Loving every minute of 'Pool soap opera
ARE you saddened by the grim, inexorable slide into mediocrity of that erstwhile great sporting institution called Liverpool FC?
Do you bemoan their current lowly station in the Premier League's drop zone? Or their recent Carling Cup humiliation at the hands of Northampton?
Or their ownership plight -- an American dream turned into a recurring nightmare? Or their outlandish debts, with the grim reaper that is Royal Bank of Scotland lurking in the background?
Do you fret at their replacement of one increasingly daft manager with a veteran journeyman who, for all his more sensible-sounding ways, lacks the inspiring qualities needed to make the most of his underwhelming resources?
If your answer to all the above questions is, "Are you crackers, I'm loving every minute of this soap opera!" ... well, good for you.
Disenfranchised fans have a right to be angry, but clubs reap what they sow and Liverpool aren't the first (anyone care to mention Leeds?) to plant the seeds of their own disintegration. Besides, this column can't help feeling a certain schadenfreude given a childhood ruined by (a) Liverpool and (b) their fans. Curve Ball still recoils in horror at the memory of the newly-promoted Tottenham losing 7-0 at Anfield back in 1978 -- the sado-masochist in us was even able to watch all seven goals courtesy of You Tube yesterday.
We had a grudging admiration for that admittedly great team, soon forgotten because their supporters -- the countless Irish ones of my acquaintance, whatever about the Koppites -- were so unbearably smug about it.
Way back then, every second pre-pubescent Irish male was a pseudo-Scouser. The modern-day scourge of 'ManUitis' had yet to fully grip this nation. And whenever our own hapless team routinely cocked up (for the thousandth time), the Red oppressor never ceased to revel in the folly of our ways.
So, to all you suffering 'Paddypudlians' out there, we say: get used to it!