Walking on, through this awful storm

NO, you weren’t hallucinating. That was Tony Pulis complimenting Liverpool on their “grarrrrft” – and it wasn’t even the most depressing moment of the week.

I was right not to gloat about United’s ignominious cup exit, especially when we get two cracks at it and still emerge befuddled.

It made all the complaints about transfer funds look slightly cracked. Character, organisation, work-rate; all free the last time I checked.

We managed to scrape a goal, but it wasn’t fooling anybody, least of all Gerrard. He couldn’t have looked less thrilled if someone used his Phil Collins CDs for coasters.

TV showed Babel being asked to strip hurriedly after originally slumping into his perennial plastic perch on the bench.

That sent Rumour City into meltdown. Texts flew hither and yon about dressing room tumult, culminating in all-out war betwixt captain and manager. Like rolling a snowball down Everest, this crapalanche couldn’t be stopped.

Holland’s biggest twittering ‘tweet’ was entrusted with the task of replacing Captain Lacklustre. Since he’d packed his bags in spirit months ago, it smacked of desperation. Not that anyone else impressed, especially as Torres had long hobbled off to lick his predictable wounds.

Aquilani grew more tired and reckless the longer the game went on, highlighting the arrogance of the decision to buy him at all. He did have his moments, against Championship opposition. When Rafa spoke of getting him for five years not five months, do you think that’s what he meant? Their penalty looked dodgy, but once converted we knew who’d win. It was another uncanny echo of Houllier’s collapse in 2003. Having barely earned a replay against Palace, Heskey missed a sitter at 0-0.

Le Boss spoke of lowered heads after that, as if that reasonably explained defeat against lower league opposition reduced to 10 men.

A similar Blame Culture courses through the club’s veins today. Financial gloom and the loss of two great players cannot surely camouflage such tawdry submission.

The idea of August transfer letdowns excusing such ghastly results emphasises the babyfication of the squad, helpless bed wetters unless everything goes their way.

Rafa wriggled on the hook he created. By Friday he was even joking about “Facts”. I love to laugh at myself too – in front of a mirror, I’ve little choice – but it was unsettling and inappropriate.

Shankly inevitably got dragged out for another airbrush, whilst one of his press stooges glibly implied sixth was all we had a right to expect.

Fitness has collapsed. It was causing concern months ago and actually seems to be getting worse. It isn’t just the growing absenteeism; it’s the tiring legs in the later stages and the predictable loss of focus that follows. Count the late goals we’ve conceded.

We put out an awful side on Saturday; three centre backs, three full backs and two unadventurous midfielders. That left Kuyt and N’gog.

Hopes weren’t high even before both teams started kicking the ball till it bled.

It wasn’t as if we could smother Stoke’s ‘strategy’ anyway, consisting as it does of throw-ins, set pieces and casual violence, but the idea of the modern Liverpool selecting creative players to pass and move around these cavemen was equally fantastical.

We scrambled the ball into the net, old dogs learning new tricks and biting the biters. Rafa’s name was sung with more gusto for this tactical triumph, then we began chewing our fingernails and awaiting the inevitable.

There was enough time after their shoddy equaliser for Kuyt to miss a sitter before we traipsed home. There were straws to clutch; we’d dreaded this fixture, imagining all sorts of barbaric calamity, the referee was abysmal and let far too much go – and yet most players held firm and refused to yield or be bullied.

Skrtel and Kyrgiakos justified the manager’s faith with gutsy performances, and Lucas (bless him) continues to confound critics by rising above our current mediocrity. Whether he’ll remain airborne once we find our form is quite another matter.

Few will beat this glorified rollerball team on home soil, and we’d have snatched your hand off for the point once we saw the line-up.

If that makes me sound like one more apologist, so what? It was windy, it was raining. What else can you do but walk on?