Awful reality bites as our rudderless Reds revealed

IF A picture paints a thousand words, replace this column with a shot of Kenny Dalglish at the Europa Cup draw.

Perhaps he had a sort of Glaswegian flashback and Unirea Urziceni is some sort of threat.

That confused, pained expression when he tried to decipher the name of our opponents is also soldered onto my face, now and possibly for the rest of time. If you’re looking for trouble, you’ve come to the right place. The ravenous wolves were sidetracked by Manchester’s very own blue comedy club, but that will last until Liverpool’s next defeat.

Then it’s our turn, especially Rafa’s.

There’s no obvious replacement, nor is there a huge slush fund to ransack for what would presumably be a massive pay-off, otherwise a huge round hole in the splintered exit door would be the only trace of him left.

Not that Hicks and Gillett have any moral authority to make such a decision. We could lose 10 in a row and they’d still be ripped to bits for doing what needed to be done.

Many fingers are pointing at the gruesome twosome, but we were beaten – deservedly, emphatically – by the worst team in the league and hierarchical financial degeneracy cannot camouflage such dismal surrender.

The confusion in his eyes says it all; he’s lost his precious control – but only because of the referee, apparently.

It’s excruciating to watch. Rafa’s stress reveals itself in repetition, whether focused on coaching, dispensing facts, calling a game crazy or criticising a (far-from) perfect official.

The stilted sarcasm, subtlety with brick attachment, couldn’t divert attention from a team performance worse than anything since last week.

The Wigan game was actually okay. N’gog provided further proof that he can be the Torres stand-in Keane never was, and we at least made Kirkland work hard for his BUPA repayments.

When the second goal refused to come, we reverted to type; on came the love child to little or no purpose. Torres thankfully reemerged too, but had Jason Scotland hit the net and not the bar beforehand, the escalation of unease throughout the stands would have mutated into ugly blind panic.

An evening dedicated to the memory of Shankly provided a flicker of warmth on a bitter evening. I like a good wallow as much as the next fossil, but sooner or later nostalgia becomes a comforter, a distraction from the paucity of modern substance within our chosen obsession, be it music, film or football.

With results fast becoming a joke with an excruciatingly delayed punchline, apologists appear to have run out of straw. ‘Overachievement’ was timidly offered up as the latest defence for the manager, ignoring the fact if you take away last season’s challenge there’s not an awful lot left to show for six years.

The seismic shock of Istanbul cannot reverberate forever.

We were so brittle, negative and cowardly at Fratton Park that I don’t know where to begin. I was prepared to ridicule Droopy Grant and his so-called hold on Benitez – he was at Chelsea for God’s sake – but when the final whistle blew everyone out of their misery, even that shard of solace was confiscated. The bickering amongst the faithful gets worse. This column has never been a Benitez supplicant, but the anger with the spineless men in entirely appropriate white took a firmer grip. This was dreadful stuff, unforgivable. The ancient cliché of the lost dressing room always emerges in critical moments, but Rafa has usually been able to find it again amongst the clutter. This looks different somehow.

In a bizarre reversal of Voltaire’s words, we may agree with the players’ right to register their distrust or even dislike of the manager, but if this is their chosen form of expression they can all just go f**k themselves.

He does not help himself of course. In what way were Liverpool “controlling the game”? A goal down and utterly toothless against the bottom side. Mascherano’s an idiot, though the red was a little harsh. I’m sure he’ll find something to do with his fortnight off during the coldest winter in decades.

That may sound cynical but when the usually sycophantic Kuyt heads for the dressing room without so much as a glance at the shivering away end, some of whom faced a long treacherous journey home having left long before dawn, something is rotten in the state of Anfield.

And no amount of air freshener will ever disguise it.