The end of the affair draws ever closer
Our attention suitably diverted by this episode of Keystone Kopites, Gerrard set up Didier Drogba for a goal that will probably settle the title. Thirty seconds, one season encapsulated. Sad, funny, inept – and a tiny bit shameful. There’s your title for the 09/10 DVD right there.
Of course nobody was tearful about United being unable to kick us off what is, to all intents and purposes, their perch now. We’re squatters in all but name, but the eerie atmosphere at Anfield and its unsurprising denouement gave yet more cause for concern.
After a week when the manager went to war with his own club (again) and the tiniest Eurobauble of consolation was still squandered, the last thing we needed is more ammunition for the perma-detractors of LFC.
It makes you want to crawl into bed and hibernate for the summer.
Like survivors of a nuclear blast, we’ll totter out blinking and bewildered to see who’s survived, sift through the wreckage and hope we can salvage something to carry on in one mutant form or another.
Time erodes facts, shaping them according to your conscience. Think of 1995, and we smugly claim superiority because we beat Blackburn ‘for’ the Mancs despite it harming Kenny’s chances.
The truth as ever does not match up to mythology. Then it was Shearer who scored, and the first half was as dreary and disinterested as Sunday.
Unlike Chelsea, Rovers brought out the deckchairs and rested up for the strenuous celebrations to come. That provoked some of our players, Barnes especially, into a response.
In those days the title count was 18-9, so we could afford to be Corinthian. Sunday? Not so much.
Before the game no one cared. I even wished Trizia all the best. My stance was simplicity itself; if Chelsea couldn’t win against this tired, despondent, injury-riddled rumour-ragged shell of a team, then we all of us deserved an overdose of the bitterest pill.
It had been a lousy week anyway and like all bad dreams it kept getting worse. Before Atletico Rafa was a-manoeuvrin’ and a-manipulatin’ seeking reassurances for this and stamping 10 tiny toes about that.
When asked about Juventus however, he just clammed up. Even some of his sternest admirers were sick of it and wondering what on earth he was playing at on the eve of an important fixture. Then, as always, rumours trickled out about shady deals and back-stabbing betrayals.
The team fought fiercely but visibly wilted. The manager, not one to miss an opportunity to flog a dead horse, replaced three key players with three stiffs in order to make everyone aware what appalling materials he was expected to make great art with. Unless you believe Benayoun will have benefited from those seven minutes of rest.
And it would be Forlan, wouldn’t it? We could hear the Manc hysterics from 40 miles away, and the prospect of it getting louder days later kept everyone awake.
That said, if you think we’ll take lessons in integrity from Ferguson you’re very much mistaken. Shouldn’t you have beaten them at Old Trafford? Just a thought… Chelsea were, well, Chelsea. Drogba rolled, limped and of course scored. Terry elbowed and handled, Kalou dived (twice – no card) and their fans yeowled through their stockpile of drivel.
And we had to sit there and take it. Lesser of two evils and all that. Even so there’s still only a sense of delayed inevitability, maybe by a mere week. After a lap of honour, and don’t even get me started on that, Rafa whinged again but still flatly refused to discuss months of Italian ahem ‘speculation’.
With one final flourish he claimed “in the last two years the manager has taken responsibility for everything”.
It’s called Control, Rafa. You know, the thing you’ve politicked and plotted for pretty much since you got here?
But ask who is “responsible” for 62 points, Champions League exit and exclusion, defeat against Reading and some of the worst away performances in our modern history, and he turns 180 degrees.
Something’s got to give.
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