Never lost a derby. Can Shankly claim that? Can Paisley? Can your precious Rafa, eh? EH? EH?!?
Ah, sarcasm; where would we be without you? Good job we don’t take any of this nonsense seriously.
The derby ended as most of them do nowadays, stalemate after enormous amounts of huff ’n‘ puff and not much skill.
We missed chances to gain a sizeable lead in the first half but even when we did convert one, everybody just drew lots on how long the lead would last. Nobody claimed “till the second half, dummy”. What is this, our first time?
Taken in isolation the result didn’t kill Rodgers, the damage was done well before that. He never got the hang of rotation, see, therefore he’ll never be able to manage any club that has to regularly play two games a week. As long as Liverpool fans look upwards, not sideways or towards “par”, as he so charmingly put it once, he’s not the guy.
But are Liverpool that sort of club anymore? Par means matching your place in the money chart, King Cash deciding everything. Not just what you are but what you’ve a right to expect. Rubbish, of course, but drowning men clutch whatever straw’s handy.
Carlisle. Sion. Norwich. West Ham. Just about beating Villa and Bournemouth. How does your Deloitte wealthy list explain all that?
It doesn’t, obviously, nor could it camouflage the dollops of money Rodgers squandered in an inept “throw enough mud” fashion because he couldn’t ever spot a quality player that can flourish despite the enormous Anfield pressure.
Either that or he wouldn’t stand up to his bosses with their woeful committees and their new-age transatlantic tripe ideas. Whichever way he turned for another of his infernal bilge-fests, he’d snookered himself.
“It’s another rebuilding job” he ended up claiming. Whatever else, you’ve got to admire the balls on the fella. He must walk around with a wheelbarrow in front of him.
Don’t worry folks, Brendan would put us back together again. It wasn’t quite the RAF offering to rebuild Dresden but it wasn’t far off.
At least Everton never really delivered the fatal knockout blow, the insult to end them all. If they’d had their way, Moyes would still be there, limping along in 7th or 8th place, whining about Anfield’s resources. Martinez was doing it this week.
Different manager, same hymnsheet.
They used to be bigger than Liverpool. Then they weren’t. Then it got harder. Then they just gave up.
That was the fate Liverpool fans saw lying in wait for themselves if this went on much longer — and they didn’t like it. One bit.
The one consolatory thought is the future departure of owners who suffer the same flaw as every Richie Rich; they think wealth gives them omniscience, they won’t ever admit defeat even though clearly they’re out of their depth. Donald Trump syndrome.
Do our owners even want Klopp or Ancelotti, anyone with an independent thought of their own or more knowhow than they’ll ever hope to muster about this alien game? Compliance is king, everyone sinking while clutching the same leaky lifebelt of arrogance.
As for the match itself, few were interested in the result itself, except for it being Everton and nobody gloats like a Blue. It’s in lieu of the years they have to wait for a win. The fact they’re still waiting was Sunday’s flimsiest consolation.
Milner and Coutinho were dreadful, while Can and Sakho looked suitably deranged at one stage. Moreno was good. Mignolet kept it respectable but by afternoon’s end, Europe’s ‘labours’ began to tell. Everyone looked knackered after 75 minutes. Fortunately the Blues ran out of steam too.
And Rodgers has run out of excuses, run out of time, too. Odd they should wait two months into a new season, but they don’t know what they’re doing.
We wanted rid of Brendan. Will the cure be even worse?
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