The game, in the end, was a beautiful red balloon that the team and crowd blew and blew – with a beautiful Anfield fervour – until it got to the size of a giant 3-0 balloon, and then it went pop, due to a stray arm as seen on a video replay. After that the game was a piece of flapping rubber squirming through the air to the sound of a slightly wet fart, albeit that may have also been from those around me on the Lower Centenary.
(Legal disclaimer: this is not a reflection on the club’s selection of half-time pies.)
So, this is my match report via my old season ticket seat, which I had electronically transferred to me for the day, in contrast to old times.
At 3-0, we were cruising, smiling, thinking 5-0 again. Then it was 2-0, via the time-reverse machine of VAR (which also appears to have altered all the digital clocks in my house this morning). Then it was 2-1, in a bizarre burst of low sun, and from then on Liverpool lost their shape, mojo, confidence and cohesion, and Brighton, a talented team with pressing and passing acumen (as well as defensive giants), tore through the Reds’ ragged makeshift midfield and wonky defence at will.
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