AT what point will I calm down?

It is 9pm as I write this, the game finished over three hours ago and I still feel like I want to walk to Manchester with a ‘The Stone Roses are shit’ banner in one hand and a taser in the other.

That might be a bit of an exaggeration but Jesus Christ if Ander Herrera somehow ended up knocking on our front door after some kind of Sat Nav disaster, I would drag him in and never let him leave – full on Fritzl cellar time, mate. Except I haven’t got a cellar, so he would have to go in the loft, which might actually prove tricky as I would need to try and get him up a step ladder in the first place.

Who, in this day and age, shaves that bit of their hair that joins your sideys to make it into a point? The little weirdo. Alright mate, you can’t grow sideys — that’s sound, just don’t have them, or go and see Wayne Rooney’s mate who stitched that cobweb onto his head and get him to do you a two for one. Don’t shave your actual hair to make it look like you have got some.

A lack of a facial hair is a bit of a thing in their side weirdly. Zlatan Ibrahimovic’s face is so smooth that it is no wonder he scored, our lads were too busy looking at that ridiculous muzzy and then contrasting it to his cheeks which looked laser fresh. He must have had a razor in his sock the big prick.

And then there is fucking Phil Jones – the wool king who treats facial hair with the same level of disdain as salad. You know that board game which is bouncing around, Pie Face? Jones invented that except his original prototype was just a way of feeding himself pies, seen as though he has got no control over his arms or mouth. Load another meat and potato there, Doris, I’m starving here.

I’m just looking through my notes there from the game. On 20 I wrote: referee is OK. It was at that point that Alex Ferguson must have sent him a message with his fucking big beacon of a nose – one flash of his red nose for ‘you are doing OK’, two for ‘even this out you wee shitbag before I ruin your career’ and three flashes for ‘can someone pass me another bottle of red’. The plonky prick. It was probably flashing in sets of threes for the rest of the game – like a warning light on a plane.

MANCHESTER, ENGLAND - Sunday, January 15, 2017: Referee Michael Oliver awards Liverpool a penalty kick against Manchester United during the FA Premier League match at Old Trafford. (Pic by David Rawcliffe/Propaganda)

The referee, like the shithouse he is, soon decided to revert to 20 years of precedent by giving them everything and us nothing. Booking our lads for winning the ball and letting their lads get away with headlocks, offsides, and all round bellendery behaviour.

I have never really had anything against him before, but halfway through the first half it clicked that the little skinny meff is the spit of Theresa May, with a haircut. No chin, no spine, flitting around with a cob on, being driven by an urge to please a higher unseen (ignore the flashing red nose light) power base and be utterly, unfathomably shite.

The yellow card for Degsy Lovren was a disgrace – he won the ball, clean as a whistle. The dive by Anthony Martial second half – no foul, no? Book him then you ‘Brexit means Brexit’ bastard. The offside goal, the Jordan Henderson headlock, the shithouse Rooney straight legger on James Milner that warranted a pat on his back and a chat about how many bottles he would need to send ‘Sir Alex’. Shite.

I spent the first half watching the advertisement hoardings with great interest. They were mental. The Paul Pogba emoji thing was hilarious. Never has a player been overrated more than this fella with toxic thunder lines flowing through his wig. Make no mistake, Liverpool exploited him, focused on him, targeted him as a weak link. Every time he got it we were on him, niggling away, pinching, biting, nicking it off him. We knew he was shite, knew he would give us it or lose his temper; the worst midfielder on the pitch by some distance who cost about 15 times more than our net spend this season. Mad that, isn’t it?

Marouane Fellaini is well better, you know, and his emoji would be flames. The advert to follow the Pogba – Twitter – emoji thing was a boss Adidas one with ‘#FirstNeverFollows’ which was quite apt when ‘#Pogba’ was running round trying not to track Lovren off every corner until he ended up handballing it with three hands like he was Dave de Gea.

Speak of the Devil, Dave De Gea walks into a bar and the barman says:

“Why the long face?”

De Gea says: “Que?”

The barman says in a really loud, slow voice: “Why have you got such a long skinny face you big horse faced bellend?”

MANCHESTER, ENGLAND - Sunday, January 15, 2017: Manchester United's goalkeeper David de Gea in action against Liverpool during the FA Premier League match at Old Trafford. (Pic by David Rawcliffe/Propaganda)

It was a shame though, wasn’t it? I thought we were going to hang on. When I say hang on, I mean win. Hang on does us a disservice. We could and should have scored the second on the break. A couple of poor decisions, a couple of poor shots made all the difference.

Gini Wijnaldum could and possibly should have scored at least one – the header is such a good move it deserves a goal and the one late on is a great chance. Roberto Firmino playing centrally made a big difference as did Phil Coutinho when he came on. Honourable shouts go to Degsy while Henderson was easily the best midfielder on the pitch. Maybe we can get him his own emoji, one of him telling a referee to fuck off. That would be nice.

The result means The Reds are one point closer to the league title than we were before kick off yesterday, with only seven away games left and all of the top teams played, unbeaten, unbowed. That leaves 10 league games at home, in our ground, in front of us, desperate, wild, animalistic bastards who will cheer these lads on until they have drawn blood from them all.

Win all our home games and we are on 75 points. Seventy-five of your best points. Let’s make that happen, Reds. Let’s make sure that no-one is able to put up with our ground. I want pigs’ heads raining down from the upper Main like there is no tomorrow. I want fireworks, pyro and flares going off like Guy Fawkes has bounced in, proud as punch having left one in the Tory changies. I want red wine sloshing about all over the show, people screaming incessantly for 90 minutes, I want opposition fans looking at us like they have entered Mordor, I want referees looking for salvation from a big massive Eagle. I want 30, thirsty points from our home games.

That leaves seven away games to win the fucking league. Are you telling me that we can’t win 15 points from Hull, Leicester, Manchester City (shite), Stoke, West Brom, Watford and West Ham? Are you really telling me that we can’t, because I reckon we can get 21.

Let’s get into these bastards, Reds. All of these bastards. These referee bastards and commentating bastards, and opposition bastards, and let’s leave them open-mouthed, agog at this run we are about to embark on. Let’s use this disappointment and never look back. Let’s graft like we have never grafted before.

Let’s do this, Reds.

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