Foul Play: Mersey loves company

Before you ask: no, I am not throwing in the towel just yet. The Battle of Anfield was, obviously, a vicious kick in the teeth which, in Grand National terms, leaves the relentless Red machine a handy few lengths ahead having cleared the last fence, with the Elbow and the last few furlongs almost within sight. In their current state, Liverpool look positively unstoppable, rampant certainties to roar into an unassailable early lead against anyone who’s put in front of them. And if I’m honest, I fully expect them to hoover up maximum points between now and season’s end, having come this far.

But there is hope. If we rewind exactly two years, City appeared to be completely, irreparably fucked after an epic, twisty-turny title race had definitively swung United’s way. I can’t recall the exact details of how many points City were behind and how many games were left, but I seem to recall several bookies had already paid out on United and Roberto Mancini had publicly conceded the title, a declaration which had nothing to do with ‘mind games’ and was merely stating the bleeding obvious. From City’s point of view, the predicament then was undoubtedly far graver than the one which now confronts us. A 100% return from the final six games will still do the trick if Liverpool fail to dispatch Chelsea, a scenario which is certainly plausible.

The defeat wasn’t exactly a crushing one, either. There was much to admire about the calm, patient manner in which City went about retrieving a 2-0 deficit. For a stint there in the second half before Vincent Kompany’s rash intervention, Pool looked totally rattled and the ‘only one winner’ cliche leapt to mind. I’d struck a pre-match wager at extravagantly silly odds (175/1, comrades) for City to trail 2-0 at half-time before winning 3-2, and for a while there, the prospect of riches untold looked very real indeed.

I hate whining about referees (humans will always make mistakes) but it’s certainly fair to say that Mr. Clattenburg didn’t do City any favours, and it is long gone high time referees made some attempt to clamp down on the base thuggery of Slovakian skinhead Martin Skrtel, whose penalty-area punch could hardly have been more blatant. In truth, if we judge them by the highest standards, both teams are pretty flimsy in defence, a combination which helped to ensure a cracking 90 minutes’ entertainment for the neutrals. It could easily have gone either way, and whatever else happens from this point, it’s clear that City certainly won’t panic or feel pressured into abandoning their precision-passing approach.

There is, of course, a third force still in the race: Jose Mourinho’s distinctly unlovely Chelsea, who are every bit as boring as they were in 2005, though not remotely as efficient. The preening Portuguese brat makes an amusing pantomime villain, but it would be pretty tragic if his crew were to win the title playing football like this. By contrast, Liverpool have by and large managed to win the admiration of neutrals with their swashbuckling approach.

Skrtel and the obnoxious Suarez notwithstanding, I find it very difficult to dislike Liverpool, whereas raw gut hatred for the other Reds has always come quite naturally. The city’s status as Ireland’s unofficial 33rd county aside, there is a considerable sympathy vote ensuing from the Hillsborough tragedy and the relatives’ dignity in the face of disgusting treatment at the hands of the establishment. Politically, the place has long been the most demonstrably left-leaning in England (which would account for the evident hatred with which Thatcher and successive Tory governments viewed it). In places, the list of 96 victims reads like an Irish telephone directory: Gilhooley, Whelan, O’Neill, Delaney, Fitzsimmons, Kelly.

What I’m getting at is that, if City absolutely must lose the title, it’s probably more bearable to lose it to Liverpool than anybody else. Still, I must admit to being a little irritated by the increasing visibility of a phenomenon last witnessed in 1993: to wit, thousands and thousands of previously silent ‘lifelong fans’ of a long-sleeping giant suddenly crawling out of the woodwork.

Those of you old enough to remember Manchester United’s first title of the modern era, back in ‘93, will recall the unseemly haste with which United replica shirts began to appear left, right and centre all over the land, the pubs of Ireland suddenly filling up overnight with dedicated devotees who all professed to have been United fans since they were knee-high.

It can’t have escaped your attention, dear reader, that the same process is now at work with the ‘Pool. I have already lost count of the number of people who’ve ‘come out’ as Liverpool fans so far in 2014, having previously kept very, very quiet about their allegiances. On Sunday night, my local pub was positively swarming with them. The suspicion at this point in time is that the crumbling Manchester United empire may be heading into a prolonged period of hibernation, and it would be a shame to see one Red behemoth with a stranglehold on about 90% of Ireland’s cross-channel football fans replaced overnight with another, convening en masse in the nation’s pubs and generally making themselves insufferable to the rest of us.

It could happen. But it hasn’t happened yet. There is plenty of ball still to be played. Hope springs eternal. By the time you read this, we will surely have put a fading Sunderland in their place and narrowed the gap. If Jose can work his black magic at Anfield, all is not yet lost. We will reconvene in two weeks’ time, and a fortnight is an eternity in football. The struggle goes on.