Befuddlement on pitch, bemusement in stands

Back to reality, then. Some of my fellow Reds live in a permanent state of fury, but for me the anger’s over. Maybe it’s because of Kenny, my first entirely emotional involvement with a Liverpool manager having become coagulated with an ageing fan’s virulent nostalgia.

Or is it that the season is so weird, so far beyond the grasp of rationality that the words have not yet been invented that can fully convey its lunacy? When the media’s cowardice and bias descends into a debate about whether Ashley Young ‘may’ be getting a ‘reputation’, I just sit and wait for the next Suarez or Maxi tumble and despise everyone in a sport where cheats excel.

I can’t even raise a fume or two about the United-City clash of the century that has all the authenticity of American wrestling.

I certainly wasn’t going to get into a state over Roy Hodgson, another segment of our history that’s so baffling you can scarcely believe it ever took place.

I suppose it helps if you thought Rafa needed to go, whoever came in afterwards. Those who are angry about that departure (still) seem to despise Roy all the more, coincidentally.

He did come out with some tragic nonsense admittedly, but every manager on the verge of dismissal does that and he was on that cliff’s edge from the moment he arrived.

I wish we had his home record now, put it that way. It would have been nice to put in a finish of some sort, so we could cling to the finals as evidence of improvement. Or maybe we can do without such self-inflicted illusions.

The players still freeze when they catch sight of the posts, and even if they do find a little accuracy from somewhere you know something will get in the way. A crossbar, a keeper in form, a last-ditch tackle, your own strike partner. And of course that will be followed by a rare chance going into our net past a keeper who thinks diving is beneath him now.

What’s galling is that you can see some good in this team. How does the cliché go, it’s the hope you can’t stand?

However, we’re heading for the bottom half of the table, in a year when we’re supposed to commemorate our escape from the Second Division 50 years ago. This will be a first for me.

“It’s all about winning trophies,” that’s what we tell ourselves, it’s a typical cup season where the focus and application is reserved for the games that matter blah, blah, blah.

The veneer was sandblasted off that particular nugget of wisdom long ago. All that’s visible is the chronic desperation that has always lain beneath.

So the only natural response is to wait for the final and pretend the rest of the season is over. That’s if you qualified for a ticket despite the reduced allocation. That’s if you can get there despite major transport disruption (again).

That’s if you don’t get a fat lip from the ill-feeling bound to be infesting Wembley Way after Chelsea’s conduct in the semi-final, now the two-faced authorities have decided we CAN kick off late after all. Let’s all raise a glass of hearty cheer to our betters and benefactors.

Okay, there’s a little anger left…