Front two limit damage after return of living dead

The frown’s back. That didn’t take long, did it?

It was to be expected after the nternationals. We’ve never quite got the hang of it. Other clubs seem to carry on as normal, but we invariably play like zombies.

It was bad enough at Swansea with two extra days, but this first half just about eclipsed all. Losing Aspas to one of those curiously long injuries that always affect Rodgers’ poorer signings was clearly a bitter blow to the squad.

Newcastle were never going to roll over this time, evidenced by the tenacious chasing in the opening quarter. There followed the usual arrogance over any opposition player with a chance from distance: “Ha! What are you possibly going to do from there… oh, that”

Mignolet went down in stages admittedly, but it was also a pointer to the work Lucas does. How ironic his whole love/hate relationship with Reds began when Rafa chose him in Milan after Alonso cried off on

paternity leave. He’d always played well at Newcastle too, so was

doubly missed.

All the Geordie whining beforehand was forgotten. Hey, let’s march against a dreadful owner — then put 50,000 ticket sales into his coffers. Madness. Of course, we’re the last people to laugh; it was a regular feature of the Hicks/Gillett reign of error.

North-east, 12.45pm start, away end packed. Play a game on the dark side of the moon and 3,000 will still turn up in night goggles. Our own worst enemy? We huffed and puffed after that until the penalty. The screech from the Geordies went into such high pitch, dogs went cross-eyed in Gateshead. I’ve complained so often about offside’s numerous absurdities that it’s tiresome, but apparently the slightest chance of it excuses professional fouls now.

Gerrard wasn’t fazed by the obvious tactical delay, and we looked forward to a second-half procession. What fools we are. “It’s harder to play against 10,” is now one of football’s nauseating clichés. The truth is that if you commit yourself fully to attacking play then the weakened side can’t help but buckle.

One of the differences between United and Liverpool over the years hasn’t just been quality, it’s been courage too. Sure enough we

bumbled and dawdled, even allowing them to score again.

A poor team, weakened further by injuries, a whole half with a player less — and they were beating us. These are the times when people who tell me to cheer up can launch themselves head-first onto a rusty spike.

In the end we were saved by the front two again, albeit with help from a previously invisible Moses. Suarez had in fact shown the first signs of disinterest since his comeback, though doubtless if I travelled to Uruguay and back I could barely lift an eyelid never mind a whole team.

It’s clear he will always be referenced whenever racism raises its ugly Cro-Magnon head, even when it’s the England, sorry, “former Liverpool manager” who indulges. It appears ‘context’ really is rather

important after all.

People long ago decided Luis has no place in our game any more, and the abysmal crying over Saturday’s penalty just emphasised it. “He felt an arm?” Good grief, there are no words left to describe this stupidity.

We’ll have to put that down as points dropped I’m afraid. True, we’ve got more on the board than at this stage last year, but again if it were not for one man’s amazing goal tally you wonder where we’d stand otherwise.

We’ll no doubt reference the obvious disappointment the players felt at the end as a sign of improvement, then argue all the livelong day about exactly how they wasted another glorious opportunity.

Some things don’t change.