Very superstitious, but the writing’s on the wall for us

AND relax… 18-4. Eighteen freaking four. Those numbers will be rattling around every red skull during the next 12 months at least.

Doctors will call it Tinnitus Merseysidus; United level on titles and almost level on European Cups. Our thin veneer of affected aloofness is being stretched into transparency. Before the summer is upon us it will probably be invisible to the no doubt twinkling Mancunian eye.

And you thought never putting in a Premiership challenge was bad? For solace we could think of others less fortunate, but unless they’ve been declared bankrupt and caught swine flu I can’t think of anyone who qualifies. It’s going to be utterly horrible. Football supporters are adept at finding distractions to their pain, and even this eternal sourpuss chuckled once or twice at Chelsea’s European demise.

The pantomime ogres really surpassed themselves last week. Ignoring the excessive criticism and supercilious moralising it was undoubtedly hilarious.

Drogba’s thespian wiles seem to have fooled even his own manager. As the pack of snarling mongrels pursued their chubby, balding prey around Stamford Bridge I thought the flip-flops were a delicious comedic bonus worthy of a Chaplin or a Sellars.

Of course every single Chelsea hater, around 50% of the population (the rest simply don’t care) mounted their lofty equines and galloped off to Outrageville. Count me out.

If I ever hear that wretched piffle “won’t someone think of the children” again I’ll set up my own Victorian workhouse. If we live in a world where footballers are the moral barometer then God help us all.

As a proud soldier of the Scouse Nation I’m considered susceptible to the occasional conspiracy theory, but a referee easing a team into a cup final by removing one of its players is a new one.

I at least applaud the cockney crackpots for that.

Poor old Roman must be wondering what his legacy will be. Outside of West London it’s not looking promising. Not so much Real of the 50s – one European Cup would be a start– as Leeds of the 70s, dirty and detested.

I realise I’m not sticking to the script here. The Liverpool line is one of indifference, that Chelsea aren’t even rivals.

I despised Nottingham Forest for knocking us out of Europe once and feel no such inclination to disguise my distaste.

Yet I do sympathise as they are slaughtered for their approach, lashed by the football fantasists as if they were a 21st century Wimbledon. We had that nonsense throughout the Golden Era, berated for not playing circus football by peons who don’t even appreciate the game let alone understand its primary objective; to win.

In my distant youth it was often used as camouflage for the failures of the boarded-up School of Science at Goodison or the cardboard cavaliers of Old Trafford. If you require a contemporary comparison look no further than the Emirates.

United’s ten zillion minutes without conceding a single goal is the section of the season that has put them over the top and no-one should forget it. They’ll clamp Messi in their blood-soaked fangs and throttle the life out of him.

Such were the distractions elsewhere that it was almost impossible to focus on West Ham. The ease with which we brushed them aside disconcerting.

Gerrard’s excellence notwithstanding it was a casual performance typified by Carragher’s uncharacteristically ludicrous mistake. Wiley’s failure to spot Mascherano’s foul should end all talk about officials’ favouritism surely? There is still a tendency to squander possession which will come back to bite us on the arse against better opponents, but we say that every week and keep getting away with it.

Sunday saw a change in procedure, a trip to the cinema and a flippant approach to City’s ‘efforts’ on our behalf. That didn’t work either. Such is the superstition-riddled world of the fan that I’m trying to recall everything I did on the day Fulham took points from them. If you think I’m incapable of re-enacting every single moment of that afternoon when they play tonight you’re as crazy as, well, me! If that insanity should fail there may not be a column next week. I’m not sure laptops work in Afghan caves.