Strange end to season after two months of praying for a miracle

THE dream is over, what can I say? I chickened out of following my Craven Cottage ‘routine’ last Wednesday, so blame me if you want. It was part laziness, part resignation to our fate, part ‘do they even make straightjackets in my size’.

I should look up the psychological explanation for superstition one day. Is it subconscious fear of an inexplicable unforgiving universe or insufferable arrogance thinking the world revolves around you and your cranky little peccadilloes?

My only concession to United’s existence and our impending doom was to follow the game on a Wigan website. Well, a nutcase can’t go cold turkey, can he?

It was comically deserted, save for a fellow Red who posted the immortal “thank you Wigan” after an hour.

Instant karma. Two minutes later came the following missive: “Bugger, Tevez”. I have never been so relieved to see a comma.

I sloped back to the Liverpool forums where my fellow voodoo children were berating premature gloating with a ferocity that would make an ancient Mongol blanch.

The outcome surprised no one of course. This is the very quality that we have been admiring in our own team all season. It was the height of folly to expect the enemy to sign away all trademark rights.

In fact they seemed to possess a sadistic insistence upon it during the latter stages of the season. I gave up on Arsenal, which is probably just as well. The sight of Fabregas hitting the post might well have brought on a blubbering fit.

Two months is a long time to pray for a miracle and not get it.

Rafa is getting some serious earache for his so-called churlishness. It’s a curiously English trait (one that noticeably doesn’t apply to the national team) that the Vanquished must always be obsequious in their praise of the Victors.

As if the spoils weren’t enough. They must publicly and vociferously confess their inferiority, even when the margins are as slim (even invisible) as they have been this season, or whether the winning chief is an utter gimp.

Breaking with tradition just isn’t the done thing, old bean.

Until Benitez has his own bulbous-skulled lapdog setting up mind games for him I’m afraid the lectures on etiquette will fall on deaf orejas.

I imagine Allardyce will be unleashed to ‘tut’ at 100 decibels whilst Ferguson ludicrously fakes an air of unbotheredness. Who do you think you’re fooling? Once again the futility of our own game results in fewer column inches on this page. My lift was half an hour late and I was sorely tempted to call him and tell him not to bother.

There was general apathy in the stands. We were supposed to carry on singing about winning the league in order to emphasise our newfound optimism for next year, but if anyone complied then I missed it.

The bawling Baggies ignored their own plight to taunt us about winning **** all, signing on, calming down or Rafa’s loopiness. Whatever gets you through the night.

It meant that the goals, meaningless even to Albion’s future, were greeted with more euphoria than would normally be considered dignified.

It’s traditional to profess admiration for the home fans’ gallows humour and lusty bonhomie on such occasions. Catch me going “boing boing” when Liverpool are relegated and I will happily provide written permission to put a scimitar between my eyes.

Give us the borderline dementia of Jamie Carragher every week of the season. Arbeloa has casual days, borne possibly from a lack of competition for his place, Degen having last been seen cashing in coupons for ambulance miles after prematurely departing his third or fourth Reserve outing of the season.

Alvaro clearly went missing once too often and Carra played to the gallery (my face was of a similarly crimson hue). Much ado about nowt, though the scandal sheets will undoubtedly have war declared in days.

It all provided ample camouflage for a poor and occasionally petulant display from Torres, and not for the first time this season.

He’s another who might ask the manager “who else are you going to pick?” especially after the Keane fiasco.

The cheer for Kuyt’s goal was much louder as a result. Now there’s a lad who embodies what this club ought to represent. A meaningless game does not excuse a deckchair mentality.

I got soaked on the way back to the car. Dampened, disheartened. God’s got a sense of humour after all. I’ll spend the summer measuring my pain.