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.