HUDDERSFIELD, ENGLAND - Tuesday, January 30, 2018: Liverpool's Emre Can celebrates scoring the first goal during the FA Premier League match between Huddersfield Town FC and Liverpool FC at the John Smith's Stadium. (Pic by David Rawcliffe/Propaganda)

THE last week or so has been fucking crap, hasn’t it?

The Reds don’t half make you feel like shit sometimes — the bad tits.

It’s mad how much those infuriatingly, inconsistently magnificent nobheads somehow manage to permeate every facet of your life.

The first thought and last thought of everyday, “fucking hell, oh for fuck’s sake, that fucking shower of twats”.

In context, it’s all a bit pathetic really, but when has context ever mattered when it comes to the football?

Someone said to me earlier in the week, “Well yeah, but imagine supporting Everton”, which frankly is a load of shite, they’re used to being shite, like us under Roy Hodgson. The defeats just wash off, you become conditioned to it just as you become conditioned to still be pulling at the bed of your fingernails and a nervous wreck when The Reds are three up with only 15 minutes to go.

Some grock you’ve never heard of comes on for Huddersfield and you convince yourself he’s Didier Drogba reincarnated, a titan with strength and touch of immeasurable scale.

Some other arrogant little tit shortly follows and, despite not being good enough to make it at Liverpool in the first place, he’s going to make Leo Messi look second rate, no wonder he turned down Internazionale.

LIVERPOOL, ENGLAND - Saturday, October 28, 2017: Huddersfield Town's Tom Ince during the FA Premier League match between Liverpool and Huddersfield Town at Anfield. (Pic by David Rawcliffe/Propaganda)

Every throw is in an exocet, every set piece feeling like a penalty, every corner a nailed-on addition to the bloopers reel.

Drenched in nervous, cold sweat.

The fear is real.

That dull, suffocating, consuming weight that can’t be shaken. That seeps into every aspect of your day, it’s there, front and centre at every turn.

Even sleep is no escape, so the next day comes, tired and hungover, with a cob on.

That they can be so tantalisingly brilliant only serves to make the bleakness darker and the desolation more acute.

Nothing offers comfort, not the bookies odds of 10/1 of an opposition victory, nor their poor record and lack of any real worrying indicators, none of this counts for anything.

And this is after only one defeat in the last 15 league games.

HUDDERSFIELD, ENGLAND - Tuesday, January 30, 2018: Liverpool's manager Jürgen Klopp and Roberto Firmino during the FA Premier League match between Huddersfield Town FC and Liverpool FC at the John Smith's Stadium. (Pic by David Rawcliffe/Propaganda)

One.

They do this to you, the fucking Reds.

And then, just like that, the most important of the least important things is suddenly your mate again.

Huddersfield dispatched with a calm authority after a dominant, controlled performance from Jürgen Klopp’s juggernaut.

Never in doubt, didn’t you see the odds? Didn’t you study their form? They’re fucking shite and we’re fucking boss.

Tomorrow, oh tomorrow, let me count the minutes you glorious, mighty Reds.

Never in doubt.

Until Sunday.

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