The snow just fell down through the whole match with the same consistency that Liverpool provided negative performances in this season on all fronts so far. And it was as agreeable on the pitch as the negative performances are on any red’s morale. The ball was leaving trails behind as clear as the one the table was showing between Liverpool and the same Aston Villa.

Snow is only nice on a postcard. Torres’s finish tonight though was as picturesque as any White Christmas postcard. And like some postcards today, at times he was being put on the sides gathering dust, but like when out of nowhere a coach load of tourists come over, you know they only need a quick brush of their dust and they will do the business, no matter the hour. And that was it today. Dirk Kuyt pounced on a loose ball, Torres was fed and the rest is as predictable as the sight of a snowman in the festive season.

The men in temporary white put in a good shift in the first forty-five minutes. It was as far away from the debacle against Portsmouth as summer must have felt far away under the driving snow. Alberto Aquilani earned another start alongside Lucas Leiva and Steven Gerrard looked to has put his recent woes behind him. He tested Brad Friedel’s fingers with a beautiful dip and the men around him followed his energy levels. There were the usual ineffective corners and frights from corners at the other end but Liverpool looked on top of the game. The lads were stern while creating openings, even though the main and sole man upfront was finding it difficult and looked frozen out.

The second forty-five minutes continued in the same vein, while admittedly Aston Villa rather upped their tempo, and had their man upfront Gabriel Agbonlahor testing Pepe Reina. Jamie Carragher slipped in one particular moment and paved the way for the Agbonlahor to run towards goals but Reina bid his time on the line and proved too big for the same lad as he blocked his shot. Quick off his line last Saturday against Wolves but rooted on his lines this time around, timing is one asset the Spaniard possess.

At times it felt like it’s going to be like the Lyon away match all over. A solid performance, chances created but eventually got to do with a draw that benefits the opposition more. And at times, with their crowd behind them, the pace of Agbonlahor and the height of Carew, sharing of the spoils didn’t seem like the worst thing in the world. With the fourth official showing four extra minutes, a draw did not only feel like a truce but also the only negotiable deal. But then again, like most exquisite things in the world, Torres proved to be beyond negotiations and trebled the one point on offer. The morale of every red was up the roof and hopefully every squad member’s followed.

Two minutes later, the man in black blew the final whistle. Torres not exactly punched the air in delight as much as fisted off the thick air with all its adversities that these last few months represented. It is no use getting carried away but tomorrow and the following match are definitely to be looked forward to.

He ran the whole length of the pitch again. This time not to celebrate and lift David Ngog high, but to simply remonstrate to the man in black that he has actually yellow carded the wrong lad. The one who committed the offence had just been booked minutes before and thus a red card had to follow. Pepe Reina is looking the more as a leader. During the first forty-five minutes he was pivotal to keep the score-line level. In a way, it is demeaning that with Wolves calling at Anfield I am here typing the merits of the goalkeeper, but such is the state of things at Anfield. Shortly afterwards though it was the man with the armband that rose to the occasion, metaphorically and literally.

Emiliano Insua did well to lose his man and deliver a good cross from the left-hand side of the pitch. Surrounded by two defenders in gold though it was Steven Gerrard that wanted it all the more and showed his primitive instincts as between them both he connected with the ball and thumped home. Gerrard rose to the occasion in more than one way. He was seriously off-form and at times rather than stepping above his mates, he was getting carried away by the mediocrity current that was engulfing the men in red. Not yesterday though. He looked to decide to get back to his basics, and with that he flirted dangerously with the referee’s book. Like when still a young scally he slided on the pitch, and more than once he caught somebody’s legs. Nothing malicious, but simple hunger. The cause justified the means. In such circumstances, we had not to simply accept but admire. After all even a reverend justified shoplifting by the needy.

The first forty-five minutes were an example of agitation. Passes went astray, Fernando Torres couldn’t get anything right. As poor his service was, at times he simply miscued and looked to be in need of chalk. Alberto Aquilani finally started. He looks composed, he’s got elegant touches, and as a Roman he seems to be coming more from the Sistine Chapel rather than the Colliseum. Back-heels look to be his bread and butter and he seems to have been sharing it often with his captain, he used it a couple of times yesterday.

Gerrard brought relief, shortly afterwards Yossi brought relaxation as he shot home again to cap another satisfactory personal display. This was very much needed but this is more of a resolution to get things done rather than the actual deed.

Seven is said to be a lucky number. In the world of Liverpool Football Club, it holds a mythical status, the number worn by legends, that though on a day like this, it’s not apt to name. Yesterday, it represented the number of defeats out of eighteen matches. A total higher than what this side has endured in the precedent two seasons. It is as disturbing as that.

The home victory over Wigan on Shankly’s 50th anniversary was only a slight reprieve after all. Against a side at the bottom of Premiership, Liverpool scored a blank and conceded twice. Portsmouth are resurging at the moment, and we shouldn’t take the difference in positions too seriously as at the end of the day, this result put Liverpool thirteen points above the same side at the mentioned position on even games, and the same number of points adrift the leading Chelsea with a game in hand. I firmly believe that the manager and his whole squad punched well above their weight last season, but these last couple of months they are equally punching below their weight. And they are still in the ring for the sole reason that it’s big enough. The farces occurring are making the ring look more like a wrestling one rather than one fit for boxing.

Again, they started reasonably well enough. Then they conceded and their white shirt looked more like white flags. Javier Mascherano’s red card was definitely on the harsh side but the reaction was as limping as the same Argentinean’s exit.

The club is in dire straits. The boardroom is probably as disarrayed as a kids’ playroom. But still what we are witnessing on the pitch is unacceptable. Whatever the whole situation is, the lads are still getting their dues at the end of the week, they are still wearing the Liverbird on their chest, they still have the manager that signed them, and thousands still make awful long journeys to support them because that’s the only way they know. The manager will obviously be getting most of the flak. His team is not shielding him, and he is looking like a newcomer rather than a manager on his second contract. He is baffling his own people with his own decisions as the inclusion of Andrea Dossena attests. He was putting his wits against an Israeli yesterday, and he looked like a poor Palestinian repelling their fires with rocks as he put on Fabio Aurelio, Yossi Benayoun and strangely enough Jay Spearing, such lowly was their impact. The problems at the boardroom look to have created a vacuum between him and his squad that is stifling his influence on them. Else, his problems with the same boardroom has stiffened him as much to the extent he can’t feel and touch the reality and state of play that his side is providing.

Going back to the basics might be a start but like Glen Johnson’s poor clearance that paved the way to their opener, it seems the club is in such a mire that it is a step forward beyond us to get to the basics rather than a natural step backwards for a pause of breath.

Remembering Bill Shankly’s arrival at the club has become a fixture and a duty. A mosaic is displayed, his then players strut out on the pitch and his own favourite tune, ‘Amazing Grace’ is played. Ten years ago, Coventry City happened to be the guests and a then a newly built Houllier side dispatched the guests empty handed after two goals by a certain young kid and Titi Camara. That day the Kop commemorated the past but was also looking forward to the future, as the likes of Steven Gerrard, Michael Owen and David Thompson were showing promises that the glory days are not too far away. And they could have no safer hands than the Frenchman’s. Some promises were kept, some were exceeded, some fell by the sidelines, others came back to try to haunt us. Step forward ten years, and I think most of us wanted to celebrate Bill Shankly’s arrival to forget the ignominious present.

But for ninety minutes the happenings on the pitch were not bad, and if the final 2-1 score-line was offered before kick-off it would have left the offeror with both his hands scarred. It was not pretty at times, but it was never ugly either. For all the myths and stories that surround Shankly, such games did happen under his tenure and at the end of the day the three points were deserved by Liverpool.

With Fernando Torres on the bench, David Ngog was given another start and Dirk Kuyt was pushed forward alongside the new kid and dare I say, the one-off positive aspect of the season so far. Kuyt proved he does have a striker’s instinct, albeit not finding the net but he was on target a couple of times testing the ex Chris Kirkland’s reflexes to the limit. Then again without any argument, Ngog proved he knows and feels where the net is. Fabio Aurelio’s delivery was penetrative, Ngog kept on the last man’s shoulders to beat the offside trap and then rose high enough to beat the approaching keeper. It was a sigh of relief but after what happened against the likes of Birmingham and as recent as last Sunday nothing could be taken for granted. The first half continued with Liverpool on top, without doing anything special but at the other end of the pitch, Reina’s main problem must have been to keep warm.

Wigan improved during the second forty-five minutes and it was the crossbar that kept them from leveling the score after a rare lapse by Reina. The chance was never too convincing either, and it was one reprieve that Liverpool deserved both on the basis of this match alone and more than that on what this whole season has offered. Torres entered the fray and naturally found the net in front of the Kop, albeit without the usual aplomb as after rounding his keeper he looked to unbalanced himself and his first attempt was somewhat scrambled away.

The clean sheet got marred at the end, it seems Reina had to be punished after the earlier sortie. The three points were already wrapped though and being the festive period it was only the wrapper that got scratched.

It was the great Jean Paul Sartre who once said, ‘In football everything is complicated by the presence of the opposite team’. I loathe to disagree with the French philosopher, but if anything, yesterday such quote felt hollow. At the moment, the redmen or is it the lads that happen to wear a red shirt while plying their supposed trade proved that they are their own worst enemies. A game of football is a tale of two halves. Yesterday we saw two completely different teams with their red shirt being their only common denominator.

I had a good feeling from early Sunday morning. For the umpteenth time, I left my heart rule my head, and am hopeless with that when it comes with this club. The forty-five minutes proved that a pumping heart can overdo any sensible head. It was a joy to watch. The reds plied their pressure, the lads looked on the same wavelength, the opposition was reduced not to a complicated formula but to a simple variable that was there to make a statement of intent possible. With the variable being no-one less than Wenger’s Arsenal, the statement was weighing heavier. All the problems looked so far away.

And then came the second half, the second version and the accustomed version of this season arose to the fore. The pressure was leaked out, the wavelength they were operating on looked refracted, the opposition was given the freedom of the pitch as if they were all Shankly’s relatives on his fiftieth anniversary.

I cannot get it, I cannot fathom it, and in a way I hope I will never do. Arsenal are a great side. Their first goal was only an unlucky own goal. I give you all that, but the reaction and the whole performance of the second forty-five minutes was downright abysmal. The lads have been having a difficult season. There were injuries, the atmosphere at Melwood must have been far from ideal. But, if you can’t take heart from a splendid forty-five minutes of football, and carry it from there, then something must be simply rotten.

Whether I agree or not, the call for Rafa’s head is in a way understandable. As much as he got the plaudits for last year’s heroics, he must be at least partly responsible for this mess. Something though is even worse than this. I can’t trust the present owners to be able to attract a decent manager. Rafa’s contract makes it even worse. The gun might firing blanks most of the time, but it seems to change the gun we have to sell all the ammo we’ve got. And either way we’re truly fucked.

Rallies of cry have come and gone. Carra has been asking for a show of character after every match. Quit it lad, it is as convincing as a teleshopping salesman selling pills cutting fat without working out. A brilliant performance against the Mancs didn’t manage to raise the lads. Every word, every interview sounds futile to me.

Something is deeply rotten. From the very top to the very bottom. Has Rafa lost his dressing room? Most of the lads should thank their lucky stars they are representing the Liver Bird. We are zombied. And something tells me the worse is still to come.

The 2009 A to Z of Liverpool F.C.

Aquilani, twenty million pound signing. So far, conspicuous by his absence. Former boss stated he is made of Swarovski crystal. He’s that precious, or is he so breakable. He hasn’t properly started yet to say but am going to wait. I am used to it.

Bragging rights. First goal might have been deflected. The Argentinean though still ran madly the length of the pitch and for a moment he must have forgot about Barcelona. And then the Dutch workhorse added another. The underclass of Merseyside were put in their place and bragging rights in the city for 2009 were secured.

Close, how closer can you get? 86 points, 77 goals, just 2 defeats. It’s excruciating thinking about it.

Debt I buy. I own. I put the cost on you. I riddle the club with my debt. The debt becomes yours. The American/capitalist way of buying a club. It worked with Kellogg’s. Liverpool Football Club might be slightly different. We wait with trepidation.

Easy, the way, Torres makes it all look.

Four goals scored at Old Trafford. Against one. And still he claims they were the better side. Well, as one respected Manc editor once said, ‘Comment is free, but facts are sacred’. It was sweet. It was brilliant. It hurt them like hi-gene on their warts.

Glandular, See for letter ‘d’. It is choking the club, it is worse than glandular fever.

Hurt, a 20th anniversary of the worst day in the story of this club. A reminder of 20 years of hurt.

Ignominious, Hick’s and Gillette’s tenure.

Jig of delight by Mr Michael Owen in front of the Kop that never happened. And 2009 is so much better for it.

Kaleidoscopical, Liverpool’s form at the latter part of the year.

Lumbering, Carra’s form at times. And I hate admitting it.

Mental, the celebrations accompanying the leaving it very late goals. Chelsea, Portsmouth, Fulham.

Nada, at the end of the day, that’s what we’ve all got to show for this year.

Out of the group stages. I never thought it. Rafa used to breeze through it. This time he was just blown out.

Pounding, Gerrard’s heart while waiting for his verdict at Liverpool’s Crown Court.

Quirky, after getting so close, how quirky was the decline?

Rightful, the backing to Rafa by the Kop.

Shankly, 50 years since his arrival and we still think and revere him. There’s no need of a quote, it tells you what you need to know.

Thin, Benayoun’s shape. Benayoun’s legs. They can play though.

Union, The ‘Spirit of Shankly’ grew in stature. New enemies, new attacks, anew solidarity.

Venerable, the 20th service at Anfield commemorating the 96.

Wretched, the state of transfer funds Rafa has worked with in 2009.

Xabi, Departed for 30 million. Rumoured to have fallen out with Rafa. Lower taxes in his homeland might have something to do with it too. Maybe.

Yearning for number 19 continued through the year as always.

Zimmer of hope. Every time I saw Gerrard on the pitch through the year. 500 games and counting, need I say more?

The first eleven matches of the Premiership had the knack to be eloquent. They were either a victory or a defeat. It was either black or white, there was no greyish areas, even though still there was a lot of room for discussion. Since then though, Liverpool recorded three draws from four matches, but still while there might be a hall rather a than room for discussion, the December biting cold wind and torrential rain like the five defeats in the first aforementioned eleven matches leave no proverbial fence suitable to sit on, as it’s too wet and having Blackburn as your opponents albeit being at Ewood Park, there’s only one side of the fence that you want to be at, come the final whistle.

The first half did too little for the travelling red army to warm up, as it was as lukewarm and tepid as a security guard’s sixteen hour shift at a forsaken warehouse. The build-up was either soft or slow, and when Liverpool did manage to get in their penalty area they found their Samba in no mood of dancing as he was solid as a rock and blocked everything that got his way. The midfield pairing of Lucas Leiva and Javier Mascherano is defensive by nature, but having Steven Gerrard in front of them, and Albert Riera and Yossi Benayoun on either wings should have more than made up for it. Sadly though, both lateral players were rather than anonymous using a nom-de-plume for the match and that was frankly not enough, with both making way for David Ngog and Nabil El Zhar respectively. The placenta treatment by the Serbian physiotherapist might have brought them back on the pitch earlier than expected but on evidence of today, this unorthodox treatment seems to have had undesirable whiffs, as outcasted these lads looked from their teammates.

Ngog has this season looked to grow in stature and if sometimes his strength and isolation have let him down his awareness of where the net is has more than made up for it. This afternoon though, with a gaping goal and a keeper in the middle of nowhere he only hit the upright. It was the only real open chance of the game for Liverpool and with the personnel available on the day, he was the one you would wish such a chance to fall on. It was a great penetrative run by Glen Johnson that paved the way for such a scenario but the skinny lad never took his chance this time.

There were half chances in between but a scoreless draw for the neutral was always a safe bet. The repeated back four and Reina once again looked as solid as we properly know them, with an offside trap working efficiently.

This was only a slight consolation, and the 500th match for Steven Gerrard ended up in the same way it started. Ewood Park was a never suitable arena to celebrate such a feat, and such a draw was too uneventful for such a milestone.