, and even he might not remain so favoured if it turns out he genuinely likes Tom. Meanwhile, David sits in the corner with the dunce’s cap on, drying his tear-stained cheeks with the extra bank notes he got for selling to the swine in the first place.

Confused? Believe me they’re just getting warmed up but if it wasn’t for this poisonous farce what would we be writing about? The football? Yeah, right: Liverpool’s big match was last night, pre-deadline, and Saturday’s visit to Fulham lost all import once Everton surrendered to Chelsea and their grumpy bloodhound boss.

All Fulham meant to me was the final stop on a 92-ground tour a friend took part in to raise funds for the Ray Kennedy appeal.

He was probably hoping for some much-needed sleep during the game, and he’d have got it last season.

Despite a similar number of changes this time around, we played a lot better and Fulham’s plight got worse, proving that rotation is only worthy of media analysis when we’re losing — and that Neil Warnock is a gigantic horse’s ass.

Even had we put the ‘craven’ in Craven Cottage, as we did last season, it could not have been any more humiliating than Hicks’ party political broadcast on behalf of the ‘Hand Me Your Cash You Limey Suckers’ party.

It says much of the putrid state of British television ‘journalism’ that such a ghastly, fake piece of footage qualifies as news.

There he was, sat in his underground bunker watching the Reds play Blackburn at seven in the morning, souvenir mug in cloven hoof.

If I were a cynical man I would say the clocks had been changed so this moronic drivel could be filmed at a more civilised hour, were it not for the yawning crushingly bored kids he’d dragged into his home movie from hell.

A quip about Everton (nailed it in three takes, I believe) and then a cosy chat by the trust-me-I’m-plain-folks-like-you fireside. I never knew it got so cold in Texas. Struggling to find an atom of truth through the smoke and mirrors was difficult, though it was equally hard to deny everything he said about Rick Parry was bang on the money.

But once the ‘reviews’ were in, it turns out Tom needn’t have bothered; press coverage was scathing at best, vitriolic at worst — and the fans remained defiantly unconvinced.

There have been too many lies to sweep under the carpet of the good ol’ boy who cried wolf. He had banked on Parry being too embarrassed to carry on the façade without realising one crucial inconvenient truth about our chief executive; you can’t shame the shameless.

And what of Rafa? Many were prepared to forgive his political expediency despite their bewilderment. True, fans had marched and protested on his behalf when Hicks was desperate to offload this mouthy upstart and it seemed a shoddy way of repaying them.

We’ve all at one time wanted to believe Rafa was acting in our best interests, and so much the better if they coincided with his own needs.

He saw Parry on the ropes and tried to land the knockout blow by “demanding answers” about the meeting with Klinsmann. It would be naïve in the extreme to think he didn’t already have that information at his disposal.

As I suggested last week only the churlish are looking at the league table and the fourth consecutive year without a meaningful title challenge. The manager is as close to deification as anyone in the game is likely to get, and if he should walk, the blame will fly in every direction but his.

It’s a strange situation all right but in the Anfield hall of mirrors nothing is ever as it seems any more.

* Steven Kelly

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