Cometh the hour, cometh the man, Liverpool Football Club were prepared to make an imperious stand. Management, players and fans alike, each and everyone prepared to stand up and fight. No shirking, no hiding, no surrender, such a triad wasn't listed on this agenda.
Descending upon Manchester's towering toilet pan, the feelgood factor was rather conspicuous by its absence amongst the travelling guests. Instead fear was not only the starter but also the main course followed by dessert, eagerly awaiting to be devoured by the inhabitants from Delusion Grandeur HQ. On the back of such a torrid run of form, encountering the arch enemy wasn't the answer to a prayer. However, their rich vein of form was all of a sudden blasphemous.
This wasn't just another fixture this was Liverpool. This was the team that's put them to the sword during their last four encounters. This was the team they despise most of all.
Sir Senile Dementia was on hand revving the media circus into action. The last Hurrah was to act as the perfect leaving present he's been craving for the past three months. You must understand that he isn't paranoid though!
Obliterate; bury alive, cold-blooded malevolence, comeuppance, recalcitrant, panache and therapeutic pleasure. Such words, for such an ocassion, their ocassion. How they craved not just a win but an ignominious tanking over us odious Scouse Peasants.
Why were we bothering? Why? Why? Over our dead bodies were we going to hide in the corner with a blanket over our eyes, allowing to be caricatured, accused of being indiscriminate! Their position at the summit was a despairing sight. Not long ago we were occupying those dizzy heights. Allowing them to pull eight points clear wasn't an option. The perfect match up awaited, the purists vs the pugilists.
With none of us feeling very ostentatious, the local hostelries were conveniently kicked into touch, as the visitors concourse awaited a mass congregation. A congregation minus any alcoholic beverages as our visit was sought to provoke unsociable demeanour. Let's be fair here, they were dealing with football fans that were responsible for the deaths of their own fans some thirteen years ago. Inebriated inbreds looking to inflict carnage upon their fellow counterparts, resulting in our contemporaries no longer being able to stand inside football stadiums the length and breadth of Europe (which they are keen to sing about at every opportunity let's not forget). An absolutely ingenious idea implemented by the Old Trafford security operation. Thank you, thank you and thank you.
Not as though we were going to cry wolf and wallow in self pity. As the numbers gathered, the songs started to flow as we regaled ourselves with one eloquent chorus followed by another. The fields of Anfield Road, YouŽll Never Walk Alone, Garry Macca and Allez, Allez, Gerard Houllier. A crescendo reverberated around the visitors section, much to the disdain of those serving behind the refreshments counter. Sales were gleefully suffering, shame, shame. After investing £1.80 in a diet Pepsi that resembled three-day old urination supplies, I surprisingly took the sensible option of suffering malnutrition pains in preference to a vomit filled pie.
With the atmosphere growing stronger by the minute, the time had arrived to transmit our tones into the auditorium itself as we were greeted by the most beautiful of sights. Paranoid the Android along with his partner in crime, Villainous Vermin had worked tirelessly in preparation of such resplendent paraphernalia, which was sitting nicely over the Stretford End's upper tier. Gone was last year's 'You're not famous anymore' banner, substituted with 'The Treble, accept no imitations'. Such a coherent statement sent the time warp back eight years.
In the wake of them failing to land the domestic treble back in '94, the cry from the visitors of 'We've done the treble before' was greeted with a shameful bowing of the head along with subsequent tears. But they are right you know! They've landed the genuine treble. They know it, we know it; the entire naffing world along with his wife knows it. None of our trophies are genuine for two reasons. Firstly all our achievement pre '93 have been consigned to the cement mixer. What we've landed since has been unwanted residue due to the inferior nature of the opposition. Ah, but them listing the Charity Shield amongst their list of honours is perfectly acceptable!
'Ten years and counting' has been replaced with 'eleven years and counting'. Just a shame that we're not such a creative bunch. Why oh why didn't we greet their arrival at Anfield between 68-93 with similar noises? So indocile! And not forgetting the delightful Mickey Mouse design that safely arrived back from the Charity Shield.
By now I was in danger of having to be hospitalised as my rib cage was beginning to crack under the strain of relentless laughter. Sir Senile Dementia had demanded that the volume be turned up to its full capacity, as he wanted the noise levels to reach that of their visits to Anfield.
Of course, this is the standard message that appears in each and every set of his programme notes, not because England's greatest ever are besieging his colossal empire.
As David stood nose to nose with Goliath, the noise being generated by 2,900 fans situated in the East stand upper was in danger of destroying the sound barrier. Where were the loyal hordes from the K-stand, who are always wallowing about the lack of atmosphere inside Delusion...sorry Old Trafford, the greatest stadium of all time. Come on you illiterate cretins sing, sing, sing.
A-t l-a-s-t to our delectation, 'if yerall Đate Scousers clap your hands. 'United, United. 'Have you ever done the treble 'ave you fuck'. The tennis ball was now in full motion. Swinging backwards and forwards, being struck with pugnacious venom. Those debonair types were all but choking on their latest course of prawn offerings.
Until, the momentous rally curtailed. Moving imperiously into the net, we dealt them a forearm smash comprising of You'll Never Walk Alone. Game and opening set, LFC.
Dismayed by such a travesty, Keano and co went about repairing the damage. The fear of an early goal was eating away at us. The purists moved the ball around withalarming ease, picking out their men at random. Buoyed by a deluge of disparaging remarks, the aliens in Veron's body took over as he suddenly developed an urge to not only tackle, but kick any Scouse bastard within his territory. Nothing to do with the opposition you understand!
Thommo had made changes...changes...changes. Carra was moved across to left back, with John Arne being elevated to left mid and Wright coming in at right back. Owen was employed in a more withdrawn role, leaving Heskey as the lone target man to lead the line.
After the early anxiety in the form of a drive from Giggs that was screwed wide, the system began to take shape as a renewed belief was sprung. United found themselves pegged back once approaching the final third. With Giggs not operating in his more natural position, their flowing play was coming to a shuddering halt at times. For all their possession, Jerzy was struggling to keep warm.
One individual epitomised our reincarnation. Danny has been undeservedly maligned in recent weeks. He could have easily curled up into a ball of humiliation and became reclusive. No. Instead he exhibited pertinacious character and worked like a Trojan up and down the right flank, putting all those despicable cretins to shame: apart from they were nowhere to be seen. With scarce numbers of tickets on offer, thankfully they fell into genuine paws. Yes, those who were prepared to back Murphy & Co with venom, encouraging profusely when a misplaced pass was committed.
Danny almost produced a wondrous moment when forcing Barthez to make the first genuine save. Him scoring, that would be too much of a fairytale. Simultaneously Michael also pulled an effort just wide. Surreal! For the life of me I can't understand why they're more comfortable playing away from home, can you?
The concern was transmitted to the stands as the K-stand inhabitants were finding another set passing them by as a deluge of aces, forehands, backhands and smashes carved them apart like the obligatory Sunday roast. The fields of Anfield Road simply swamped their damp squib Scouse jibes.
After some well-earned convalescing during the customary timeout, we retook our positions with an upset a distinct possibility. With possession a sacred luxury during the opening period, it was a freebie during the second. This was now becoming preposterous. The long ball pugilists metamorphosised into elegant purists as the voluptuous piece of leather spent long periods at our feet.
Hamann and Gerrard took over the proceedings, hassling and harrying, probing diligently as Juan and Keano became subdued at their own party. After one tackle too many, the former received his yellow card, which was greeted with a crescendo of 'fuck off to Lazio'. Why would he want to when his representing the European champions elect?
Their 'Michael Owen', Ruud the grotesque looking duud, found himself frustratingly ostracised, resulting in him taking lumps out of Stephane and Jerzy. I sympathise with him though! After all, he's used to defences capitulating under his barren spell. Not surprising really given the sheer state of his features. Thank God Shergar, aka Chadwick, wasn't participating in the proceedings.
With time passing by, a well-deserved point was in the offing. John Arne forced Barthez into a despairing dive, but that's all. When suddenly...suddenly... sublime Stevie calibrated before delivering a ball of delicate precision...you know the rest.
Orgasmic frenzy was served up as a defining break of serve in the third set sank seven eighths of the auditorium into a suicidal state of manic depression. Premature ejaculation was well and truly the order of the day as strangers and loved ones had every ounce of juice squeezed out of them. Who cares about the negative approach? Who cares about Emile's goal drought? Who cares about Fowler? Who cares about 'proper' trebles? At that moment in time we just craved a piece of Super Dan's cheesy piece (well not literally, but you catch my drift).
Graham Barber overall refereed this contest very well, literally destroying the Delusion Grandeur rule book in the process. Only two minutes of time were added when he blew. Game, set and match as the 'loyal hordes' were put out of their misery with an encore of 'Can we play you every week' and 'Are you City in disguise'.
Cue for participation in the game of synchronised missile throwing on the forecourt. Quite a simple game really. The police keep you in for five whole minutes, open the gates, allowing every Scouse bastard to become embroiled within the Old Trafford version of death row. When the missiles are running dry, simply allow the K-stand inhabitants to charge you, with an average headcount of fifty versus five. Also stand back and shit bricks as the police steam in on horseback, endangering all the innocent people looking to get home in one piece. Gee... t-h-a-n-x.
After escaping the kick of a beast, cleverly disguised as a horse (where was Chadwick?), parity was restored in the shape of Sir Senile Dementia. According to his theories, they dominated possession and were the only team looking to win the game as we pumped the ball long at every given opportunity, hoping for the break, which we achieved.
You must understand though that the man isn't fixated with us!
TEAM: Jerzy Dudek; Stephen Wright, Stephane Henchoz, Sami Hyypia, Jamie Carragher; Danny Murphy (Patrik Berger), Steven Gerrard, Didi Hamann, John Arne Riise; Michael Owen (Nicolas Anelka) Emile Heskey:
