Soccer: Inept Murphy sparks attack of the Fawltys

SO much for chilling out! I’m afraid your humble scribe let himself down rather badly at The Riverside.

As a rare Liverpool attack broke down with arguably the worst pass I've ever seen (from Murphy, if you're curious) I began attacking the long-since-vacated seat in front of me a rolled up magazine I'd bought for the tedious journey to the frozen North East.

Think Basil Fawlty, think branch, think stalled car. It gave my bewildered neighbours a good laugh, anyway.

I didn't start the day brightly. I wouldn't exactly say wedding bells are breaking up that old gang of mine, but convoluted love lives, the inhibiting cost of following this tripe around our septic isle and the sheer boredom of the last two years has now taken its toll.

My one reliable "ride" was visiting family, leaving on Friday and returning Sunday. I didn't really want to be in Middlesbrough for one day, let alone three, so I took the train instead.

The long journey was bad enough, but I'd sensibly (or so I thought) planned on an extra hour for delays only to catch the two trains in Britain that ran on time. Giving me three whole hours in the town centre before kick-off. Paris, it's not.

I nursed a lukewarm Guinness and listened to the bar's punk jukebox. Normally that would thrill me to bits, indicative though it is of Middlesbrough's time-warp, but I never felt so lonely in my life.

And for what? To see New Liverpool. Attacking freely, but not scoring. Passing accurately, but going nowhere. Thrilling everyone, but not winning matches or friends.

What did Johnny Rotten say before he quit the Pistols? "Ever had the feeling you're being cheated?" Boy, could we sing a few verses of that.

How's this for a description of the first half? After five minutes of the interval, Boro sent out Mark Schwarzer to warm up.

That's right: we froze their goalkeeper solid! He was so inactive they had to thaw him out with a few practice shots at half time.

New attacking style? You're having a laugh, aren't you? Boro's fans weren't content with the pre-match applause for our Rugby World Cup champions, they started to sing Swing Low during the game itself.

It may have been a mental exercise to keep awake, but couldn't they have played I-Spy instead? It was all rather pathetic.

Cleveland's Finest make an uncomfortable trip excruciating. I don't know why, but the North East police always turn a visit to their football grounds into a nightmare.

Thankfully, Sunderland were relegated but I hardly think the others will follow suit. More's the pity.

There were strict anti-standing squads, to make sure we did nothing seditious like enjoy ourselves.

A smoking ban was rigorously enforced, with constant threats of ejection. That would be more accurately called a promise, surely?

Was that why numerous Scousers used the cold night air and a smoking mime to try and get thrown out? If the anti-standing squad and the anti-nicotine squad don't get you, the anti-sarcasm squad will.

Look, I know you want me to talk about the football but there really wasn't much of it. After weeks of Owen rumours, culminating with the feeblest denial you'll ever read, there were various internet requests to let Michael know exactly how we feel about him.

On Saturday's evidence that'll be "apathetic", then. Coupled with the "service" he received from midfield, nothing looks like changing for him. Except his address and employer.

It's a measure of the disenchantment bubbling under the surface that his exit brought howls of derision and foul-mouthed epithets aimed only at the manager.

Clearly Owen wasn't fit, but try telling that to the fans only too happy to throw more mud at Houllier and hope it sticks. Like anyone needs to invent stuff! A goal never came, but Boro should have been down to 10 men and we should have had a penalty.

Cynical it may be, but you get the feeling that will do for Gerard now. If he can say we SHOULD have won, that counts as a victory in his addled head.

Apparently, he finds the criticism he is receiving "strange". After 13 games, Arsenal are 15 points above us. What's he expecting, bouquets and champagne? We see the same errors every week, with no sign of a solution.

If match reports were stream-of-consciousness, this would be Murphy's segment: "What a life, playing footie for loads of money. Better run for a bit, make it look like I'm working. Oooo, that's exhausting, better rest. Still another 80 minutes left.

"Oh no, he's passed to me and there's an opponent closing me down. Hell! I know, I'll dummy him and let the ball run on. Ha! Fooled you. I'm so talented.

"Blimey, didn't see him coming. I've lost the ball now, better get back and stop this counterattack.

"Nah, can't be arsed. The defence will sort it out. And if it doesn't, the manager won't say anything. He never does. God, I love my job."

I swear to God this happens five times a week.

The manager didn't give his "20 goal attempts" speech. Not because he knows it's a pack of lies he'll wait a few days so the sheep-cum-goldfish who follow Liverpool nowadays can forget this week's travesty and he'll say it then.

Not that the pond-life who infested our carriage on the way home will need that long.

LOUD, drunk and obnoxious, he bellowed about being "born to be Scouse" in a thick, slurred Yorkshire accent, ranted about "Munich", sang about "Fenians" (he wasn't keen) and even booed some lads singing You'll Never Walk Alone because "it's a fuggin' Celtic song".

A perfect end to a delightful day. Last week, I was chilling out.

Today, I'm paying a deposit on a machine gun and ordering a lifetime subscription to Genetic Engineering Monthly.

And all because of one day out at a football match. Go figure.