Hello darkness, my old friend

WOW, that was fast. It’s knocked days off my personal best. I don’t know why anyone’s the least surprised; in the Rafa Years we’ve always been up and down like Paris Hilton on a pogo stick.

Feast or famine, and never anything in-between. It’s been this way since he arrived. Hence the drama, hence the hysteria.

I’m trying to stay as level-headed as I can but it’s hard. We’ve almost been through the entire rose-tinted back catalogue of get-out clauses. Similar bad times under our greatest managers? Check. United not sacking Ferguson when they had every right to? Check. Shankly’s somewhat similar treatment of his players and his six seasons without a trophy? Check. Injuries? Check. American duplicity and the summer snaffling of transfer funds? Cheque.

The flippant, Scouse-patented ‘laugh or you’ll cry’ approach has a limited lifespan before people just start laughing at you; not with you.

The winds blow harder than ever and the smokescreens evaporate, until all that some people see is a cluster of stars who can only be motivated by enemy proximity, a squad so transparent a child could shatter the illusion of it and a manager once again clinging to the cliff edge.

It’s hard to believe that now the only real plus from beating United is the multiplying scavengers’ inability to peck gleefully at the carcass of a seven-game losing streak.

Not that we should count the defeat in the Reserves Cup anyway, from which we emerged with a little credit especially compared to last year’s Tottenham travesty.

The Arsenal Youth, a concept becoming ever more arrogant and tedious (What, me? Jealous?), were given a fight and a fright, whatever the Hoof boys wish to tell you. “Who are ya?” indeed.

Degen showed something at long last, Spearing got over his Sunderland nightmare and Aquilani gave a few tantalising glimpses of class. We could whinge about Senderos (one arm good, two arms better) but the club hasn’t cared about this competition for a decade, even when we won it twice, so why should the fans?

Anyone who came out of the Emirates thinking our second-string had been hiding their light under a bushel were soon to be hideously dissuaded of such fanciful notions.

Fulham was bad, there isn’t enough whitewash in the world to paint it otherwise.

You have to admire a club that continues to punch way above its weight, set in such idyllic surroundings with a complete crank for a chairman. At least he can roam his domain without bodyguards.

Craven Cottage can swing from the imperious ‘Carmina Burana’ to Diddy David Hamilton in a heartbeat. Hodgson is one of the good guys and his belated day in the sun is refreshing. Makes you think the game can be human after all, even if the early ‘nibbles’ at a fragile Torres hinted at a darker, more ruthless purpose.

Despite falling to the sucker punch yet again we still had enough quality to make victory look assured, which translates as “Torres was still out there”.

As he left the pitch there weren’t many who didn’t notice our chances leaving with him. Another awful referee made it worse undoubtedly, the irony of Carragher leaving for a professional foul reverberating at least as far as Manchester. Even from that distance I could hear the mutant cackling.

It was a disturbing volte-face from the last time Benayoun left this particular stage. Then, we genuinely thought the title was going to be ours. Was it really seven months ago?

Rumours flew, as is their wont in such times. Certain players weren’t unwell or injured at all, they’d been deliberately held back for tonight, because Rafa has received the ‘beat the French or else’ ultimatum that screwed us up at Reading two seasons earlier. You’ll discover the truth or otherwise of those tall tales tonight but there was less sympathy for him this time. Losing seven before November tends to make people a tad cranky. The best the optimists can currently come up with is “who else is there” and “we can’t afford to sack him anyway”. That’s the very definition of bleak.

He’s back on the trapdoor, all other exits blocked off. Our humble Houdini is running out of miracles. The waters keep getting muddied as fans start to prevaricate about what we have a right to expect.

“Better than this” is the somewhat pithy response.