"Well, thank Christ for that. The season from hell is over. From the moment Assou-f**king-Ekotto smashed in a worldy on the opening day of the season, we should have known the campaign was going to be one bad write-off. Throw in the fact that our own two players mistook each other’s heads for the f**king ball and the writing was on the wall.
A good win at Stoke was quickly forgotten about after we were turned over by Villa, with that Woody Allen-lookalike, Tigger-impersonating bell-end, jumping up and down on the touchline like he’d won the f**king lottery. After which, we actually strung a decent few results together, winning six games on the spin. The wins at Bolton and West Ham in particular showed the spirit from within the camp last season was still in the lads. Then we went to Fiorentina and delivered the first of many insipid away displays that had about as much creativity and imagination as a f**king Dan Fogelberg song.
From there we went on to Stamford Bridge when a tactical masterclass was spoilt by the fact we, urr, conceded. From then, guess what? We had no ideas. What a surprise. The week after, to compound our woes, we lost via a f**king holiday accessory, but let’s not kid ourselves, it was another away performance to file under the ‘forget’ category. That’s if there’s any f**king space left. And any hopes of quickly putting these disappointments behind us were short-lived when a spirited display against Lyon bore about as much fruit as Dawn French’s diet. With five minutes left and the scores level, we threw on Voronin to swing things in our favour, but it was Delgado’s goal that won the match. That was, after the Lyon defence, recovered from sewing their sides up from laughing so much.
The following week, something rare happened. We all tuned in to Match of the Day that night, after we beat the Mancs 2-0. A goal from Torres and a clincher from Eggnog. See, we’re not so sh*te after all. Who’s next? Arsenal in the league cup. A 2-1 defeat. Ahh, who cares, it’s only a Mickey Mouse cup. Fulham next, lets f**king have them. A 3-1 defeat. Well, we had Degen and Carragher sent off. Just a blip. Lyon 1-1, Birmingham 2-2, Man City 2-2. Oh for f**ks sake, I told you we were sh*te.
Debrecen up next and a little window into what was to later come in the rest of the season, because it didn’t matter what the f**k we did, we had to hope other results went our way. Which they didn’t and all of a sudden this Europa League competition might not be as bad as we’d made out to our Evertonian mates.
Speaking of which, next up, the Merseyside derby. Great, a weekend of getting up at 5 o’clock in the b*stard morning, biting your nails down to your elbows and shutting off every method of communication until the result. If there was any consolation about this fixture it was that Everton were just about as sh*te as us. The game was about as memorable as an episode of Songs of Praise. We grafted, we battled, we scrapped but we f**king won. Get in. Mascherano with deflection as dodgy as Fellaini’s hair cut and all of a sudden, everything is right with the world again. Methods of communication back on and half the usual faces down the boozer, for some reason?
Right, the Man Utd game wasn’t quite the wake up call we’d hoped. But this will be. Who’s next? Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough. Blackburn. Away. Sam Allardyce. Jabba The Hut-lookalike, Manc
-licking gobsh*te. 0-0 snooze-fest, with another completely uninspiring performance from a bunch of players that needed a few less tactical prep-talks and a couple more kicks up the backside. Next on the agenda, Fiorentina. It doesn’t even matter anymore, but we still f**king lose by another mandatory last minute goal. Back to the league and Arsenal next up at Anfield. A great first half display, capped off by a spawny goal by Kuyt. But f**k it, we deserved and it was all going so swimmingly up until Johnson forgot what f**king goal he was kicking into. 1-1 and then came the inevitable Arshavin Anfield goal that I would have spent ages admiring if it wasn’t for the fact he was a meerkat look-a-like
, whose face I wouldn’t tire of smashing into an iron girder. A midweek fixture against Wigan was never going to raise spirits, regardless of the result. Billy Bellend, and the rest of his clan, will have spent the evening counting down the minutes to the final whistle so they could get through and air their oh-so-important views on what is going on at the club. We won 2-1, but who cares, right?
Portsmouth up next. 12:45 for our longest journey of the season. Who made that f**king rule up? Not that it should be an excuse. Portsmouth were one of the few people even we could feel sorry for. Until that day anyway, when everything you pitied about them became f**king irritating. Avram Grant, you harmless
. Frankly, we’d have all taken anything to divert the attention from Liverpool that day, when even the sadists cringed.Boxing Day and Wolves next. Tis the season to slit your f**king wrists and light your fire awaiting Santa’s arrival. Anything for a f**king laugh at this point. We win. 2-0. Whoopdefriggingdo.
Aston Villa two days later and it really hits home how sh*t and depressing things are when you are EXPECTING to lose to a side managed by that four-eyed f**king nob head. As it turns out, we didn’t. Torres saved the day, the sexy b*stard, and finally, a positive note to end the year on. 2010 is bound to be better, surely? Well, actually, no and don’t call me f**king Shirley.
We started off 2010 with a trip to the Madejski Stadium in the FA Cup, to face a Reading side that are struggling in the Championship and whose manager’s job is under threat. They’ll have been delighted to see our name next on the fixture list then. Simon Church opens the scoring and not one Liverpool supporter is remotely surprised. In fact, what is more surprising is that we get back in it before half time. Through a cross. 1-1 and a replay. Great, £30-odd quid to watch a game we shouldn’t even be f**king playing.
Tottenham next up– and a game that many believe will make or break whether or not we will finish fourth. Unfortunately, three inches of snow later and the country goes into f**king meltdown. But it’s a welcome break from the footy. I take the opportunity to make the most of town being relatively quiet, get p*ssed off my face and slip on my
. Good times.So, Mr Golden Sun comes back out to shine down on us – or not as the case may be – and we face Reading in our third round replay. After ninety minutes, the game is level. Our goal came through an oggy and theirs through a last minute penalty that, if we’re honest, was just rewards for their performance. Oh well, it was a second string side that we put out at least. Apart from Gerrard. And Torres and Agger and Carragher and everybody else that usually plays. Bar Reina. And we had Degen at right-back so come on, it’s Even Stevens really. So the game goes on into extra time and at this point most people in the stadium’s jeans had frozen to their legs. It was a Long night. A Shane Long night. I cried icicle tears.
And what do you need when you’ve just been humiliated in the FA Cup? A
of a fixture at the Britannia, but we get the lead through a scrappy goal courtesy of The Greek. The score remains 1-0 Liverpool until Stoke get a corner in the last minute. We all know where it’s going and sure enough the lanky streak of p*ss Robert Huth bundles it in over line. We still have enough time to hit the bar through a Dirk Kuyt header, mind you. At this point, it might be an idea for Rafa to stop taking those shortcuts home stepping on cracks and walking underneath ladders. But with all this said and done, fourth is still in our sight and Spurs at Anfield is a must-win. Prior to the game came the moment of the season when a fair few hundred fans lined the Anfield Road and roared the lads in. A two-finger salute to those in the media and a little reminder to the boys in Red that WE ARE LIVERPOOL. The message seemed to get through – to those that diverted their attention away from the f**king headphones for sixty twatting seconds anyway. Liverpool win 2-0, both goals by Kuyt.
THAT is surely the turning point, we thought. But another dreadful away display at Wolves suggested otherwise.
On the horizon once again, Everton and the same rituals once again. The Friendly Derby, my
. The game comes and goes and Liverpool win yet again. 10 men, about two shots on goal and the all important bragging rights. Let’s not forget though, it is harder to play against less men. Or so my Evertonian mate informed that night, anyway. Maybe Moyes could convince the police to allow Bronson out of jail for the next derby, to make things easier for them about thirty seconds.At this point in time, we’re kind of expecting this won’t be a turning point and a defeat at Arsenal followed by ANOTHER yawnathon at Eastlands proves us right. Those games being wedged in between two Last 32 fixtures against Unirea, that nobody really seemed to give a flying f**k about. Get to at least the quarters already, you’re boring us with your inability to beat sides without playing them first. Boo, hiss, boo.
A win against Fat Sam’s Blackburn – after the blubbery
talked up the game as if it were actually important – was always nice but then came Wigan at the JJB in a game I can’t actually remember because I drank myself into a coma after Rodallega put them in front. What was the score in the end? In fact, don’t.A Last 16 game saw us lose away in France to Lille and we all convinced ourselves that the result wasn’t so bad. In the end, it didn’t turn out to be. But by God, what a fall from grace from the side that spanked Real Madrid last season home and away. It’s barely worth thinking about because you’ll probably end up deciding to have a bath with your toasters.
A defeat at home to Manchester United didn’t even provide us with the consolation that we had done our bit to stop those
from lifting number 19, as we all pathetically joined together in support of Arsenal or Chelsea. After cleaning ourselves with a f**king brillo pad, that is.Comfortable home wins against Sunderland and West Ham sandwiched a fantastic win in the quarter finals of the Europa League against Benfica and a game against Birmingham that saw Rafa committed a sin as shameful as taking a dump in his hands and throwing it into your 90 year-old Grandmother’s face by taking off Torres. Torres put in a performance against Benfica that suggested the decision was justified. Not to mention the fact he knackered himself for the rest of the season, but don’t let any form of logic enter the debate. That would be f**king ludicrous.
Atletico next and thanks to some f**king volcano in Iceland, Rafa Phileas f**king Fogg Benitez and the lads travelled to Spain by coach. I maintain that nothing from Scandinavia has ever done anything f**king useful for Liverpool FC. Ahem. As for the game, and forgetting that we had a perfectly good goal chalked off, we were sh*te again if we’re totally honest with ourselves. Never mind, another great Anfield night beckons and in the meanwhile, we go away from home and actually perform for a change with a 4-0 win at Turf Moor to officially relegate Burnley. Not that it really matters, at this point.
Anfield. European Night. Enter cliché, enter cliché, enter cliché. And then... Aquilani scores. This is surely going to be our night. This is it. This is the one. We’re going to Hamburg and we’re going to have a right royal f**king knees up. Benayoun in extra-time. Surely we can’t have another heartb... Oh sh*t. Diego twatting Forlan of all people as well. The only hope of scraping ANYTHING from this season diminishes.
All that is left now is to roll over and let Chelsea win. The obligatory dodgy Gerrard back-pass later and Chelsea are one-up. And then they double their lead. We’re not exactly going to cheer for those cocksuckers, but we’re happy. We think. Maybe. Who the f**k knows anymore?
And finally, today. Chelsea
Wigan to win the league, scoring over 100 goals in the process and we get a goalless draw against a side managed by Sloth from the f**king Goonies. And with that, we bid farewell to an absolute
of a season. And that’s without mentioning those c*nts in charge of the club.Good f**king riddance."
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