Frustration the dominant emotion after hellish week

IT’S not been our week has it? I said in the last column that some are trying to be fair to Hodgson, but there’s a rancid whiff of that most ghastly of all God’s creatures, The Apologist, in the air.

Reina’s opening day fumble, Cole’s red card, Agger’s sitter on Saturday. If, if, if – all of it complete crap.

After the Northampton disgrace there was thankfully silence, most mouths flapping like flabbergasted goldfish. Where could you even begin to excuse it? Here’s the teamsheet chaps, there are 11 changes. Eleven. Oh and please gel immediately, there’s good lads.

Get real. A mate suggested the youth team could have put on a better show and he was right, largely because they know each other and their Liverpool career is ahead of them and not (for the majority) in tatters.

When the second-half ended we still hadn’t made a substitution. Parity had been accepted, almost welcomed. The manager seemed frozen in the headlights, and likewise after Bent got his second on Saturday. Not a significant boost to the morale, then.

Walking home last Wednesday, soaked to the skin, I fantasised about Babel pulling up at the traffic lights beside me, wondering whether he could ‘network’ with broken fingers and how many years I’d get it if I put it to the test.

That’s not how football is supposed to make you feel, is it? “I’ll keep working”, he tweeted afterwards. The greatest comic genius of the 21st Century is Dutch. Who woulda thunk it? Jan Molby piffled on the radio about ‘the Benitez Legacy’ and left you wondering when this tiresome misdirection will end. There’s a vague validity to it, but Ferguson and Bruce were already kicking the lifeless body; is that really the kind of company you want to keep? These problems, substantial ones, are in the here and now, and we’re still without a solution.

Goal starts, however fluky or fraudulent, make no difference whatsoever. I usually find boxing analogies tedious, but when you have someone on the ropes why on earth would you carry him to the corner, splash his face with water, shove the gumshield back in and practically beg him to batter you senseless? Masochism is the only word for it.

It does my head in and it’s plagued Anfield for over a decade now. Hodgson hasn’t stopped it; in fact he seems to religiously adhere to it. If all Atwell ever does is give a goal that makes Bruce’s head explode his pipsqueak existence will have had one particle of significance.

Life’s a beach, eh? Not so funny now, is it? Bruce complains about referees whenever there’s an ‘r’ in the month. There is no ‘r’ in May, June, July or August. Hmmm.

We’d had a good goal chalked off anyway, so, denied the swift kick that might have given to the Torres tush, Sunderland remained relatively unscathed despite the officials.

The kid’s bottom lip may trip him as often as defenders, but Torres has still been involved in most of our puny tally. Gerrard’s goal halted a period of play that had relegation written all over it. It acted like an electric current through Hodgson and the crowd, and the last 15 minutes saw an old-fashioned siege that had everyone scratching their heads as to why we couldn’t do it sooner.

Boycotting the match, sponsors and satellite subscriptions will soon be the only options left. Habit, lifetime etc, but if you want to prop up this decaying intruder go right ahead.

Masochism is the only word for that too.


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