I don’t know if David Moyes gave the United lads a day off after their win at The Hawthorns, but I imagine he would have driven to Old Trafford nice and early the next day. He would have taken in the sight of all those empty seats, and would have stood there, his head turned slightly, his eyes closed, trying to imagine the collective voice, the bounce, the strut and the chaos around that grand old stadium as a goal went in against Liverpool.And then this fragile utopia would be disturbed, only slightly but just enough, by the chugging of an overgrown lawn mower, its driver oblivious to Moyes’ daydream and busy with his own part in the theater.
His eyes would open, and with a shake of his head, David Moyes, The Chosen One, the man who gave up the keys to the city at Everton would slowly shuffle back to his office in the intestines of Old Trafford.
You could almost forgive the beleaguered Scotsman for wanting to pause that moment. Even in victory, an away three-nil for that matter, he will have to contend with some uneasy realities. Fleet Street hacks think that he’s lost the dressing room, that his other talisman, the three initialed Dutchman, does not look happy. As a Liverpool fan, it was interesting to see RVP moping about on the West Brom turf, wanting to win but not knowing how – like a driver who suddenly realised he had no power steering.
I smiled to myself because I could imagine the sense of desperate confusion that the United faithful were going through. Not only because it is nice to see United fans behave like a toddler who can’t understand what his parents are saying, but because we – us – Liverpool fans, had been through roughly that same wringer with our mercurial Uruguayan. And for us things are oh-so-rosy now: highest scorers in the league, arguably the most entertaining (unfortunately seemingly at both ends) and for the first time in a long time, we seem to be powered by destiny.
Every couple of seasons, the Premier League throws up games that decide the next few years of its participants’ lives. This weekend Manchester United will be fighting for relevance in a modern footballing landscape that can pass it by quickly, and without apology. Moyes will have to risk a full strength side to beat the old enemy, but with gritted teeth must hope that none of his brittle squad pick up an injury. Not only a win will do, because last season’s victors will need to have enough left in the tank to have their night with Olympiakos.
Olympiakos. Is the symmetry not beautiful?
If United emerge from these matches victors, they will go into their games against the Hammers in bullish mood- until of course, they face City. Lose against Liverpool and you feel that they will have to throw themselves against Olympiakos like Hellboy on sixteen pints.
For Liverpool this game is massive because it is a warning shot of the highest order. If we win this, we can make those losses away to City, Arsenal and Chelsea look like the first half of a heist movie: we planned, we almost pulled it off, we almost got caught, we ran away. That was the first half of the season, where funnily enough, even if the points are weighed the same they don’t feel as heavy. Now the dust has settled, and each of the top four know what to do to win.
We. Cannot. Slip. Up. And three points against United on their home patch will only whet the team’s appetite for blood (metaphorical, mind!) at Anfield. The most virtuous domino effect in the club’s last two decades might begin.
Lose, and the experts will say that we never really were. They will call us Kevin Keegan’s Newcastle, or maybe skinny jeaned hipsters who play a lot of music but can’t really dance.
Though I imagine professional footballers listen more to their manager and themselves than they do the press. I know for a fact that they are scientifically human, and human beings have feelings, and the feeling of close-but-no-cigar on a weekend when City and Chelsea play Hull and Villa (though both away) respectively, will sting.
But maybe I’m getting a bit carried away here. Maybe it will mean nothing in the larger scheme of things.
Come season’s end, maybe Jose Mourinho will walk away with that trophy, his smug mug spewing another sound-byte, enjoying a jig on the Stamford Bridge turf with Willian and subsequently throwing his entire Armani suit into the crowd. Maybe Pellegrini will take it, be magnanimous in victory and proceed to throw nothing in anyone’s direction. Or maybe it will be Arsene Wenger, who, in his moment of joy, may pull out a comb from his pocket and proceed to sculpt the quaffs of Giroud and Ozil, his wrinkles falling off his face and gliding in the Emirates wind.
Whatever happens this weekend, the role reversals of the greatest footballing institutions in the north will make for intriguing viewing.
The boys from Merseyside should not expect an easy ride, because wounded beasts bite the hardest.
Will referee Jon Moss keep his place for Man Hoof in their World Cup Final against Liverpool on Sunday after his man of the match performance for them against WBA?.
No I think the ref who ignored the toure’s handball in the game against villa will keep his place.
Stick to ur mantra to all lfools fans: It’s never our fault, it’s always someone else’s. This mantra will be useful to the king of penalties wen mourinho lifts the epl
Juniath are your arms still hurting front the 9 months of having to brace them against the walls of your mums womb to stop you from falling out of her old gapped growler you sad manc rag troll.
howard webb will surely referee it. man ure will get their favourite ref in for this one!!