It all started in December 2006 when I was properly mad about anything Liverpool FC and anything that’s got to do with the city of Liverpool. Twenty-seven months down the line, and this is the final post. Not that it will do much difference to you, and let’s face it, it shouldn’t. But this has been a kind of a personal diary, and rather than throwing it in the fireplace I just decided to put it into a box in the attic. The cyber world though allows you to have a peek into it every now and then. Once again, I assume it won’t do you much of a difference, but this was a kind of a challenge for me, and maybe more than that, was somewhat therapeutic. Most times, I probably wouldn’t put my point properly during the autopsy of the match at our club, so this was a good medium. Most posts were simply monologues, but admittedly I used to get flattered when the odd soul told me that he read my posts.

Once a red, always a red. Yes, I think it’s right. Deep down, I am a red, but a fanatic I am no longer. I am disillusioned with everything that’s got to do with football. Or more precisely, with anything that’s got to do with modern football. It’s a replication of everything that’s wrong in the big capitalist wide world. And I just can’t justify myself giving my everything to a football club, that I really believed that is different from everyone else, but at the moment it just feels like any other.

Messrs Hicks & Gillett probably drove me to this situation. But let’s have a stern look at the mirror and admit that we invited this in a way. We wanted a bigger investment. We welcomed them with arms wider than the old Kemlyn stand. Did we expect two Yanks that have football in their blood as much as I have got love for the Mancs, will just invest funds in this club without expecting a fat dividend cheque? You might argue Roman Abrahmovic did that. True. Equally true is we used to sneer at them. They just buy trophies. Do I want to spend my life following somebody else trying to buy a trophy? Or buying a place in next year’s Champions League?

I used to adore every single player that wore the Liverbird. The situation developed into a way that we actually adore the Liverbird rather than the players themselves. But really, they are the main actors of the game. They are the main representatives of the club. The club is remembered for its players. You can’t really love the music if you don’t like the instruments. There was once a time, when players had something in common with the spectators. Now tell me, what you have got in common with the likes of Gerrard and Torres? We support them, or at least we try to convince ourselves that our vocal chords can make a difference to them. Make them run the extra mile. All we do, is help pay their obscene amounts into their bank accounts.

There is no bigger game than the Mancs at Old Trafford. Players are expected to run through brick walls. They are our living legends after all. Looking back, I was one who loved waxing lyrical about some player’s performance. Heroic, godly, and shite like that. Nowadays, I look at them and wince. Take this season for a start and throw the manager into the equation for equal measure. The situation at the club could never help, but these are lads that are still getting paid filthy amounts. Some even, offered extension of their contracts. The performances for most of the season have veered from pathetic to distressing. They have been an insult not only to the paying public, but to every decent worker around the four corners of the world.

It’s the way it goes, you might add. It might be, I know I can’t fight it, but at least I just don’t want to be part of it or even a spectator anymore. I have experiences some incredible highs with this club, mostly through my own madness and obsession. I will treasure them, but I can’t be bothered looking for much more through this. It’s simply a fraudulent high.

The lads went to Old Trafford. The lads meekly gave up. It doesn’t even hurt. And now I know, not only something has changed, but something has died.

This blog is now closed.

The seven match unbeaten run found its brick wall through the surroundings of North London, giving way to the eight defeat of the Premiership campaign. The Emirates Stadium proved once again to be as welcoming to Liverpool as much as an asylum after a long trip. It is hardly the most hostile stadium imaginable, as the calculating orders of Arsene Wenger can be probably heard from the very back row, but it seems the silence of the place has once again undone the men playing in red. Fittingly enough with the settings, circumstances and short history of the place, on the fourth minute of supplementary time, the man in the middle, the man in black proved to be as providential as a deportation officer, when a blatant handball by Cesc Fabregas was looked over to deny Liverpool one last chance to shoot at goal just outside the penalty area.

Coming from two straight defeats, Arsenal were feared to be like a wounded animal raring to take its own revenge, but really they resembled more a tamed animal, with Liverpool resembling a guard, keeping a stern eye on them rather than taking them on. Once again, the total commitment could be felt but equally enough the lack of flair was apparent as simple passes went astray and with some small exceptions Liverpool managed to get in the face of Arsenal after going a goal down, without ever going to the jugular.

The real backbone of the unbeaten run has been the stubbornness of the back four and the agility of Pepe Reina, with clean sheets subsequently being a tangible result and the springboard for five wins from seven matches. When the back four were undone to the extent of affording Diaby a whole goalmouth to gape at on the 72nd minute, it was always going to be a tall order to extend the unbeaten run. It was only Ryan Babel that seriously threatened to do so when with one delightful touch, he lost his marker and let go a vicious shot that Manuel Almunia did exceptionally well to tip delicately over the bar. Other loose balls bounced kindly enough in the path of Maxi Rodriguez more than once but the Argentine reacted with askew shots.

The little window that in the circumstances had the panoramic view of the third place has been now firmly shut. The race for the fourth place is getting more jumbled, and looks set to be won from the team who will drop the least points. A trip to the City of Manchester Stadium in more than a week’s time will enlighten us whether yesterday was a case of the particular Emirates stadium being very unwelcoming and one place too high to climb for this season, or the travel sickness persisting through out this current season.

Saturday night, I was sitting there at this acoustic gig, and this one song summed up the season that we have been all going through. We travelled afar with someone we love, and then something bad happened, and you just couldn’t point your finger where this altercation has actually happened. But you’re going back in the car for the long road, and there’s hardly a word, not even a glance and her eyes are fixed on the black tarmac. And the radio is obviously not working. There are just hisses that admittedly are an apt soundtrack for this situation. Depression and tension are the new horse and carriage. And who you thought is unique, is just another run of the mill shite, who pays to get suntanned.

But the team that Rafa built seems to be no other run of the mill. It’s got its limitations, but deep down there is a heart beating that after a seemingly cardiac arrest, it’s getting back, beating like a drum machine with the occasional cymbals accompanying the consistent beat. The man who is personifying all this is the Dutchman Dirk Kuyt, who has been pilloried and mocked this season as much as Carra used to be in his early days. But this lad, puts his head down to graft and only puts it up to head in a perfectly taken Steven Gerrard corner.

The new cult hero, The Greek in capital letters, was having a solid start, but then a rush of blood to his head cut short his presence in his first Merseyside derby. Lady Adversity was staring Liverpool in her eyes, but the adrenaline of the new Liverpool heartbeat kept it going, and if it weren’t for the final whistle it would probably be still going now, a going 48 hours afterwards. There was commitment coupled with adroitness. Hope coupled with conviction. Midfielders ended up as right-backs, and scorers ended up as goal-line clearers.

The nagging doubt that this run of form is purely a false dawn is now turning into a conviction that this is part of a long run of form synonymous with Rafa’s reign. The back four are immaculate, clean sheets being the order of the day as white sheets on hospital beds. The home form at the moment is superior to what it was at this time last year.

Notwithstanding, the two games in hand Manchester City possess Liverpool are now in the driving seat for the admittedly last minute ticket for the Champions League. This current Liverpool side looks to be a creature of habit, it has gone through desperate runs where losing became a habit, but is now on the ride of a sizable wave, and riding the wave on a board rather than getting all wet no matter the size of the wave is all that this side wants. The back four will have to be reshuffled but the current habit of a clean sheet can be the catalyst of bigger things to come.

If anything, the same radio that was sending only hisses, is now functioning properly and there are tunes that makes you nod your head unknowingly.

The first exchanges looked to be a continuation of the dismal Molineux display. By the end, the only continuation was the stream of clean sheets, and another good performance by Sotorios Kyrgiakos, better known as The Greek. And yes, in capital letters. An aerial presence in the back four has been a necessity as a whole conundrum about defending set-pieces has been a stable point in discussing the ills of Liverpool Football Club on the pitch. His height and aerial ability did give Liverpool something else, but today it was his feet and vision that kept a clean sheet, and denied Bolton an early lead that could have been a big blow to a fragile confidence. As Martin Skrtel was left for dead by a rampaging Chung-Yong Lee, and Pepe Reina somewhat rounded Kyrgiakos placed himself perfectly to clear off the line. When signing, Kyrgiakos called his move to Liverpool a dream move, that admittedly only happened only because of the dire situation Liverpool’s bank account is in, but he is making the most of such situation and his endeavour is a joy to watch.

The first scorer was another hard worker, that again proved when he’s got time to be in the opposition penalty area rather than the touchline, he can make his presence felt and remind that his predatory instincts are still intact. It was a good cross from the left by Emiliano Insua that was nodded down from the far corner into the path of the Dutch, with the latter admittedly only poking in with the delicacy of Tom Hicks’ son replying to a fan’s email. Like with the latter’s, the message got through fine enough.

Liverpool improved during the second forty-five minutes, with the captain particularly imposing himself further into the game and seemingly shaking off any traces of rust that looked to have hindered so much at Molineux. After David Ngog missed a sitter, it had to be an own goal that wrapped it all up for Liverpool, as a shot by Insua was turned in by Kevin Davies. Alberto Aquilani got substituted by Lucas Leiva, and while it may sound as a mere protection of a two goal lead, it gave Liverpool a further attacking impetus, after a rather shoddy display by the Italian, with many passes going astray and in perspective a reminder that dropping him for the Molineux match was not such a travesty. The Italian lad seems to be still on the mend, both physically and mentally.

A flurry of late chances were never converted to goals, but it was spiriting to see. Liverpool are now going through their best period of the season. Admittedly it does not say a lot, but four wins and no defeats in the last six matches is far from a bad return either. The home form so far in the league is as good as last season’s this time this year, with an actual superior goal difference.
Tom Hicks and George Gillett were apparently both at Anfield, but such a fact will be probably rubbed off like a drop of ink on a cheque paying their expenses for their trouble of getting at the mecca.

He sometimes gets cheekily called Rafa’s son. In a more brazen way some call him Rafa’s pet. I wonder how the imaginative rumours have never had him as Rafa’s dressing-room informant. Most of the time he is asked to play on the lateral side of the field, today though, with the stakes being extremely high and the injury list looking as long as a NHS waiting list he has been asked to lead the line on his own and rather than digging a furrow on the sidelines to let the rainwater drift, he was asked to get the shovel and get into the thick of it as there has been too much snow that was threatening to paralyse the system. And Dirk Kuyt not only didn’t disappoint but reminded us that a working man can have his hand full of callus but that doesn’t mean he carries no charm.

It was as early as the fifth minute when Pepe Reina had a long kick that was chested coolly by the same Dutchman. Alberto Aquilani was the closest and laid it off to him. From outside the penalty area, Kuyt this time thought only of the target and his accurate shot was too much for the six clean-sheets in a row Heruelho Gomez and put Liverpool in front.

The remaining forty minutes of the first half were not always easy on the eye. Tottenham were sometimes showing the better ideas but the eleven redmen on the pitch made up for it with enough grit to build a new ground. Jamie Carragher rounded up the lads for a pre-match huddle before kick-off and like he did to Jerzy Dudek in Istanbul prior to the shoot-out he reminded them that it’s time to get dirty, fight for the cause and push the boundaries. And he then personified the battle and his words, in a particular moment busting his guts to win a corner as he outpaced Gareth Bale in the process. The makeshift central defensive pairing of Martin Skrtel and Sotirios Kyrgiakos held its own, with the latter particularly bustling around making up for his limitations with his enthusiasm as his hair fly around.

The second forty-five minutes started with a scare as a mix-up between the same Greek and Reina allowed Jermaine Defoe to undo Reina’s possession of the ball and prod home. The referee though rightly spotted an infringement during the course of action and disallowed the goal. Anfield felt rather shaken by the let-off and murmurs were taking place the sing-songs. At times like these, even the sight of a ping-pong ball can be mistaken for that of a golf ball ready to be lurched at you. But Anfield today was no golf course and the defence had no holes in it. It was actually Liverpool that threatened mostly to score the second goal of the game, and it was only Philip Degen’s strange reluctance in front of goal that didn’t close the game, when a great move and then pass by Kuyt paved it all for him.

David Ngog was given the nod to have the last ten minutes of the match in place of the tiring Alberto Aquilani and to stretch Spurs further. He did his job admirably, made space for himself to have a shot at goal and then won the penalty. Kuyt took the responsibility. He showed the instinct of a striker, sent the keeper one way and the ball powerfully the other way. He was though asked to retake his kick after an apparent encroachment that must have had an effect on the keeper as much as a tax forms have on Harry Redknapp. But Dirk Kuyt wasn’t too effected as he retook the kick and sent Gomes once again the wrong way.

As Rafa Benitez waved back to the Kop, Liverpool got just one point away from the same Spurs. False dawns we had many so far, but a replication of the energy exerted by the men in red today will be enough to light the whole city for the rest of the season.

I have promised myself not to watch this match. Wednesday was bad. Result apart. The performance looked to have been somewhat scripted by Stephen King. We were expecting a belated pantomime and King seemed to have delivered as the farce was evident, but his second nature seemed to get the better of him as in the final act all there was for it, was blood as while the axe was dangling, nobody bothered getting at least out of the way.

I am a routine person by nature and by Friday evening I knew that I cannot miss what have I done for the past twelve odd years. Apologies were forthcoming, rallying cries were being heard, but when you know someone is almost dead on the kerb after being hit, the ambulance siren is more a formality than a straw to cling to.

The other formality was the team line-up. There might have been hopes that the newly signed Maxi Rodriguez will sign but I think the eleven men chose themselves, mostly due to lack of other options rather than by choice. But choices for us at the moment are as realistic as a beggar’s. And for a change, some of the players looked like beggars, as they begged and hurried for the ball all over the place. There wasn’t much quality shown, but when you’re in wretched clothes in the middle of winter, you’re not after designer labels but after anything that can warm you for a while.

And personally, I did warm a bit. The stars were sidelined, not because they’re too aloof but because circumstances dictated so. The first forty-five minutes weren’t easy on the eye but the heart kept beating, and the score-line ended as it started.

Then, from the unlikeliest of sources came the opener. Philip Degen was bursting forward and got fouled. Fabio Aurelio took charge and whipped the ball inside their area. Before we knew it, the net was bulging as Sotiros Kyrgiakos poked the ball in as the ex-Evertonian with the gloves mishandled. Liverpool kept fighting, but Stoke kept knocking and looked dangerous from set-pieces, and as the script for a bruised Liverpool demanded they leveled the score at the dying minute when another defender poked in following a set-piece.

Demanding fight from a Liverpool and being satisfied because you’ve got it is bogglish. In normal times at least. But these are no normal times. They’re supposed to complement each other as loyalty and dog. This is a time when the name of Liverpool Football Club is in peril. Everybody’s pointing fingers there and there. Still we seem to all agree that from top to bottom the club is in a rotten state. And even when you’ve paid good money, you’d be happy to find one good apple after a series of bad ones. It seems to be the law of relativity or maybe better the law of the market. It might be over the odds but common sense does not really prevail in today’s world.
In the grander scheme of things, by the end of the match and after seeing today’s results Liverpool are even further off a Champions League place. Liverpool will be missing the gravy train. When a city is in ruins though, the railway station is only a periphery.

Last minute winner. Back to back wins. Galvanise!

I had the Chemical Brothers ringing in my ears, with their fast beats drilling a hole in my eardrums in the build-up. For the aftermath though I had Noah and the Whale melancholically reminding me that it has to be restarted again. Confidence, or better the lack of it has been the main curse and the easiest scapegoat for the lack of cohesiveness and the disjointed performances of the season. Back in October, a superb victory and performance over the Mancs failed to inject any of it into the lads. Fernando Torres’s clinical finish at the very end at Villa Park seems to have only injected adrenaline into the fans rather than into his team mates. I am here thinking the materialistic Yanks at the helm are at this moment probably googling it as if it were a commodity but they’ve given up as it doesn’t guarantee an immediate dividend. Anyway the idea of a replay at Anfield and 40,000 filled seats is a much better business proposition.

The changes in the starting line-up were minimal. Daniel Agger, Alberto Aquilani and Yossi Benayoun were rested making way for Stephen Darby, Martin Skrtel and Fabio Aurelio. With Rafa’s standards of rotations the changes were slight and understandable. Skrtel though displayed not lack of confidence but lack of co-ordination of his whole body and alongside the no-nonsense Jamie Carragher the ball, when sometimes won could only be hoofed in the air. The omission of Aquilani in the midfield was rather understandable. Him, having only had maybe 200 minutes of football so far, such a tie was definitely not prescribed for his slow convalescence. But here lays the question, when an underdog is hassling you with some in-your-face football, do you get back to his face or belittle him by getting all smart and get him on the deck. At times, Liverpool failed to do either. The midfield was getting outrun, and the back four were replying with panicked hoofs. The ball seemed to hit the pitch only to bounce away.

Steven Gerrard’s reply to Simon Church’s 24th minute opener was a cross shot helped by a Dirk Kuyt futile attempt to connect that undone their keeper. The momentum was then with the reds and the half-time whistle was ill-timed from Liverpool’s perspective. The final whistle wasn’t as unwelcomed albeit few moments before Torres went agonisingly close to get another match-winner as his header ended on the roof of the net rather than under.

A replay at home when playing inferior opposition is akin to a suspended sentence. It is still a welcomed chance in the rehabilitation process that Liverpool are hopefully currently undergoing, and a stark reminder that saving a bit of the season can only be a slow process.