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17th Jan 2020

Liverpool winning the league or: how I learned to stop worrying and love the bomb

Rather than fighting for every inch of real estate on the mythical perch, United have wantonly vacated it like the dead parrot they forgot to take back.

Nooruddean Choudry

It is of course a good thing that US-Iran tensions have calmed over recent weeks. However

If one tangerine twat’s ego was to instigate the end of the world, it would at least avoid the inevitable crowning of Liverpool Football Club as the Champions of England. Granted, there would be no football (or England I suppose) to speak of, but nor would the unfaltering Scouse procession reach its depressingly deserved conclusion. Instead, the remaining cockroaches will crawl around the nuclear wastelands unaccompanied by echoes of Anfield cheer swirling in the air.

As a Manchester United supporter, I accept that not everyone feels the same way I do about our great rivals winning the league. I appreciate that for Liverpool fans everywhere, it is and will be the culmination of everything that Jurgen Klopp and other key figures within the club have build and nurtured over the last five years. The resources at their disposal may not be insignificant, but they are dwarfed by the fortunes spent and wasted by calamitous cockrings elsewhere, i.e. us.

That is the hardest blow. Rather than fighting for every inch of real estate on the mythical perch, United have wantonly vacated it like the dead parrot they forgot to take back. One club builds through good sense and guile, the other happily drifts into irrelevance buoyed only by official tyres. Indeed, in the absence of any challenge of our own, we resort to willing City to do what we can not, like the wretched cuck in the corner of the room hiding his shameful 4-inch boner behind a Dunelm cushion.

Last season left the nerves shredded. The danger of Liverpool winning the league was chronically clear and present, and thwarted only by City’s obscene consistency and nerve. The near-miss led to a misguided hope that Klopp’s men had reached their absolute zenith and still come up short. Even the severe pinch of that lot winning the Champions League was half reconcilable in the prism of a parochial mindset such as mine – as long as domestic dominance eluded them.

This season has been less a wake up call and more an ongoing nightmare. The kind where you’re trying to scream but nothing comes out but muted panic. It must be how Phil Jones feels when he tries to tell his body to do something and it just flails about like a soy sauce smattered dead squid. Liverpool have been utterly imperious in the worse way imaginable. The only consolation is that coronation will not come with a coronary induced by shock. It is happening.

Of course different people deal with this trauma in different ways. My preferred coping mechanism is extreme pettiness, others plump for severe delusion. Of course you can always dive headfirst into the madness of theoretical matchups of the current Liverpool vintage with historical United sides that were actually good. Or perhaps identify a very isolated statistic that implies your attack is somehow better than the team that’s scored 14 more goals and has 27 more points – in January.

All these demented efforts really do is highlight the gulf in everything that actually matters – and the near perfect switching of roles. It’s a bit like 1988’s madcap body-swap caper Vice Versa, except Fred Savage is a deeply bitter set of supporters and Judge Reinhold is an impossibly smug fanbase. Oh how I wish there was an ancient Buddhist skull with magical powers that could help us swap back. Sadly, life’s not like that. No ancient Buddhist skull with magical powers will turn Victor Lindelöf into Virgil van Dijk.

All that is left is the hollow hope that United can somehow act as spoilers to a perfect season. We’re back in the 80s when singular victories for short-term bragging rights was the only realistic aim. I wish I could tell you that I have made my peace with Liverpool winning the league and my sole focus is how my own team can now begin to rebuild. I wish could be magnanimous in unqualified praise for what Jurgen Klopp has achieved in Anfield. I wish.

The truth is I look at nuclear armageddon and think, well if it’s going to happen, any time before May works for me. Come friendly bombs over Salford and surrounding areas, please.