Now it’s a time for celebration, for cackling mockery

Terrace Talk Liverpool: When Roberto got the seventh, you half expected to be awoken from a deep, delirious sleep. No. This was really happening

SEVENTH HEAVEN: Liverpool's Mohamed Salah celebrates scoring their side's sixth goal of the game with team-mates during the Premier League match at Anfield, Liverpool. Pic: PA

Who saw that coming? You did?? Liar!

Struggling, sixth-placed Liverpool put United’s slim title hopes to bed. Is it 1992 already? Okay, that’s facetious and if we’re honest it’s only silenced talk of the guard changing for a short while.

The rivalry’s history is weird. It took United 27 years to get their next title after Busby, Liverpool 30 after Dalglish. There wasn’t any overlap, 11-0 followed by 0-13. It doesn’t end there. As soon as Ferguson passed it onto Moyes, Rodgers almost won it for us while they were woeful. As Klopp took the Reds to greater heights, all they could offer was Solskjaer. Last season’s 9-0 aggregate showed the extent of the mismatch.

Has it turned again? Talk of a quadruple suggested it had. You could’ve pocketed easy money betting on a United trophy when we began struggling. Twas ever thus. Given how venomous the rivalry becomes, it’s a good job there’s rarely a proper title battle between both. Or does a filthy concoction of rampant egotism and bitter resentment only make matters worse? What Sunday’s extremes will inspire one can only dread.

The Mancs may point to Atkinson and the 80s, whereby Scousers can sing about coming fourth in two-horse races. Club announcements about tragedy songs generally fall on deaf ears, so let’s not sweat the league position banter so much.

Normality, civility left the building long ago. Ghoulish relish in death was never a good look, nor were their adjoining ‘justifications’. A fixture to get through; survive, celebrate any win, have a bleach bath, and move on. Until Sunday.

Liverpool’s struggles centred on poor fitness and complacency, the former understandable given last year’s heroics, the latter pretty unforgivable.

Ten points from four games gave a deceptive sheen to a disappointing season, the Real humiliation sticking out like a throbbing thumb slap-bang in the middle. Thirteen from five suddenly looks like a rebirth. Odd, isn’t it?

Wage bill rises came with success. Only a cynic would suggest the owners told Klopp to take his foot off the gas or they’d be bankrupt. Straws can be clutched, but even we’re not that desperate.

Home form helped us towards a small improvement, but this was United. Maybe younger fans don’t understand the fear of the elderly, remembering times when even their poorest sides rarely left Anfield empty-handed. It scars you for life.

There was early intensity and worries whether they could keep it up. They could. Boy, could they… Perhaps these words of mine don’t have the mandatory pizazz, but in truth I’m as shellshocked as De Gea right now. We can claim it’s been coming, that someone was bound to suffer from Liverpool’s pent-up frustration. That would be an outrageous fib.

Suddenly the forwards are scoring, the defence is keeping clean sheets. Who knew football was so simple?

Those of us who groaned at Gakpo’s early performances look incredibly stupid now. Talk of him replacing Firmino can still be taken with a pinch of salt, but once he got his derby goal there’s been little to stop him.

When Roberto got the seventh, you half expected to be awoken from a deep, delirious sleep. No. This was really happening. More will be written about the Brazilian in coming weeks, but few players could announce their Bosman departure so early and still be worshipped like he is. It’s been a privilege watching him in action and judging by Sunday there’s still more to come.

As for Salah, the records continue to tumble. What a player he’s been.

I generally tend to err on the side of caution (no, honestly) so I’m still not convinced of a late dash for fourth place. Our away form is atrocious; but for Anfield, we’d be taking anxious glances behind us.

Now isn’t the time for such talk, though. It’s a time for celebration, for cackling mockery, for rubbing your eyes in disbelief if you must.

And drink.