Another red-letter day at Anfield South

I’m chronically jetlagged at the moment – the repeated 6am filial alarm calls seem to have knocked the stuffing out of me – so if this makes even less sense than usual, you know who to blame.

Ottawacker Jr is doing much better: not sure whether it was the rush of endorphins from seeing the doctor’s haircut or the antibiotics, but he is brighter and more cheerful, and beginning to throw his goalkeeping ball against the wall, which is perhaps the best indicator of how he is.

Spent the morning in front of the television with him watching the Carabao Cup final between Chelsea and Liverpool. For those that don’t know, Liverpool are going through a massive injury crisis, with 12 of the first team squad out injured. It wasn’t expected to be a pleasant morning’s viewing, but as it transpired, it was brilliant. It helps, perhaps, if you are resigned to failure. It’s the hope that kills.

Not having many of the first team squad left, Jürgen Klopp had to call on reserves and his youth team – and so we saw a host of players from the Academy, many of whom I hadn’t seen play before. Conor Bradley, James McConnell, Bobby Clark, Jarell Quansah, Jayden Danns, Jason Koumas, Trey Nyoni – they had a handful of games between them; while players like Harvey Elliott, Ryan Gravenberch, Ibou Konate and Caoimhin Kelleher were pretty much the same age, but had played a fair bit more. Chelsea, who had spent £1.1 billion on players over the past 12 months – not a typo – were expected to walk it. C’est la vie.

Except, of course, that isn’t what happened. Not only did Liverpool win, they bossed much of the game – and were denied a goal via another VAR screw up. At the end of 90 minutes, it was still 0-0, so into extra time the game went. Then, with 3 minutes left to play, Virgil Van Dijk, the team captain, rose like a salmon and scored a fine header to win the game and the Carabao/League Cup.

Now, having read that, you might well be going “whatever” – and who knows, you might be right. You might also not like poetry or have a shadow. Because to not get excited about a game like that, an upsetting of the odds, a kick in the teeth of the billionaires (I mean, let’s face it, it’s basically the complete destruction of the capitalist system we’ve just witnessed, Marx would be rewriting his doctrine if her were still alive), you’d really have to be soulless. Or support Manchester City, which is essentially the same thing.

Anyway, having had my mind and body put through the wringer, it was unsurprising that the rest of the day was rather unproductive. I managed some laundry, cooked dinner, fell asleep in the chair… One of these days, I really must get my act together.