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.

I was doing so well….for the first time in 17 years of supporting Liverpool, and after 17 consecutive years of shattered dreams, I awaited the season in a darkly pessimistic mood, having somehow managed to convince myself for the first time in my life that this wouldn’t actually be our year. It must have been some sort of self-protection mechanism akin to amnesia after a traumatic experience, albeit taking 17 fucking years to develop.

Anyway, I convinced myself that a defeat or even a draw at Villa Park followed by a spirit crushing opening home defeat to the cockney twats of Chelsea would have signalled the death knell for a championship hopes within the first week of the season. Having wanted us to sign Torres for years and been ridiculously excited when it actually happened I somehow managed to convince myself that the sceptics were right and he would struggle to adapt and would never become a twenty goal a season man. Equally, having convinced myself, after watching a two minute you-tube montage containing about four goals, that Ryan Babel was the next Thierry Henry, or might even live up to his own modest claims that he would become even better, a pre-season spent watching him display a first touch about as subtle as a Bernard Manning gag made me pine for the days of Heskey or Diouf. Okay I may be exaggerating a little about Heskey and Diouf but you get the picture.

Having watched the Newcastle Bolton game with what seemed like hundreds of Geordies in the only bar in the toon showing the match via the illegal Arabic channel, me and my now delirious Geordie mate (none other than EFP’s own toon dog) made our way to a quieter boozer to watch the reds. I was determined that my new found pessimism was here to stay. Rafa’s team sheet, with Arbeloa and Risse in left back and left mid positions respectively, immediately triggered the instinctive but unbelievably fickle annoyance at the man who inconceivably brought old big ears back home.

Despite this slightly worrying opening day team sheet Gerrard’s position at the fulcrum of the team stirred a flicker of hope. By the end of the match I had truly been through the wringer, nervously enduring the laboured opening, before the ecstasy of the Torres inspired and for once lucky break of an opening goal. The encouraging second half with the increasingly prominent Gerrard only being denied sealing a comfortable three points by Stuart Taylor somehow turning into a world class keeper was slowly chipping away at my resistance to unbridled optimism when disaster struck as Carragher had an aberration and villa inexplicably equalised from the spot. Same old story was ringing in my ears as I made a complete and utter dick of myself by punching a wall. When Gerrard conned the ref into awarding a free kick I could barely bring myself to watch seeing it as sick little sprinkling of salt in the gaping wound of my resurrected hopes.

The way it arched in and the maniacal celebrations coupled with the context of the game made it almost impossible to banish thoughts that this could indeed actually be Gerrard’s and Liverpool’s year. There seems to be a destiny about Gerrard and Liverpool, the way he pulled that goal against Olympiakos out of the bag, his one-off Mario Jardel impression in the final that year, and his truly unbelievable equaliser against West Ham in the cup final a year later. As he pointed out a couple of days later if Liverpool do go on to win the league this year that goal could be just as vital.   

Since then I’ve been fighting a gallant, largely unsuccessful battle, trying to regain my pessimism. The Toulouse away game didn’t alter much aside from reminding me what an awesome player Javier Mascherano is and consolidating a long held view that the central midfields of our rivals don’t compare. This view was further underlined in mackem land when momo’s goal capped an impressive return to form. The Chelsea game similarly didn’t see me getting too carried away, as despite out-playing them for large parts and being scandalously robbed by one of the most outrageous judgement calls since Jude Law cheated on Sienna Miller with that skanky baby-sitter, we had battered them at Anfield more comprehensively last year and the true tests of Benitez’s improved team was never going to be in one off games against title rivals at Anfield. Indeed, on the back of the close escape at Villa Park, the fact we had only taken a point from such a game seemed to be a worrying echo of last season’s deficiencies, especially the sickening united game at Anfield.

Having said all that, the nature of our goal with Gerrard sliding Torres through and seeing a Liverpool striker for the first time in years skin a defender before finishing clinically did suggest some sort of corner may have been turned. This theory was further underlined at the preposterously named stadium of light. While we again wasted a host of opportunities, with Torres missing at least three gilt-edged chances, and had to wait until the last minute for the score line to even begin to reflect our superiority, the sight of Torres bursting past Nosworthy and McShane early in the second half was evidence of the new dimension he gives us. This combined with the metamorphosis of Jermaine Pennant into a star player and the electric pace and moments of unpredictable genius of Babel have transformed the attacking aspects of the side beyond recognition.

The ten goals and consummate ease of the victories against Toulouse and Derby merely served to bolster the belief that this is a new team with both victories showing the kind of commitment rarely seen at Anfield in such supposedly straight forward matches. Moreover, whilst the weakness of the opposition in these two games needs to be remembered, the smoothness of transition following a number of changes in both matches suggests that Rafa may finally have a squad good enough to endure the highly necessary rotation policy the press are so obsessed with.

Thus, while I am well aware that the season is only six games old and much sterner tests, including an inevitably revitalised united, will come, my pre-season pessimism went out the window almost as early as my usual optimism does; and another away win at Fratton Park would almost definitely tip me back into the dangerous state of belief that this is the year….

After what has seemed like an eternity, with no World Cup or Euro’s to numb the pain, the football season is finally upon us once again. Having survived purely on frenzied transfer speculation and meaningless pre-season friendlies or competitions such as The Emirates Cup or the Hong Kong challenge or whatever the fuck it was called, the real business is thankfully about to commence.

The past two months will have seen fans from all over the country indulge in, depending on the team they support, either outrageously unrealistic expectations or depressingly pessimistic predictions of imminent and embarrassing failure. Indeed, many fans, myself included, will have fluctuated wildly between the two emotions as that star signing who was single-handedly going to transform the teams fortune fell through at the last minute or as defeat against some obscure pre-season opponent shatters the dreams of championships that had seemed so rational only that morning.

This roller coaster of anticipation is what makes pre-season both so exciting and so frustrating, at least when the season starts we quite quickly get a realistic idea of our teams potential. We know where we stand and are relieved from the purgatory of falling prey to the football fans epidemic that is false hope.  While the initial realisation, for most fans, that this season in all reality is not going to live up to pre-season expectations prompts an initial self-loathing for being such a mug to never learn our lesson, this promptly gives way to a satisfying realisation that this is part of being a football fan.

This pre-season must have been particularly trying for a few sets of supporters. Firstly, I feel we should all spare a thought for out long suffering brummie villainous companions. Only the most battle weary and cynical Holte ender must have been able to keep a rationale perspective, the other poor bastards must surely have naively allowed themselves to envisage Marty, backed by Randy’s millions, using his Gaelic charm to persuade Ronaldihno or Kaka to come and be part of a revolution to bring the glory days back to Britain’s second city. Alas, it didn’t quite pan out that way but at least they had the sizeable consolation of signing Homer Simpson AKA Marlon Harewood. With a poor mans Emile Heskey as their star signing surely even villa fans with a penchant for rose-tinted spectacles and eternal optimism must be wallowing in self-pity due to the affliction of being a football fan.

On a similar note, as a Liverpool fan, even I felt a little sympathy for the bluenoses this summer as the clubs own website, indulging in some sick act of masochism, started peddling rumours that the signing of Juan Roman Riquelme was imminent.  Given Carlos Tevez and Javier Mascherano’s ridiculous arrivals at Upton park on the first weekend of last season the bluenoses could be forgiven for thinking that the first truly world class player since Beardsley was about to grace the Goodison turf. (Just to pre-empt any angry postings, I know you love Andy Johnson and I know he scored in the Derby but unfortunately he isn’t world class). Anyway, surprisingly enough the rumours were complete bollocks and the Gwladys Street End faithful will have to spend another season watching lee Carsley and Phill Neville labour to make a forward pass, and will once again be dependent for flair on the fleeting moments of true class shown by McFadden of Arteta.

The final set of supporters who I feel have had to endure a somewhat traumatic summer are perennial strugglers The Mackems. After their humiliating relegation two seasons ago, where they managed to break their own record for the lowest premiership points total after spending a paltry 4.5 million on strengthening a what was clearly a championship team, the summer brought respite as Sunderland legend Big Quinny and his consortium of fellow leprechauns took over the club. However, the nadir was still to be reached as they lost their first five games, were rooted to the bottom of the championship and seemed to be in freefall. Then in came their saviour Mr Keane. In what was true Roy (excuse the pun) of the rovers stuff Keane, displaying a calm charisma unbelievably at odds with his on field persona, totally revamped the side with astute transfer wheeling and dealing and clearly-apparent man management skills, led Sunderland on a remarkable run which culminated with a 5-0 rout at Luton and the championship on the last day of the season. Understandably, the black cats allowed themselves to become convinced that Keane was the heir to his mentors Cloughie and Fergie.

However, a summer of seriously questionable transfer activity must have tempered the unparalleled optimism on Wear-side. As an admittedly biased Geordie mate pointed out, The Toon paid fractionally more for Geremi, Viduka, Barton, and Cacapa than Sunderland did for either Richardson or Chopra. Thus, if Sunderland struggle with the daunting early fixtures and key big money signings fail to settle quickly the passionate love-in between Keane and his followers could become strained quickly.

Having said that keane obviously saw something in Richardson in training that we haven’t and Chopra will probably score a hat-trick against spurs on Saturday and prove I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m on about. Either way roll on the new season so all this pointless anticipation and predicting can give way to action cause who really knows how things are going to work out? There are so many factors at play aside from whose has the best team, such as how the players will gel, how they deal with setbacks of unexpected or embarrassingly heavy defeats etc. And we will only really be able to attempt to answer these questions once the season is a few weeks old.

Indeed, even if my annual renewal of optimism that Liverpool will mount a challenge that last beyond august is dented by defeat at Villa Park I for one will still be glad that the purgatory of pre-season is over. My weekend will once again be dominated by football and any plans will once again be subject to the arbitrary machinations sky sports and now Setanta’s programming. I will once again be subject to the awkward situations and patronisingly sympathetic glances of friends and family as another birthday, Christmas or wedding is disrupted because of my pathological need to watch even the most obscure match (recently a pre-season friendly caused a little embarrassment…you just can’t explain how much you’ve been looking forward to seeing the new signings to somebody who is never going to understand, even rationalising it in ones own head it becomes apparent that it’s slightly strange behaviour). I will also have to put up with being viewed with suspicion in public as some sort of weirdo tourettes sufferer as I listen to matches on the radio. However, all this suffering will be worth it as weekends, aside from the barren wastelands of international weeks, taken on a greater significance, aside from getting hammered and the invariably futile attempt to pull birds. I have matured enough that a Liverpool loss does not precipitate a deep and dark depression, like it once did, so even the weekends when Liverpool lose are worth it for those when they win a tricky away fixture and I can head out on a night out with an extra spring in my step.

And then there was: Chelsea, losing in the Charity Shield and feeling the pressure from the off, Arsenal and how will they cope without Henry? Whether or not Van Persie is the new Bergkamp? Spurs? West Ham and all that Jazz….Mines a Kronenbourg mate!

An intro to a London blog started by Luke Bryson.

So the season is finally here and a typically dramatic opening weekend saw a number of eye-opening results involving the capitals teams. As usual more questions were raised and probably more problems exposed than solved.

In the top flight both the hammers and spurs fans had to endure painful 90 minutes, which must have shattered nebulous pre-season hopes, and triggered perhaps fatalistic realisation that another season of dashed dreams is around the corner.  The spurs fans sense of despondency is probably reaching new lows as I write, having just been humbled at home to Everton. Less than a week in to the season their match at the lane against Wigan on Saturday has already assumed importance of epic proportions with their perhaps premature ambitions of breaching the seemingly impregnable top four in danger of becoming somewhat of a joke.

Searching for positives amongst the early season wreckage the encouragingly dominant and composed performance of Kaboul at Sunderland, the imminent return of King and Gale, and the fact that spurs can’t possibly continue in this vein with such a talented squad point to a brighter future once Jol figures out how to get the best out of his quartet of strikers. Their recovery from an unbelievably dismal start last year also points to the probability of brighter times ahead with the primary question seemingly if they will be able to recover in time to achieve their lofty goals?

Over in east London the problems exposed by Sven’s rampant ragbag of you-tube wonders seem much more serious in the long term.  After the Tevez inspired euphoria of the latest greatest escape brought crashing back down to earth with new season only eight mins old as Elano strolled past Upson to set up Bianchi. The dire form of Lee Bowyer and Louis Boa Morte, the sickening injury to Faubert and the fact that Ljunberg is well past his best point to a not particularly imposing midfield. On the plus side once he settles parker should be an asset despite an propensity for overly conservative passing and Ashton and Bellamy could form a dangerous partnership if the former can stay fit and the latter can avoid going golfing, or to karaoke bars for that matter, with his new team mates. Despite these crumbs of comfort I can’t help feeling the man who ridiculously made his fortune from biscuits will quickly get tired of the limited curbs and it will be another season of turmoil at Upton park.

In the other corners of town fans have more cause for cautious optimism. Chelsea despite spending considerably less than their main rivals for the first time since that hateful oligarch gangster Ambramovich arrived have significantly strengthened. The signings of Ben Haim and Alex should mean the absence of John terry shouldn’t be as catastrophic as last season (although Sundays shaky defence against Brum was encouraging for others), Pizarro and Sidwell both look like shrewd additions and Malouda looks like he could be the sort of signing Liverpool fans and Rafa Benitez will rue letting slip through the net for years to come. On top of this the imminent signing of arguably the best player in Spain last year, Daniel Alves, is a frightening prospect. Personally, I am just hoping that the transition to the rough and tumble of the premiership and the fact that the Chelsea team will not be set up to accommodate his unorthodox roving right back role will mean that he does not set English football alight like he has the Spanish.

After a strange summer in which they sold their talisman and one of the best footballers in the world and made a net gain in transfers there seems to be real spirit and belief about arsenal.  The fact that Wenger has been so serene about the departure of Henry and placed so much faith in his precocious young team and new signing Eduardo seems to have had a galvanising effect. While I have deep suspicion of stats and the opta culture after listening to Benitez attempts to claim Liverpool were the most entertaining team by virtue of their having the most shots, Wenger insists that last season arsenal created more chances and had faster and more accurate passing than the year they went unbeaten and far be it for me to question his judgment. Thus, if Van Persie and Fabregas can adopt the mantle of Henry and Eduardo can prove slightly more foxish in the box than Franny Jeffers then Arsenal really could surprise a few people and I feel predictions of their post-Henry decline are very premature.  However, despite the undeniable potential I can’t help feeling their Achilles heel of a midfield that however talented will too often be bullied out of matches will prevent them winning the championship. A repeat of 2006 and an assault on the champions league seems more likely to me.

Over in west London the northern Irish colony at Fulham have made an encouraging start with a battling victory against Bolton following a battling and unlucky defeat at Ashburton. While craven cottage will probably not be the destination of choice for the football purists the signs are encouraging that the fans won’t have to endure another season of truly dismal away form and the worrying scepter of relegation hanging over them till the end of the season. Al Fayed seems to for some reason have become interested again and I think Sanchez has spent his money quite wisely; at 2 million Healey’s international scoring record including that hatrick against Spain and a double against Sweden mean he was always worth a gamble and two goals in two games isn’t a bad start; Chris Baird, while it is hard for me to believe having played against him regularly as a 16 year old, has become a dependable defender who was Southampton’s player of the year last season and was wanted by a number of clubs; Steven Davis, who played for the same junior team as Baird, was being linked with a move to united prior to falling out of favour with O’Neill last season and is undoubtedly a hugely talented player; Lee Cook, QPR’s player of the year, represents another gamble having never played at this level, but with a wand of a left foot he could prove a bargain; and finally Diomansy Kamara was widely regarded as the best attacking player in the championship and will offer Fulham the pace that is so vital at this level.

Outside the top flight, Palace and Watford couldn’t have hoped for better starts than the impressive away wins at St Mary’s and the Molineux starts. Palace will surely mount a more sustained challenge after last seasons debacle while if Aidy Bothroyd’s comically preposterous 60 million price tag manages to scare off DERBY County and they can retain Marlon King Watford should be a safe bet for play off and an outside for an automatic return.  Over at Charlton if Pardew can recreate his success at reading and west ham in this division and new signings Varney and McLeod can make the step up they should also be safe bets for play-offs. They also seem to have unearthed a crowd favourite in new right back Moutaouakil. Finally, over at Loftus the loss of their best player and the ever-present shadow of administration make me think it could be another hard slog for QPR despite Saturday’s spirited 2-2 opener at Ashton Gate.

As for league two… Well who really gives a fuck??? Sorry, sorry, sorry but I know even less about league two than I do the championship and it’s getting late so I‘m not going to patronise you with my sketchy predictions and daily star style summaries any longer. Anyone who actually does know what their talking about, especially about issues relating specifically to the club you follow write in and enlighten the rest of us.  

Luke Bryson - Capital Punishment