Hard weather softening us up

WHEN my slightly tarnished yet still bafflingly beloved Reds aren’t playing, I’ll often watch another match instead.

If we’re in the middle of a rancid run of form, I sometimes forget a golden rule; don’t watch Arsenal. The way they play the game may be heartwarming, but the comparison whittles away at whatever self-respect was left.

Ironic they have a player called Cliché – well, Clichy – but their passing and movement, what was once called The Liverpool Groove, remember – is a joy.

And yet Everton not only stood up to them but actually eclipsed Arsenal at times. Their own style, occasionally crude perhaps, would also have warmed one’s cockles had it not been, y’know, Everton...

It was a great game. The passion was a particularly sore point. I know my team can play with aggression and style, I’ve seen it too often not to know it’s there, yet for three months we have mostly plodded, pouted and bumbled through one eyeball-gouging anti-climax after another.

Respect to those clubs who got their games played at all. I’m of an age where the hideous opening gambit “in my day” is used too much for everyone’s liking, but it does seem like everybody is mollycoddled now.

The pretentious used to call it working men’s ballet, so what happens once you gradually, intentionally, exclude the working man? You’re left with ballet.

Last week, I mentioned our players’ unease on the multi-divot at Reading, and now such pampering seems to apply to supporters. Then again, I don’t drive and don’t fully understand the dangers in this climate.

There were numerous bonehead theories about the club preferring not to face Spurs right now; I know Rafa wanted total control, but that’s ridiculous! It’s frustrating, especially for foreign fans who build their year around one trip if they’re lucky.

We wouldn’t have been pleasant hosts anyhow. There’s bound to be more protests about the owners as news leaked of more budgetary shackles on Rafa. That may casually deflect attention from the fact the jettisoned deadwood was originally bought by him in more bountiful times.

Perhaps people see a dismal future in store and want to bring its consequences forward so the idle and nonchalant will get up and fight now. They regard the team’s form as being heavily influenced by the yawning fiscal chasm awaiting us, but you look at the personnel involved and think “we’re better than this though, surely?”

Our modern history is packed with comebacks and the conquest of adversity; resistance is built into our DNA. The mewling and whining about net spend seems at first glance like an anti-Kop, a dreary whinge and an awful consequence of regarding money as the primary – nay solitary – component necessary for success.

But the dark cloud is there and if we keep selling players without significant re-fortification, that cloud is visible and closing in faster than ever.

If anything symbolised that the club is in the wrong hands, it’s that offensive e-mail from one of their arrogant spawn to an inquisitive fan. He’ll still ride on daddy’s gravy train, resigned or not. The tightening of purse strings is not allegedly their decision, but the banks’. It’s like sitting in a doctor’s waiting room fearing the worst; there may actually be relief in the prognosis, no matter how bad the news.

I refused to gloat about United’s ignominious cup exit, partly to respect the feelings of my fine Mancunian colleague but also in genuine fear of Reading making me pay for my revelry with sadistic, karmic glee.

Still, there was a lot to admire in Leeds’ performance. I thought about our own pending financial oblivion. Watching Leeds supplied a crumb of comfort. You can step back from almost any precipice, and we’re not remotely close to their predicament yet.

I found myself for a few seconds actually welcoming such an outcome. My dad often taunted me about our 90s “lows” with tales of losing to Leyton Orient and cup exits at Worcester. My generation was spoilt rotten, pampered (there’s that word again).

A small vacation in Rubbishville could be just the thing to help regain perspective and discover who stands where and what stuff they’re made of.

It’s often forecast that our worldwide support would vanish in such circumstances, like snow off a shovel, but I’m not so sure. Many of you reading now will empathise; when a club like ours enters your bloodstream you can’t just have a transfusion and get rid.

The Yanks are temporary, Liverpool is permanent. It’s important to remember that sometimes.