Terrace Talk: A clusterfudge, but give me a lucky general every time

Don’t ask how I’m feeling. You’re reading this, so I’m alive anyway. Weekly updates forthcoming.

Terrace Talk: A clusterfudge, but give me a lucky general every time

Don’t ask how I’m feeling. You’re reading this, so I’m alive anyway. Weekly updates forthcoming.

It’s not pretty. The Tortoise and the Hare was a fable, not real life. Other analogies include: City’s sleek, turbo-charged performance is somehow being matched by a clown car with no tyres. Whatever works.

The hellish void of an international break was particularly maddening this time. The most intriguing of title races simply grinds to a halt, then is supposed to just pick up where it left off?

There were no injuries, which was the only consolation. Football media, knowing club football was always the bigger deal, spent half its time trolling Liverpool fans.

Wayne Rooney can’t bear the thought of us winning the league? You don’t say!

A former United/Everton defender thinks none of our players get into City’s team? Knock me over with a feather. On and interminably on it went. We really do wind people up.

Opposition fans are even less self-aware, if anything. People who sing about Gerrard falling over five years afterwards worry WE might become unbearable? Christ… A new Real Madrid manager meant more speculation, about in-form Sadio Mane in particular, by a strange coincidence. Doubly irritating, since it’s inevitably followed by our lot wittering on about contracts — oblivious to the last 20 years, seemingly.

Even Michael Owen shilling for a new book isn’t enough to remind them that keeping players needs more than a piece of paper.

Modern footballers aren’t going to wait. That heaps huge pressure on Klopp and the current pursuit of trophies. The Spanish giants, Juventus, and even City can realistically offer medals as well as money. We can’t — not yet.

It’s what makes next season as crucial as this one. It’s hard enough hanging onto your stars. Being near the top of the league once every five years just isn’t going to cut it. It’s that incredibly fine line of wanting ambitious players but, erm, not too ambitious eh?

It was futile expecting Fulham to resist City, but we checked in anyway. Our rivals showed a ruthlessness which Liverpool haven’t got, as predicted two weeks ago. How it stayed 0-2 is anybody’s guess.

Tottenham are in the same boat as us: Good players, great manager, but the vultures circle overhead. Kane exploits a pseudo St George myth of brave loyalty in an age of Brexit-influenced nationalist belligerence, but even he might be swooped upon after the stadium bill’s arrived. No amount of imperialist trinkets will keep him there.

Spurs must start winning trophies too. Solskjaer and Zidane might have relieved the pressure on them for now, but more buzzards will hover over Pochettino soon enough.

We regard Klopp as the loyal team-builder type, but I wouldn’t even discount his departure entirely. Whether it’d do him any good is anybody’s guess.

There was more head-scratching about his favoured midfield threesome. It’s always tempting to berate or troll Henderson’s not-so-private lynch mob, but at some stage it’ll have to be recognised they may have a point (of sorts). Snigger about Coutinho’s woes all you wish, but he’s never been replaced.

We had our usual good start, but unlike City, that second soother never comes.

Tottenham crept back into it, just like last season. Got their equaliser, just like last season. Should have won it… stop me when this gets repetitive.

In a way, the struggling Salah was involved in the winner but that’s stretching it. Add Lloris and Alderweireld to the lengthening list of our unwilling benefactors (with Pickford still top). The 400th goal of Klopp’s reign was a clusterfudge, but few of those have been celebrated this hysterically.

Pochettino showed more guile in his game changes, Klopp’s subs coming after the damage was already done. Or so it had seemed.

Give me a lucky general every time. As each week passes, and we cling on like a small dog humping Pep’s leg, the question arises; we couldn’t… could we?

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