SO, what are you going to do now that we have all given up footie?
I mean, it’s a bit of a blow and that, seen as we talk about it, think about it, tweet about it, sing about it and play it for probably 80 per cent of our miserable fucking lives but you know, we need to fill this time with something. As it stands, the current favourites for me are shuffleboard, sitting in boozers with no telly’s or phone reception, or painting. I see the watercolour challenge is starting again next week. Say what you want about colouring in but it’s never left you holding your head in disbelief as a side, without a fucking clue, manages to score without even having a shot. Say what you want about some divvy painting a bridge, but they have never left you wanting to bleach your own eyes to stop the pain from seeping in.
This is getting beyond a joke now. Seriously. We are getting had off, robbed, absolutely getting our pockets picked clean by fortune, the gods, whoever. It doesn’t matter who, at this point anymore. It’s getting harder and harder to believe that this isn’t some elaborate joke when you see The Reds yet again missing sitters only to concede a goal from some lad who used to be a barber and is so slow on the ball that Joel Matip, crabbing his head off, could catch him up and tackle him straight into the bottom corner. I mean, when did you last see a goal like that?
These Reds are in the business of kicking black cats as they walk across our path, walking under ladders while doing keepy ups with said black cats, getting the number 13 tattooed on their grids, and absolutely, 100 per cent, knocking the living daylights out of every mirror we have ever seen.
“Seven years bad luck lad, yer? What happens if I break this mirror by smashing this other mirror into it? Pass that black cat while you are at it and let me see if I can hit it over that ladder with this mirror bat.”
But then they say you make your own luck, don’t they? And it would appear that The Reds are heavily invested in “Hard Lines Ltd”; a 21st century corporation set up to unearth new and fanciful ways for teams to score against us when they don’t deserve it. Say what you want about the tackle and the shin and the bottom corner for their goal but for fuck’s sake there isn’t a chance in the world that it happens again this season or that it happens against any of the other top teams in Europe. Everyone else doesn’t get themselves in this pickle in the first place. Everyone else, reacts to the initial through ball. Let’s not kid ourselves here; it is shite defending. Shite. The worst.
How can your two centre backs, be stood with their only man to mark in front of them at all times before the ball is played, with neither of them deciding to get touch tight against him. Surely one goes tight and one drops off, don’t they? Matip’s reaction to us losing the ball is to run backwards in a straight line while watching their lad run into the only place he can hurt us. That neither centre half feels it necessary to go across and either block his run or block the passing lane is a massive concern and frankly offers a better insight into why The Reds have conceded the third most goals in the league, behind Crystal Palace — who have got 0 points — and West ham, than the thought that we are just unlucky.
Yes, luck plays a part but for fuck’s sake, seriously, our players are seemingly a massive lightning rod for our own misfortune. It can’t be long before the manager snaps that lightning rod off them, mounts them on the top of the Main Stand and sticks the said rod right up one of their useless arses while a cold and warm front clash overhead. Say what you want about Jürgen Klopp, but he shouldn’t have to tell his defenders what they need to do in this situation. It should come from instinct, from years of defending, from years of battling, learning, developing an understanding and a scent for danger. It should come from simple communication between the two of them. The manager should set the tone and the shape for their general position with and without the ball at all points across the pitch but he shouldn’t have to list every eventuality with a strict set of instructions for what to do in each circumstance.
“Oh, Jonjo Shelvey has got the ball on the halfway line, isn’t under pressure, and has one forward option on -– OK Joel, turn to page 445 of today’s manual and see that you should tuck in and BLOCK HIS FUCKING RUN. Turn to page 446 for clarity on what you shouldn’t do. In summary it is run backwards dead slowly while your man runs past you just to your left.”
Until our defenders are able to recognise danger for what it is we will continue to concede goals. Until we can stop conceding goals we will continue to drop points. It’s all well and good saying The Reds should be banging goals and are missing sitters but a chance at 1-0, or 2-0 is easier than a chance at 1-1. Daniel Sturridge, with The Reds winning, relaxes on that one in the second half, has a touch and slots it. Mo Salah the same. Until our defenders have got half a defensive brain among them we will continue to disappoint.
How does that happen, I hear you ask? I’m not sure you know but I would start with fucking off 50 per cent of these fucking idiots and starting again. Until then I will be passing the time in a lead-lined box fucking about with paint brushes.
Up the watercolour Reds. These real life ones are frankly, a bit Jackson Pollock. All fucking show and no fucking substance.
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