FIRST goal goes in. James Milner can put a cross in, can’t he.
Second goal goes in. James Milner can really put a cross in, can’t he. Can’t he? Yes. Yes he can.
What a terrific half of football from Liverpool. Before they go 1-0 up they should be 2-0 up. They should possibly be 3-0 up because they are irresistible. They dominate the game. Everton have flurries, Liverpool own the half. They are electric. They are intense. They are, simply, ultimately better. Being better than Everton should be in the job description for every Liverpool team. It is and always will be part of the raison d’etre since 1892. Being demonstratively better than Everton is glorious. The Ev look second class, undercooked. The Ev trailing in Liverpool’s wake. Second to everything that matters.
James Milner’s crosses matter.
At least Divock Origi has something to do. He forces himself towards the ball, makes it his. Mamadou Sakho though. Doesn’t get easier. Excelsis Deo doesn’t get more emphatic. The Reds wheeling away, scattering around Kolo Toure. But it is Milner who makes it perfect, Milner who makes it count. Half time and it is the least Liverpool deserve. Liverpool two, Everton Soz.
And that is game over. Insofar as it matters the half time whistle might as well be the full time whistle. It blows and you know Liverpool have the game won.
That said, the most piss poor Evertonian thing I have ever seen could well be Funes Mori clutching his badge after going over the top on Divock Origi. Evertonians that have seen good sides – and there have been many very good sides – will be appalled. He’s left his teammates entirely in the lurch with a dreadful tackle when the Liverpool player is going nowhere. It should be something innocuous. Instead it is something downright nasty. A tackle to injure a player which does injure a player. Nothing but the best is good enough.
Daniel Sturridge comes on and has decided he will score. More than any player I have ever seen, Sturridge has decided he will score. And more than any player I can remember thinking Sturridge is defined purely against Funes Mori Evertonianism. His attitude is that of absolute superiority. Of class. The desire to be what that isn’t. He loves reminding them of it. The other type of arms. As he told Andy Heaton, sometimes you just have to tell them what time it is.
From the moment it goes 3-0 it is almost frustratingly easy for Klopp’s men. Everton drop into training ground 10 vs 11. Two deep tight lines of four, Lukaku hunting for the scrappiest of scraps. Nothing else of note in the game but Liverpool taking the piss, Liverpool Liverpool taking the piss.
Often this sort of thing would annoy me, but this is Liverpool’s sixth tough game in three weeks – since Spurs it has been nothing but graft. That they stroke it around when they are so superior, well these lads have earned that. They have earned their oles.
And then Coutinho scores. Liverpool get their fourth. It could be five, six, seven. Everton abject, Liverpool rampant. Everyone wants to get in on the act as Liverpool pepper Joel Robles’s goal. It’s a fabulous act. The best act in town and the crowd enjoy themselves.
Rampant, abject. Magic, tragic. Wipe away all your tears.
It was a lovely sunny day in Liverpool. It was a day that promised so much. It was a day it was a joy to be alive. One of the very best, a last twenty minutes to revel almost indecently in. Liverpool strolling. Liverpool four, Everton irrelevant.
Up the Reds. Up the strolling Reds. Last chance for the season for that lads. Graft for the next eight.