TF Match Report – Liverpool 2-0 Newcastle UTD

Excellent. I am very happy that we warm up so well for the cup final. 0-2. Perfect. We weren't cruel (or at least in the television comment – it looked pretty damn shit from where I stood), but for a second we ever looked as if we were defeating something from our annual Anfield punishment.

A gate in every half that (soon to be) double winner in red that do not have to get out of first gear. Lame. Fade. Completely damn predictable. Yes, the perfect Nufc Cup Final Performance. A textbook does not appear. We are definitely ready for Wembley. Good work, Eddie, preparation of the boys for mid -March. Enjoy seeing that legendary love for detail is used in practice.

I mean, I have seen a shit in this place over the years. One of the special advantages of being an NW Exil in the past 30 years was the opportunity to weigh up a miserable devotion to another. I could write the book about it. Accordingly, the conversation at half-time turned the decisive topic of day-to-day goods against City 10 days ago or not?

Maybe not, but I saw a lot of worse United teams when he had a fight in Angeld. Ok, we admitted almost 23 goals here last season, but we still managed to achieve a couple and stick to it. Christ, I saw how Jonjo achieved here from afar. Damned hell, I even saw Andreas Andersson Kerb. Beat that.

No such joy tonight. Instead, we had to experience the agony of Callum Wilson to go through the movements of a center forward. To be honest, we would be better played with 10 men. Just let me say for the recording that I adore Callum Wilson. This comes from a place of love, but if he had been a horse on the street in Aintree, he would have been put down at half -time. I think it is best to everyone that he was offside when he spread this gilded chance with his left foot in the first half. Otherwise, he only did the entire energy and the momentum of every attack moment.

This was a strange match. We were pretty terrible, but on the other hand we also had a few chances. Unfortunately, when you press a knife that was gently warmed between the thighs, we offered the resistance of a butter clump. As if they wanted to prove the point, diaz invited to and in Schär – increasingly a complete liability – to hike completely into the area before put the ball for Szoboslai on a plate to end a weak (unpleasant (independent?) Hand of Pope. And that was basically that.

No, really, that was quite that. Match over.

In the meantime, our own target attempts can also have been undertaken with a blunt, rusty teaspoon against a pork lump. No chance. Did your goalkeeper save? I am difficult to remember to remember one.

Was Isak injured? I have no idea, but the team messages were a white flag of the handover that the eleven players carried out on the field had been drilled on the training area. No relentless arsenal style, no clever cunning that worries the opposition. Instead, a curious period was 442, the Gordon apparently amazed and without purpose. Not that he needs a lot of encouragement these days.

So many questions … Did a single player play well in black and white? No. Miley was okay when he arrived, and Hall tried his best, but Murphy was poor, Sandro disappointing and Bruno as senseless as the whole 90 minutes of my life. I am no longer clear about his other purpose than falling over and winning free kicks. And even that he no longer cuts it off well.

The home team scored another goal in the second half after Tonali gave away the ball. This time it was Gary Macallister's Argentinian stepson who received the freedom of Angeldd before he was slightly returned by Salah and the Pope. Whatever.

I would like to report that the end of the away was defiant and showed our pride despite the lack of the pointer offered on the field. But that would be a lie. It was quiet as if I was waiting to be entertained and giving reason to find his voice. It was embarrassing. A miserable performance that corresponds to that on the pitch. Perhaps I am old-fashioned to think that the purpose of the end of the away is to sing and sing and sing something else, no matter how much excrement on the field. Apparently no longer. More perfect Wembley preparation.

Everything that was left was the annual miserable trudge back into the Lime Street, as always a single scouse accent was heard. Scandinavian, Portuguese, Chinese, nothing else. Maybe a look at our future? Except that they actually win things. Thank God for Sauer Scouse Stu on the train and the experience of his start -up box, complete with a golden emblem cup in his tasteful presentation shoe box. Apparently everything was “gay”, but he seemed to have enjoyed himself.

In the meantime, the consensus consisted of the reasonable robin over the corridor in the fact that the locals willingly give us the Carabao cup. If it were just so easy.

Jesus, that was shit. Salicously, depressing, souls destroyed. There is no acceptable defeat, no matter how inevitable this could have been. Some of us give up our time and our money to see this. We bring our hope and energy more to the point. No matter the chances and no matter how much we could deny it, a small part of us always believes.

And every time it is crushed a little more. The tired, depressing inevitability feels inevitable this evening. Never again.

Until next time.

Matthew Philpotts