Patience is the virtue. The best things in life come to those who wait. Ever since the debacle that was the Reebok Stadium, fans the length and breadth of Europe have been reiterating the two subjects most commonly associated with Liverpool Football Club. Whether Robbie Fowler will return to his former predatory ways. And why the management always adopts a safety first policy, even when up against sub-standard opposition. Yesterday both of these questions were firmly answered within 90 pulsating minutes inside that dilapidated monument, more commonly known as Filbert Street. Ah yes, down the years we've searched high and low in our attempts to unveil a stadium that is worse than Goodison Park, and here we've succeeded with flying colours.
One of the two away turnstiles is situated amongst a row of terraced houses. Whichever architect designed this ground in the pre-war years obviously forgot to overlook the fact that in years to come, a mercenary right-wing Government would introduce a tax whereby you pay for the local services. Thus some poor unsuspecting soul would have their repayments quadrupled.
Once inside, the picture is even grimmer. Since my return from Kiev, I've managed to contract irritable bowels. The phrase 'shitting on your own doorstep' has never been more appropriate, especially when I popped out on Friday afternoon only to make it back in the nick of...
Therefore my participation at this fixture was in severe jeopardy. Only a combination of Imodium, dried cereal, isotonic lucozade, fish and rice spared my blushes.¤ Albeit this irregular condition was far from resolved. Pre-match I thought my system was going to leave in an uncompromising position (steady).
Visiting the gents is the next feature that injects you with severe bouts of pessimism. Our grand architect did his homework when he realised that pre-match, most football fans consumed large amounts of liquid refreshment. What a great pity that his supervisor never alerted him to the fact that one would be suffering from extenuating problems. Standing outside, what I envisaged as being the second cubical, turned out to be the exit. I was alerted to this when a fellow 'toiletite' had completed their ablutions. Why it wasn't marked appropriately, ask the architect!
After all that, it resulted in a false alarm. Phew!
To help me recover from such an imperilled experience, I dabbled with fire. Participating in the obituary three-four pint rounds beforehand was eradicated due to my current plight. Staying away from the meat pies proved to be my downfall. Simultaneously, I can't say that it wasn't devoured with venom. Simply because the thing was piping hot and also crumbed in your hands instead of melting in your mouth. Rumour has it they're moving to a new stadium from the start of next season. It can't come quick enough where yours truly is concerned.
My perennial afternoon of misery where this fixture is concerned was turned on its head as early as the fourth minute. All those pessimistic sceptics crying out for free-flowing football certainly got their monies worth this afternoon.
When it transpired that Mr. Fowler would be in the starting line up, you sensed that at last this could be his afternoon.¤ Phil Thompson had advised him so a couple of days beforehand and he reciprocated with a virtuoso display.
All and sundry have jumped on his case, castigating him for one thing or another, so for once I'm going to eulogise the positive side of his existence. His movement along with his finishing was different class. His opening goal was a typical goalpoachers effort. After Jooooohhhhhnn Aaaaarrrrrne's shot had been parried, Robbie was on hand to pounce, after beautifully peeling away from his marker.
Up against a side propping up the rest of us, low on confidence, as well as having Dave 'long ball merchant' Bassett at the helm meant that another awayday special was on the cards.
Moments later, Sami added a second after let more naive defending from our hosts. With Jamie making his first league start in all of 18 months alongside Steve G, Gary Mac and Super Dan they functioned like clockwork. Roaming forward at will you smelt goals almost at random.
However, as one has witnessed with our 'friends' from down the East Lancs Road, this style of play does lead to gaping gaps being produced all over the field. A more confident striker who wasn't reliant on a map and compass to find his way to goal would have punished us. Four clear-cut chances were handed to 'Awful' Akinbiyi on a gold-rimmed plate and he failed to test Jerzy with one of them.
Question marks were also raised against our back four. Poor excuses aside, you do have to point to extenuating circumstances. Stephane succumbed to injury, meaning that Carragher slotted in alongside Sami, with young Stephen Wright filling in at right back. There were always going to be moments of anxiety. That's only natural!
Typically I had to reluctantly drag myself away from the action on more than one ocassion due to those messages being relayed from my brain to my a**e, which led to me suffering more false alarms than when Nicole Kidman was attempting to become impregnated. At least I was cocooned when Dennis Wise closed the biggest file currently outstanding with the Leicestershire inhabitants, how to score a goal.
But with Akinbiyi doing Tom Cruise justice in the Jaffa stakes, the standard bouts of anxiety usually suffered by the hordes with the Liverbirds upon their chests were relinquished. You sensed that jolly feelgood factor was alive and well by the level of songs that were being aired.
Instead of the usual 'Who the fucking 'ell are you?" and the equally inexplicable "You're not singing anymore!" the songsters conjured up some eloquent verses of 'Fields of Anfield Road' and 'Liverbird Upon My Chest'.¤ 'Oh, Jamie, Jamie.¤ Jamie, Jamie, Jamie, Jamie Carragher' even got a rare and somewhat overdue airing. Oh, and not forgetting the number one hit, courtesy of the flamed-haired wonder.
The afternoon's 'epilogue' was sealed by the player on everyone's lips completing the scoring. Red-hot Robbie completed the tenth hat-trick of his career with an exquisite right-footed volley from Vladimir's inch-perfect cross. The perfect ending to a perfect afternoon's entertainment. Some have been saying that all he needs is a goal to kick-start his confidence and he'll be firing on all cylinders.
Obviously one performance is never enough to be judged upon but it can only do him more harm than good. Hopefully it'll be the prelude for Emile to get one on the board. His performances have picked up in recent games and a goal or two should set him back on the beaten track.
And with those around us dropping points, epitomised what a positive week this has been when you consider the turbulent circumstances surrounding the club. With entertaining football being added to the agenda, even our illustrious editor must have been displaying a wry smile come Saturday evening.
(I was indeed, and the win even made up for the disappointment of getting offered a ticket by Graham at the last minute only to find that Barnes Travel had no places left on the coach. I had really wanted to go to Leicester, with it probably being the last time we'd play at Filbert Street and all that, but the fact we won so convincingly more than made up for that disappointment. For once, I was actually looking forward to watching that God awful 'Premiership' programme on ITV! One of the highlights of the day actually came in the game at Old Trafford though, and no, I'm not talking about Wes Brown's latest cock up. It came early on in the game when the camera focused on Demento on the bench. One of his stooges whispered something to him, and with a worried look on his face he turned to his assistant and muttered "Liverpool 2-0" It was a classic moment, and proved once again that for all the success he's had, he's still got one almighty chip on his shoulder where the real reds are concerned. - Dave)
TEAM: Jerzy Dudek; Stephen Wright, Jamie Carragher, Sami Hyypia, John Arne Riise; Steven Gerrard (Patrik Berger), Jamie Redknapp (Vladimir Smicer), Gary McAllister, Danny Murphy; Robbie Fowler, Emile Heskey (Jari Litmanen):
