The dream is over. It has been long over, but sometimes you just the need the final pinch to tell you that it is really over. And this pinch doesn’t even come close to pain. It just makes me laugh. Laugh at myself. For having dreamt for so long. And for what. I was watching the match but really I was looking into a mirror. And laughing at how much of a gullible twat I could have been. I have managed to sell myself a dream. I am probably hardly able to sell the Mediterranean sun to the pale English in mid February and yet I have been selling myself the lure of the February cold and snow to myself when I am positioned in a place that without any constraints has one of the best climates in the world. It can be a strange place this world but probably I have been acting even stranger than the world itself.

It’s a pinch in the morning to wake up. But I haven’t been in deep slumber. And there is no annoying alarm calls. I have woken up, smelt the coffee, and this morning seems to be a Sunday, so it’s not too bad to wake up to. A short walk and alongside the coffee I will smell that nice smell of the Sunday papers. They made be full of shite alright and too many supplements, but they won’t change my mood either. And when am fed up I’ll just put them aside. Simple as that.

Football is supposed to be an escape from reality. A fight against the establishment. But sometimes it has become the reality of life, or maybe even worse, the club I have followed most of my life and incessantly for the past ten years has become the establishment itself. So am I hopping from the fire into the frying-pan? Avoiding a Maltese road hole to get into a barrier? Avoid a puncture to do both my front lights? Partisan politics do my head in. The Maltese reds will understand this more than anyone. In the boardroom of Liverpool F.C. it’s not just partisan politics. It’s a whole masquerade of people wearing fairy masks to cover their grotesque intentions. They want to fit in a children’s Christams party when really they want an Eyes Wide Shut type of party and fuck everyone’s brains out. They want to look good with Liverpool’s fanbase, when all they want is to exploit it. This is not hard headedness. This is macabre deceptiveness. Who do you believe? Am fed up of it. I just watch the match. But even that is not sacred anymore. The players might be simple pawns. They are not your average soldier though or the legendary poor scouser Tommy dying for the cause in the Arabian sun. They are paid enough not to feed an army but to equip the whole army.

Liverpool today made a mediocre Boro side look good. Not brilliant. Just good. Enough to allow them a slice of luck from a corner and then their striker Tuncay to finish off beyond Pepe Reina. Luck favours the brave, or maybe in this case it punishes the half-hearted. The lads didn’t seem to have a hangover from Madrid. I would allow to that. They seemed to be carrying a nausea towards the Riverside Stadium.

They might want to have the club’s doctors to check their stomachs but travelling fans today would need more than a doctor to check their heads after witnessing such an ineptness. But at least Barack Obama might change the world and another type of dream is in place.

I haven’t kept my appointment on this blog for two matches – Chelsea at home in the Premiership and Everton away in the FA Cup. After Wigan I felt that something changed. In me, in the manager, in the side, in everything. A couple of days away from it all, where I didn’t have anyone to speak to about what I used to call the beautiful game, or what some might say the obsession left me healing a bit. I was immersed in a big city that surprised me pleasantly, where even though it was close to prohibitively cold, I could appreciate and enjoy. I had a lot of time in my hands, but I just didn’t bother to check the news coming away from Anfield. I got away from it all.

A very good mate sorted me the tickets for the Chelsea match. The grimy clouds, the shivering cold paving the red carpet for the snow to descend, the rows of council houses that in The Wire they’d be probably called projects, were for once only a mere distant background. A couple of bevs from The Salisbury with a good set of lads, lifted me up. The short walk to Anfield, the Shankly gates quiet yet imposing, and finally the green, green grass of Anfield itself made one magnificent view. Watching it closely was even much better than from afar through some angled expensive lens that can make an ordinary usually pyjama clad girl look exotically beautiful.

And then the match. The main reason why I travelled this far, and have been spending on most of my earnings since I left college. The reds imposed themselves, and attacked towards me at the Anfield Road stand. Xabi Alonso probably went closest when he tested Peter Cech from outside the penalty area. It was good. Half-time came, they changed sides but the momento and initiative still was kept by the redmen. With Frank Lampard sent off, Liverpool even pressed harder, even though the build-up was somewhat on the slower side, as if predicting the forthcoming snow and thus afraid to accelerate in case they find a brick wall. John Terry and Alex did impersonate this proverbial wall, but ultimately Fernando Torres skimmed himself through some undone mortar and just headed Liverpool ahead. A couple of minutes later, Yossi Benayoun assisted the Spaniard for a brace.

While not elated, I was made up. Football can be a mirror of society, a mirror of a city. Sometimes, a place like Anfield can be the antithesis of real life. The escaping haven, where 40,000 people produce enough body heat not to feel shiveringly cold, the green grass contrast the black tarmac, and you can sing rather than snarl. And kids seem innocent, in awe of it all, rather than ratty, scheming something unchildish and plainly annoying.

The snow continued, the road became slippery, my neck was getting lubricated through a few. It was a good way to spend the last night away from home.

Home always feels good. Especially after being away from a bit. The sun was shining in the next morning, I was away from work, the hunger I had accumulating for close to two years was taken care of. The following day, back to the club, back to my second home, and a place I’ve missed badly when I was away for three months.

Everton, at Goodison Park, in an FA Cup fourth round replay. Some might say it doesn’t get much better than that. I felt rather different and diffident. I convinced my old man to come along. Football is just a social thing sometimes. Okay, admittedly I didn’t stay long next to him, but we were too far from the big screen and I am no big fan of them.

The match started decently enough from a red point of view, then the captain, had to be subbed off, and the match just deteriorated. The midfield looked toothless, and more than that it was like taking the hump off the camel’s back. In times of trouble and starvation, Liverpool didn’t have anything in store to revert to. When Liverpool were reduced to ten men as the Brazilian who is so Brazilian that seems to probably prefer the rain from the sun, got his marching orders, there was no-one able to take the reins and provide that extra effort to make up for the deficit.

Two minutes away from a penalty shoot-out, a nineteen year old kid did it for them. I couldn’t begrudge him. I finished slowly my bev, waited for the final whistle and went home, sleeping the whole night away.

Sometimes it feels like a habit I cannot kick. Strangely it didn’t feel like a simultaneous slap in the face and kick in the teeth. I only got that when I returned to my office and found an inbox full.