Soccer: Fourth tops

SO IT’S official — Liverpool aren’t very good after all. Chaps like me can safely be ignored, but if you’ve a few shares the chairman is obliged to acknowledge what’s been painfully obvious for months.

Last week's AGM was pretty lively. Put into tranquilliser form, they'd normally poleaxe 100 stampeding elephants.

The one I attended in 2000 was bad enough. A cleaning lady woke me up the morning after. Even then, it was clear what sort of man runs this club.

David Moores sat, frozen in fear, as one of the Hillsborough Bereaved berated him for the treatment of one of the Disaster groups.

It seems he did likewise this year, as numerous shareholders poured scorn on recent form.

Almost inevitably, Steve Morgan stuck his oar in. Moores has kept the self-made millionaire at arm's length for years now, but at last here was a chance to inflict some serious humiliation.

Back in 1999, Liverpool had no money to give the new manager. We had to sell 9% of the club to Granada Television for a 'measly' £20million.

The same company added insult to injury by heading to Highbury and buying 5% of Arsenal for £40million! We've also flogged half the Internet rights to them. That's the money which initially supported Gerard's rebuilding programme, and cup success/CL qualification silenced the doubters (even Morgan). For a while.

Now the well is running dry. With the flak flying at him from all directions, Moores wilted and gave the salivating media what they wanted: a promise to resign if things got worse.

Whether he'll keep it is another matter. Chairmen usually find convenient scapegoats when their own skin needs saving.

They nearly always find one in the manager's office, but I genuinely think Moores is different. He means what he says, and if he goes before Houllier it will be an outrage.

The real culprit came out with his weekly dose of verbal unguent. "Fourth place is achievable," eh? Well, whoopee doo dah.

I hope no-one missed the unsubtle message that 4th is an 'achievement'.

If I said "Watch me type out this sentence in 60 seconds it is achievable," you dear reader will be using the same two words that echoed around the AGM.

"So" and "what."

And those angry shareholders? That was all 'arranged' beforehand, they were "planted" apparently. After all, how can anyone possibly be unhappy with this team? He reminds me of the final scene in 'Brazil'. At least the message sank in by the time they got to Stamford Bridge.

I didn't go for several reasons. It was £50 a ticket. It was a night game. It was live on TV. Our record there is appalling. I simply can't stomach being ripped off by a club owned by a billionaire.

And we won there for the first time since 1989. Remember when Tom was outsmarted by Jerry? He'd look in the mirror and a jackass stared back at him.

That was me on Thursday morning. Okay, no need to rub it in. It isn't the first time I've done it.

In 1993, I overslept and missed the coach to Swindon. When we scored an early goal, I smiled.

As goal after goal followed (a rarity in the Souness days), the smile became a grimace. Happy to be winning, angry that I'd missed an exceptional occasion.

If the Houllier Revival really does materialise, this game may end up like an early Sex Pistols gig. You'd need Slane to accommodate the people who'll SAY they were there.

As it turned out, Scouse Ingenuity meant that many got in by buying children's tickets and bluffing their way in anyway! To hell with it. I attended a Hillsborough fund-raiser instead, where like-minded souls (skinflints!) yelled their homophobic epithets at a screen rather than the real-live Southern dandies in question.

Everyone's mood was foul to begin with. Cheyrou and Traore were starting. Was this the first ever suicide note written on a team sheet? Strangely, everything went well. True, we weren't doing much but nor were they. In fact, they were awful.

And the goal was special. Bearing in mind the individuals involved, it was absolutely sensational.

But imagine: the same players, on an empty pitch. Throw them a ball, and ask them to repeat it.

You'd wait till the devil wore skis to see it again. That's the major problem with this 'style': our error margins are almost invisible.

At the time, we went berserk. One reprobate even exposed his buttocks, the result of an unwisely-taken bet. The final whistle produced scenes of Bacchanalian excess.

The day after the night before brings two things. A pounding headache, and calm reflection. Frankly, we were poor. Energetic, gutsy but poor.

It was nothing I haven't seen 50 times in this decade. Keep it tight. Scramble a goal of any kind. Keep it tighter.

This manager can't help falling back on the methods that suit him best. All talk of an attacking Liverpool is just so much spin.

While there were a few interesting moves against Villa, that's the least you should expect from a home side facing mid-table nonentities.

And of course now that Owen is fit, it just means the rumours have returned. Shame that, it was really peaceful for a few weeks.

Heskey excelled against Chelsea, but was indifferent again on Saturday. He made one terrific, bulldozing run that brought the Kop to its feet.

I wish he'd realise what he's capable of and why he should produce it more often, but I'm sick of saying it.

That's ten points from twelve, so people may say I'm being unbelievably petty and demanding.

Perhaps, but on Saturday Villa fans serenaded us with the now-tiresome "Champions League? You're having a laugh". They've no ambitions of their own, so they mock ours.

They won the European Cup in 1982, and now they're nothing. That simply isn't a road I want to travel down.

Do you?