Soccer: A Christmas miracle would do nicely

THE peasants are revolting. And if you want the punchline for that joke, buy a Christmas cracker.

Red reaction to Southampton's fully-deserved victory measured on the Richter scale. The manager whined about phone-in nerds, but blithely ignored the boos of those fans who stuck it out till the final whistle.

It was about to get a lot worse. The local paper's Monday match report was scathing, ruthless and scrupulously fair.

The same paper called the fanzines for our views. Highly unusual.

Normally, they don't come anywhere near us fearing they might catch something, perhaps but newspapers love to be on the winning team, and they'd detected a change in the landscape.

Not that it took long for the spin machine to grind into gear. Steven Gerrard admitted we had a right to express displeasure (gee, thanks), but warned us "not to make a habit of it".

Like it was something those fans did voluntarily. Who'd get a lecture from Keane if United ended up in a rut half this deep? Not the fans, that's for damn sure. Riise had the gall to claim "if we get fourth place, everyone will be happy again".

That sort of wilful misunderstanding takes the breathe away. It's been happening all season. Bush had his "weapons of mass destruction" mantra, day-in, day-out. Liverpool FC have their own: "Top Four."

Sounds promising, doesn't it? As if we were all together: United, Arsenal, Chelsea and us. Hurrah!

Except it won't be 'the top 4', will it?

It will be top three plus guest. Fourth, in the pitiful state this league is in, amounts to no more than a booby prize.

In the Champions League, there's a difference between taking part and competing. We know it's about money, but what good is that if the others get the same as well as this season's revenue?

If, as is widely feared, David Moores genuinely thinks Houllier can stay if we edge past the mighty Fulham and Charlton, just remember what happened the last time he spent £20m.

Fourth isn't guaranteed by any means. I laugh when I hear that Southampton and co won't last because their squads are weak.

The same optimists then blame our poor form on a few injuries! Are they the same saps who won't sleep tonight because Santa may get stuck up a chimney? Probably.

Was the late postponement at Wolverhampton good or bad? We may have good players missing, but surely it wasn't beyond us to beat one of the worst Premiership sides ever?

Some Wolves fans told me they'd been denied a good opportunity to claim a major scalp. I summoned all the bravado I could muster, with a knowing smile and a sneering 'yeah, right'.

A demeanour I normally reserve for nut-cases on public transport. Like the ones who claim they're Napoleon. You don't say "you look good for 250" or "why isn't your hand inside your coat?", do you?

My bravado was punctured by a gold-shirted oik who reminded me that a year ago we lost to Sunderland, Wolves' predecessors in ineptitude. Smartarse.

Such verbal-jousting was irrelevant. The game was cancelled a mere 90 minutes before kick-off. I've never sympathised with tree-huggers, but now I realise the dangers of global warming.

Rain? In England? In December?

Irrefutable proof that our weather has become unstable.

What a tatty, two-bit nation we are. Only in this country could a multi-million pound event be cancelled for the lack of tarpaulin.

At least it spared us the sight of the self-styled 'Guv'nor' in nostril-flaring mode. Paul Ince probably arrived with a hammer and Houllier's final nail.

He has one thing in common with his Gallic nemesis he thinks a Liverpool fan has the memory of a goldfish. He was spite personified when Houllier rightly sent him packing, but that didn't stop him from claiming last week that he never thinks about revenge.

Except for three specific occasions: morning, noon, night. It's not often Alex Ferguson and I agree, but on the subject of Paul Ince we are in accord! Being denied a game of football after hours of travel can be irritating, but we took it well.

Not because we were dreading it. Even the worst cynics didn't think we'd lose, but victory would hardly have been savoured.

Liverpool need more than an easy win to quell the uprising. One defeat, however, could be seismic and given Bolton's impressive form, Boxing Day looks like an imminent earthquake.

There's little hope of an immediate improvement. The league table shows that a good run can clinch fourth place. A bad run, and relegation looms.

The contemptuous laughter of my friends whenever this subject is broached may become more nervous in a month's time. Bolton, City and Chelsea are no pushovers.

Some think we'll be okay when the injured players return. Some wonder how much longer we can rely on Owen's goals. Pessimists doubt if we'll see him again.

The debate over the identity of the next manager has begun. For those who see no outstanding candidate, fret not. Appointing famous managers isn't our style.

Shankly came from Huddersfield, Paisley was the trainer and Fagan was the bloke who sat next to Bob.

The only one who came with a track record was Souness, who turned out to be rubbish. If we can tempt another Old Firm boss away from Glasgow, be warned: the omens aren't great!

On the train to the Midlands, I took a well-thumbed paperback of a Shankly biography. Pardon my blasphemy at this holy time of year, but this book is my bible, 'You'll Never Walk Alone' my hymn.

Both have the same message: whatever state we get into, there's a way out. If it takes years, or a huge cash injection, or a long search for a man of Shankly's vision, we'll find it. This is the time of miracles and saviours. Christmas always gets to me. It never fails.

Remember the words: with hope in your heart. Happy 2004.