BIG seasons, league championship seasons are built on consistency first and foremost. Scattered through them there are defining moments that are looked back on time and again. Moments in time where your watch seems to stop and the actual consequences and gravity of what you are seeing is clearly visible. I think it is fair to say that was one of them this weekend. There was a moment of such importance over the weekend, where everyone involved in it came away with a feeling that anything is possible. Here it is below:

I wake up, hazy from the night before. An Aperol fog descending over my conscience leaving me to ponder what the day would bring and reflect on the day and night before.

The hangover is surprisingly slight but one thing is for certain. Eggs are required. The kitchen is prepped, the pan readied, the toast dropped and into the pan goes the first egg. Frigging hell, get on that – it’s a double yolker. How boss is that? There is no one in the house for me to tell but The XX’s new song is on in the background and so the wiggly arms come out for a quick five-second blast (it’s important to note that these were a standard box of eggs, by the way, none of your genetically modified multi yolkers in our house).

A thought begins to form in my head; I wonder what the chances of a second double yolker are here. After trying and failing to work out any kind of maths a secondary thought forms in my head.

If I pull out a second double yolk of the morning, the Reds are going to win the league.

Suddenly, this breakfast has taken on a new meaning. Suddenly this breakfast matters. The most important decision of my adult life now lies in front of me. The pressure is unbearable. Which of the remaining five eggs do I pick? Time is of the essence. I hover my hand over the egg box trying to feel it, like some sort of egg reiki weirdo and surprisingly get nothing back. Fuck it, I take the plunge and pick at random, crack it on the side of the pan, open it and close my eyes. As I open them, this is what greeted me.


Scenes of unrepentant, unparalleled joy followed. What are the chances of that happening? What are the chances of the sun shining through our kitchen window onto the second double yolker like a ray of light from heaven? A sign from above, perhaps. The sun shines on the righteous, you know.

If this had happened on Saturday morning and not Sunday morning, I’m pretty sure Saturday afternoon would have been a bit more relaxing but almost certainly not as good. I loved Saturday. I think it was my favourite home win of the season. I loved that we had to work for it. I loved that all over the ground people are having conversations at half-time about Philippe Coutinho, Adam Lallana and Daniel Sturridge and that the Reds lacked a threat as a consequence of them missing. I loved that they were right based on the evidence of the first half but somehow both right and wrong based on the second. I loved the discussion of us needing to find a way to win at half-time. I loved Klopp calling the whole Main Stand shithouses halfway through the second half and then going mental enough to warrant me standing on top of the seat in front and screaming like I’d just cracked open my second double yolker of the day.

And what about that the first goal? How could you not love that? When was the last time you celebrated like that for a league game in November that wasn’t a derby goal or against the Mancs? I can’t remember it going off like that for ages. Glasses were lost and found, legs scraped to within an inch of bone, limbs all over the show by us.

There was loads to admire from Liverpool in this game. At the minute we appear to be able to find a solution to most problems held up in front of us. Davey Moyes — the deadest looking man to wear a suit and not be dead — admitted before the game that he would have to park a double decker bus in front of goal. It struck me as a little bit peculiar that he would specify that a double decker was needed rather than a single deck at first, given that the crossbar is only eight-foot off the ground and that a single deck bus is considerably bigger than that, but then maybe it gave us an insight into his mindset. A subliminal glimpse of the fear he felt rocking up at Anfield and thinking that he needed to be more defensive than anyone who has ever turned up here before.

“You going to park the bus, Dave?”

“Yer, not that little shitty one we came on though, I’m getting the 86 and stitching a windbreak to the top just to make sure.”

Perhaps it was the only thing he could find big enough to transport Victor Anichebe to the ground; a man so wonderfully described by Adam Melia as “looking like he has got an extra shoulder in the middle of his back”. A man mountain who was surprisingly good and surprisingly knackered in equal measure.

LIVERPOOL, ENGLAND - Saturday, November 26, 2016: Sunderland's Victor Anichebe during the FA Premier League match against Liverpool at Anfield. (Pic by David Rawcliffe/Propaganda)

It says a lot about Liverpool’s defensive confidence that we could afford to kick the ball out from a goal-kick against a team of giants just to show how much we have improved at defending them. A month ago we were being told by all and sundry that we couldn’t defend in general and were even worse at set-pieces. Now, with a settled back five, we are starting to look like a pretty good defensive unit. You may have seen the stats flying around Twitter but the story goes that the Reds are the best team in Europe in terms of limiting the amount of shots opponents are able to have against us. That the ‘keeper has remembered that he is able to save a few every now and again seems like pretty good news for defence fans.

The injury to Phil Coutinho was the only downside really but the re-emergence of big Divock should lessen the blow a little. It’s pretty nice to remember that for a spell last year he was pretty much unplayable at times — until some Bluenose carthorse stood all over him and wrote his season off. Let’s hope he remembers that in a few weeks.

For now, we might see a slight alteration to our formation and set up over the next few weeks but it shouldn’t make us any less confident about what’s in store for the Reds this year.

These Reds are the real deal and make no mistake. If that isn’t enough then know that the eggs have spoken, and they have foretold a double and eggs cannot be mistaken, as they are just eggs.

So cop for that.

Let’s get into these, Reds.

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Pics: David Rawcliffe-Propaganda Photo

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