You’ll have to forgive me, says. It’s hard to write coherently after you’ve just coughed up a lung laughing.
It had been a tough week and the thought of them claiming another draw as a win was just too, too much. If Origi never does another damn thing in his life…
Europe had been daunting. We’ve been continually plagued by Petroball of late, by City and now that bizarre night in Paris.
Even by Neymar’s subterranean standard, the play-acting was disgraceful and his cohorts equally theatrical.
Yet, it’s hard to become embroiled in the purple-faced vehemence of others.
I noticed Liverpool fans weren’t unhappy with Milner booting the Brazilian at Anfield, and that’s how “simulation” was born; a devious but necessary trick to restore the dominion of skill over brawn. Of course, the solution’s become the problem, no argument there. PSG were laughable but they exploited a weak referee… I say weak, but he took the word ‘homer’ to a new level.
The chest-bumping euphoria over a 2-1 home win where they were given every advantage and still haven’t qualified did, for a moment, make you grateful for how far Klopp’s Liverpool has come.
It took a bit of the sting out of defeat. It still can’t hide our pitiful record abroad in recent years. For a club that’s just reached two European finals, we wilt alarmingly on foreign soil. It’s a definite character flaw, not in keeping with our past.
We’ve lost three group games and can still go through. The Champions League, folks; part-fraud, part-farce, but you’d still rather be in than out.
United are currently woeful yet went through with a game to spare. That’s how it goes, luck of the draw perhaps. We weren’t complaining last year and Liverpool are still a team that needs fortune to thrive. Domestic results disguise it.
Everton weren’t really the team we wanted to face right now if I’m honest. You can still laugh at them blue-floodlighting a local building and pretending we’re bothered about it.
It’s buzzing fly syndrome. Over your nose, past your ear, doing no harm really but ultimately, an irritation that isn’t ending until you end it – as painfully as possible.
An Evertonian once told me (proudly) their captain jumped for joy while leaving the pitch at half-time. The Goodison announcer couldn’t wait to tell them all we were losing elsewhere. That was 40 years ago. Far from being a club cerebrally eroded by decades of inequality, they were always like that.
It’s been a lop-sided rivalry for years.
If the best anyone can summon is “ha ha, you didn’t win your sixth European Cup” then you’d settle for that.
Except we don’t settle. Our feverish desperation to get back to something like old times antagonises them more than everything else.
There’s no denying the eight years’ unbeaten run is a burden. Unnerving, unnatural.
As they began wasting time late on, it was almost a relief.
Everton didn’t want to snatch a win, on a day they’d looked well capable of doing so. Your loss (snigger).
The turnaround from Allardyce has been depressingly quick. While we’d had our own chances (Mane especially wasteful) they’d deserved their point.
After Alisson made his only true rick at Leicester, it didn’t take Pickford long to ingratiate himself with his red-obsessed buddies by claiming you’d never see him doing anything so silly.
Ah, karma; beauty so swift and merciless.
Everton’s misery was compounded by the acute knowledge of the extra anguish they’d caused for their comrades (both colours) in Manchester.
Petty? Most definitely. It’s hard not to be after a finish like that.
Their derby day will come, maybe next game. Silva’s done good work there and they’ve waited long enough now surely?
But today, just taste those bitter tears. Sweet, purest nectar.