The cause of my consternation is that less than two months after foolishly ignoring my better judgment and allowing myself to believe that Liverpool actually could claim number 19 this year, my dreams once again seem perilously close to being shattered, as a Liverpool team beset by injuries to key players and a chronic crisis of confidence, teeter on the brink of the precipice that is being a premiership also ran by Christmas. 

While the optimist in me looks at the fact that we remain unbeaten in the league, and only 6 points off the summit, despite being a month into what surely must be the major blip in our season, the pessimist fears that already we are falling too far behind the pace setters in terms of performance and attacking verve to be considered serious challengers. Wednesday’s timely thrashing of Basiktas did, however, mitigate my suffering somewhat. But not enough to convince me we have the edge over our major rivals in England. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The galling sight of Rooney and Tevez clicking so spectacularly (ill admit I was one of those who had hoped they were too similar), Nani doing a passable impression of Ronaldo at Old Trafford, and Arsenal continuing their metamorphosis into the best team in the country has left me feeling a little sorry for myself. I mean why is it so fucking difficult for Liverpool to make the final step?

I can’t understand how United and Arsenal currently seem so far ahead of us. During United’s march to the title last year my mind constantly wondered to the match we inexplicably lost to Ferdinand’s last minute header at Old Trafford the season before. We dominated the game so comfortably, with our midfield simply too strong. Indeed, a couple of hours after the horrific scenes of the jubilant ugly mug of Mr Ferdinand and that twat Steptoe Sr  trying unsuccessfully to kiss his badge in front of the traveling Kop, I was convinced that I had witnessed proof of a power shift. Ironically, I was more optimistic than after any of the Danny Murphy inspired wins under Houllier - cause unlike those matches we had actually dominated. 

Similarly despite being a little concerned by Wenger’s pre-season calm and noises of unity (the delightful Gallas aside) coming from The Emirates, I was convinced a porous and lightweight centre mid would again prove a crippling Achilles heel. Unfortunately, Wenger’s quiet confidence seems entirely justified and the young team seems to have summoned a spirit reminiscent of the so-called ‘invincible’s’.  

I realise that this sort of self-pity is food and drink to those, especially Evertonians, who perhaps rightly feel red Liverpudlians and woolys like myself feel it is their right to be successful. But I have to be honest here, supporting a team with our history, resources, fan base and a squad that seems to be perpetually one piece away from the complete jigsaw, at times feels like being subjected to a particularly sadistic form of Chinese torture. From the absurdity of Paul Stewart or Nigel Clough under Souness, to the more promising Collymore then Ince under Evans, seasons of progress have invariably been followed by major transfer blunders billed as the elusive final piece/pieces. These have equally invariably been false dawns with the trend reaching a nadir with the catastrophic signings of Diouf, Diao, and Cheyrou in 2002 - after our best season in the league in years.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This quest for the final ingredient is increasingly reminiscent of that shit day-time tv quiz show where the finalist has a minute to select, for example the six Al Pacino films out of a selection of ten titles. They generally, if my memory serves, started quite promisingly getting say four or five of the correct answers, the troubles arose when they had to revise their choices and infuriatingly swapped ‘Dog Day Afternoon’ for ‘Goodfellas’ and subsequently moved further away from the winning formula. This appears to be largely what has happened at each crucial juncture for Liverpool over the past two decades, although I am attempting to battle the fickle urge to condemn this summers latest batch of final pieces just yet.
      
With hindsight, believing that two Senagalese and a Frenchman (even one who was the heir to Zidane) with not an ounce of experience of English football between them, were going to transform us into champions was patently self-delusion of the most severe type. Surely this year, however, it was not unreasonable to think that the star quality and pace of Torres allied to a number of shrewd squad reinforcements and the existing platform of arguably the best defence and central midfield in the country, represented all the necessary ingredients for a genuine title push.

The hugely encouraging start served to extinguish any lingering caution only for the wheels to come off spectacularly in the wake of injuries to Agger and Alonso, Gerrard’s loss of form and the mystifying departure of Paco. From imperiously dispatching Toulouse (not Bordeaux I realize) with a heavily rotated team, Liverpool went to being played off the park by a Marseille side - themselves in complete disarray - in a number of weeks. 

It was in this context and after the wretched first half against the bluenoses culminated with Sami’s preposterous own goal that I became genuinely despondent at the prospect of yet another fruitless league campaign, and the fact that despite our obvious superiority we still seem to be labouring to beat sides that Arsenal and United swat aside with contempt. Whether this is to do with deficiencies in the players, a worryingly negative approach in away games or hopefully just a loss of form, it triggered the same familiar frustrations in me. I felt genuinely angry that we once again appeared so far off the pace and so far from the winning formula.

Moreover, I genuinely envied the simple pleasures of supporting a team with no realistic chances of challenging the top three let alone winning the championship.  Not having to endure yearly raised then shattered expectations, not having to endure the weekly minefield where a draw or defeat represents a catastrophe and a victory merely a stay of execution; but rather, drifting along in a happy cocoon of mediocrity, where unexpected wins are a very pleasant surprise and the odd defeat is merely to be expected.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Of course, then up stepped agent Clattenburg and Dirk Kuyt to fully restore my faith in football and the world and remind me that without the pain of defeat victory would be meaningless. Indeed, when the championship does return to Anfield it will be all the more gratifying for the despair that has made such frequent, unwelcome incursions into our dreams. And despite Basiktas playing their part in Liverpool’s 8-0 drubbing, that victory Jon (Of The English Football Post) - after the fortnight we’d endured - I can assure you, was sweeter than any Toffee I’ve ever tasted.