“Forget it, Jake. It’s Chinatown”.
God I love that film, and not despite its bleak ending - because of it. The haunting dread of there being absolutely nothing Jack Nicholson could have done to stem the evil tide and keep heartbreak away.
Apropos of nothing at all, we were at Old Trafford on Saturday. The sane people say superstition is for children, that there’s no such thing as jinxes or hoodoos.
They’re the fools who’ve clearly never seen Mikael bloody Silvestre score two goals against their team in the same game.
The screamingly inevitable occurred, as it so often does. Don’t even try to explain the mass psychosis which led many Liverpool fans to believe we were really going to do them this time.
It’s not worth becoming downhearted anymore. What would be the point? It’s there, it’s them.
Expecting anything other than what occurred makes the highest folly seem reasonable.
What, you thought it would be any different? Take Houllier out of the equation and it’s 4 wins in about 40 attempts. You don’t need a beautiful mind to work out that’s a low percentage.
Old Trafford is a place where all hope goes to die and lots of other stuff withers on the vine. Common sense, any regard for Socialist/Northern England solidarity. As for referee impartiality, forget it. Pawson’s getting worse than Webb now.
Morality isn’t even worth the mention. For younger fans it’s all they’ve ever known. For greying relics, there may once have been a spark of decency but they’re too enraged by modern football’s sanitisation to object.
And, being tribes, they all think their side is completely right and the other hopelessly wrong and vicious. The older you get the more tiresome and senseless it becomes.
All that’s on top of whatever got into Liverpool fans all week, how the dastardly Spesh was going to park his bus but was still going to have his bloody doors blown off by St Jurgen and his pure football dream machine.
Klopp selected as attacking a team as he could, in the belief United couldn’t or wouldn’t hit back. After 20 minutes, that cunning plan lay in rubble.
Alexander-Arnold was awful, exposed by the pitiful Lovren now on his tenth or eleventh renaissance by my reckoning.
We keep falling for this awful gibberish that he’s “back on track”. People, there was never a track to begin with and van Dijk can’t cover that up nor build him one.
It wasn’t the time for Salah to have his worst game ever, never mind for Liverpool. United defended stoutly, but they were given dollops of help.
With all that said it was ‘only’ 2-1 and large parts of the game were merely a question of whether United could keep us at bay. They could, and comfortably so.
What did De Gea have to do? He had to work far harder when Rodgers’ team lost 3-0 a few years ago. In fact, he was man of the match that day if I remember correctly.
That’s a big ‘if’, though. They’re all blending into one gigantic forfeiture blur now. It makes it easier to deal with. We’ve been playing great lately but there wasn’t a single thing we could have done to make the evil vanish.
Too many painted it beforehand as Good Football versus Bad. The bitterness in Mourinho’s post-match gloat may be funny but harsh truths must be faced.
It’s not that Klopp won’t play that way; it’s that he can’t and Liverpool must fly on his chosen trajectory until such time as it becomes obvious they’ll never win a thing. Maybe everybody else is wrong except him? Stranger things have happened.
A reasonable draw in the Champions League and another win next weekend and you can hopefully put this farrago behind you.
I already did. A long time ago. It’s Trafford, Jake…
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