In the ‘Terrace Talk’ world, we used to be a cosy group of four, not exactly mates but in touch often.
In 2010, Trizia was worried before the Liverpool-Chelsea game they would slip up in the title race. I said “no sweat, you’ll walk this, we won’t even put up a struggle”.
In 2014, Mr Kurt was a little pensive about us winning our first title for yonks; “this is Liverpool remember; we can screw up six times before breakfast”.
And after a recent email from Bernard about how Liverpool would probably pip Arsenal to fourth. I went through it game by game and… well, you know the drill.
Nostradamus or Jonah? Not the former, since I certainly didn’t see the West Ham result coming. Going through the motions, adopting a carefree attitude towards fourth place, all the things you do to protect yourself from harm. That’s been the plan all week.
It’s almost as if nothing we say or do has any effect on our team’s chances or performances. Fifty-eight years to learn that? Education, education, education…
It didn’t bode well when Klopp left the reservation and started babbling during the build-up. I get told none of this matters; just obligatory vomit for the press to sift through and do their thang with the juicier parts.
I’ve always felt it was kinda nice when your own manager wasn’t part of the idiocracy. “Should I say to the boys, ‘The better you play, the better the players are who take your place next season?’”
I read that for ten minutes and still couldn’t decipher it. Maybe those who fixed the hospital computers can have a crack at a translation?
“The boys”? We’ll drift back to that one if we mess things up against Middlesbrough (which I’m still not discounting).
When he accuses Southampton of helping Arsenal out we’re deep into Mourinho territory with a huge slice of Ferguson. Y’know, without the trophies.
People love Jurgen though, that’s how you get away with stuff. Liverpool faced West Ham with nearly half a first team missing; even Lallana looked a bit delicate but the cockneys melted in the sun once Coutinho gave us much-needed breathing space.
On the morning of the game I always check in with “on this day” websites. Oh look; Bradford 1 Liverpool 0 in 2000, the day our squandering of a Champions League spot was confirmed.
That messed with a couple of heads, the outcome messed with a few more. Bilic lost half a team himself, though you wonder if he even counts Andy Carroll nowadays.
We were starting to feel that way about Sturridge but fitness and form make him one of the game’s prize assets. How often do those phenomena occur simultaneously, though?
West Ham were a vibrant, working class club once. Now they’re a corporate mess run by vacuous profiteers in a suspiciously inherited, soulless bowl. I’d sympathise, but we’ve got our own silent but deadly sanitisation going on.
Even believing fourth place would be an achievement can fester just by thinking about what the yanks plan on doing with the money.
Some of the rumoured transfers would come from sales, with Sakho and maybe even Sturridge and Coutinho (on this form) being difficult to replace. Face it — our judgment’s been ropey for years.
West Ham screamed for a penalty, and hit the post twice when it looked easier to score, so this wasn’t a stroll for the entire afternoon. I’ve been watching football since Moses was in nappies but even I don’t know what constitutes handball any more.
Get pegged 2-1 then and you know we’d have wobbled appallingly. 3-0, seconds later, and everyone started to think “job done”.
We’ll see. Don’t forget those pre-breakfast mistakes or those two home points out of the last nine.
Or my unnerving omniscience.