Thankfully Hou’s return was fleeting

HE’S back — run for the hills! It’s like the end of ‘Carrie’ or the axe scene in The Shining; heeeeeeeere’s Gerard.

Relax people, he was here for one frozen night only. Definitely not by public demand.

He hyped up his return somewhat by again claiming he was the true architect of Istanbul and the dressing-room mobbed him as he entered.

If he only knew how ludicrous he sounded.

It’s hard to judge the Villa team he brought to Anfield, given the absentees. Just turning up on Monday was an achievement.

That’s in its loosest possible sense obviously. It’s not as if we put out a great team either, with Torres on sprog-popping duty. Ngog and Babel usually play football like cats fiddle with Rubik cubes, making it hard to be enthused even before Jack Frost started nipping at the extremities.

But they did really well, complementing yet more impressive play from Meireles and Lucas. It’s beginning to feel like the other Gerrard’s return might actually interfere with something that’s bearing a little fruit.

Maxi got the third, despite being encumbered by a snood that could be seen from space.

Villa were as appalling as West Ham, but that’s five straight home wins after an awful start so for Hodgson there is a teensy glimmer of hope.

The defence managed to get through 90 minutes without missing Carragher too much, though obviously greater challenges lie ahead.

Perhaps his long lay-off is already beginning to bore him. He was effusive in his praise for Le ex-Boss. Was this an indication that he has no intention of ever placating the small but determined band of Rafalista intent on blaming him for their Messiah’s exile?

It’s a peculiar phenomenon played out in the darker recesses of cyberspace, never really coming to the surface except for the odd cutting comment in the press.

There’s just as much private conjecture about Gerrard’s role in the whole sorry mess, yet he is regarded as untouchable — or too powerful to challenge.

Jamie seemed more than willing to tweak a few noses with this fulsome flattery of Houllier. He’s wrong of course; no matter what the trophy cabinet indicates, Rafa was the better of the two.

But why we have to have the argument at all beggars belief. It’s not as if there aren’t plenty of other scabs to pick at. Perhaps it’s because we prefer talking about past managers and actual success rather than the present incumbent.

The home form is all very nice and everything, but to be expected surely? On our travels we are still abject.

Watching the Steau game was like removing a lung with a rusty tin lid without anaesthetic. I’ve used up my season’s supply of the word ‘hideous’ and it’s not even Christmas.

Yes, we’re through. Back in the day when the Reds strode through Europe like Caesar all we had was a wireless with a crap signal, through which we barely discerned the distant voice of a local commentator bringing us glad tidings from Bucharest or Bilbao.

Now we see every hoof, every retreat, every stultifying second of wasted time.

Hodgson’s Fulham were generally dreadful once they left the confines of Craven Cottage, and there has been little sign of any epiphany here. Without that all the home wins in the world won’t crush the notion that Roy is merely the wrinkled retainer whilst the New Americans bide their time and search for someone of substance.