Liverpool Red Diary 32

by Joel Rookwood

So the league title has once again found its way to Old Trafford. Just the finale every Scouser dreamt of. But the truth is no one, probably United fans included, can believe it has happened.

Earlier in the season, when Arsenal seemed to conquer all before them, I must admit that there was a tinge of contempt in me at the fact they were top of the league, and destined to retain the title, despite the fact they were clearly playing the best football in the land. A north London club they may be but they are run by an arrogant Frenchman, with the heartbeat of the side lying in cocky Gallic hands. And whilst I do not doubt the ability of their players or the knowledge of their manager, the events of recent weeks must surely lead to a question mark being placed over their mentality. As whilst for the majority of the season they were beating everyone into submission, with most games they played virtually over before the clock had reached double figures, they won few supporters for the way in which they talked. For they were arrogant in the extreme.

Shankly said he wanted to build a bastion of invincibility - a side so good that everyone else would simply have to submit. A team of such brilliance that a side from Mars would have to be sent for in order for Shankly's giants to be overpowered. But the great man did not say he would produce such a team, he merely said that he wanted to, and that is essentially where the difference lies. There was never an element of prediction in his humorous commentary, but instead the focus always remained on the desire to achieve. Paisley too never deviated from this approach. He would throw championship medals at the players in the dressing room following title successes, and dismiss previous events, claiming the hard work started in July at pre-season training. A relentless pursuit of continuous achievement was what made Liverpool so successful, and they refused to allow cancerous arrogance infect them by foolishly predicting success. Simplicity, endeavour and a passionate hatred for the notion of complacency and everything it embodies have been vital ingredients in making us England's most successful club.

And now credit should go to Alex Ferguson, for he too has practiced such a philosophy this season, and has reaped the rewards. While Wenger's team were busy boasting about how good they were and telling people they were going to win this and that, United having fallen behind just quietly plugged away, winning their own games and waiting for Arsenal to slip up.

In football as with any other industry, the first rule of business is always 'don't talk about it until you've done it'. But Wenger lost sight of this somewhere along the way. How Ferguson must have delighted in entering the Old Trafford pitch after defeating Alan Curbishley's Charlton side last weekend, to inform the Manchester faithful that there would be no lap of honour, regardless of the fact it was their final home game of the season. Despite a pleasing win over a mediocre Charlton side, the focus immediately became centred on their last game of the season. Ferguson knew he may possibly have to win that game, and even though they had remarkably gained poll position, no one was permitted a chance to rest. A lap of honour may have inferred a Championship winning party, and Ferguson refused to let that happen before the title was won. This gesture not only served as a warning against complacency for his players, but I'm sure it was meant equally for the purposes of his opposite number at Arsenal, who had been overtaken by a man and a team who wanted it more.

Arsenal have been brilliant for most of the season, but have only themselves to blame for their spectacular self-destruction. However whilst the country looks on in disbelief at just how a side playing so well threw away the eight-point lead they commanded in March, surely we shouldn't be totally astounded. For no one was more surprised than me at the football the Gunner's produced in the early part of this campaign - it was simply breathtaking. Yet on paper I do not think they are better than Man United, or dare I say Liverpool either.

When Arsenal and ourselves were out in front earlier in the season I predicted a two horse race, as did many others. We looked strong, and Arsenal were playing some excellent football. Yet I never really believed United were finished. Over the past decade they have always been one of the top two sides in the country and that was never going to change over night. But with Larry White at the back they weren't exactly threatening to take the league by storm, and after a disastrous start few were legging it down to Ladbrokes to have a flutter on them.

Wenger though, after seeing his side win the double last season claimed the tides were beginning to turn in English football. He threatened a period of North London dominance. The fool. One season, no matter how successful doesn't infer mastery, a point we make to United fans in response to their daily rant about their treble of 1999. You have to do it year after year, at home and in Europe to be considered a great side, and to do that you have to have a very capable team. But Wenger came undone on the pitch as well as off it. Arsenal's first eleven is strong but needs working on. But Arsenal's squad is nothing more than average. Luzny, Stephanovs, Toure, Edu and Van Bronkhorst are simply not good enough as replacements for a top club, when injuries are sustained, or when the team needs to be shaken up a little. He had the opportunity to buy last summer yet decided against strengthening his side, and has now paid the price. Hopefully lessons Wenger will have to learn will also be heeded by Monsieur Houllier, as the damaging effects of not adding to a weak squad become ever more apparent.

And while we're on the subject, the Gunners have also taught us the possible devastating effects of relocation, as Mr Hill-Wood, the Arsenal chairman this week announced that had they known how problematic building a new ground would prove to be, they may well have decided against the idea. And that's coming from a man who runs a club in dire need of a new stadium, with relatively minimal objection from fans on the subject. Mr Parry et al, take note.

So whilst Arsene Wenger is licking his wounds he must also pick up the pieces and attempt to prepare his side for an inevitable though probably narrow defeat of Southampton in the FA Cup final. And I'm sure these preparations haven't been facilitated by injured captain Vieira claiming, he has "watched United on TV and they are rubbish." Despite this outburst Arsenal's paranoid fans will no doubt chant his name more than any other at Cardiff regardless of the fact he's not even playing. There should be a revolt at such a lambasting of the new Champions, but not at Arsenal. I'd like to say it's because this nonsensical drivel sports such ludicrous sentiments, but it's probably because they all believe it too.

Winning the English league isn't about majestically sweeping the ball around and dancing around like Russian ballerinas, as graceful as that might appear. It's about an unrelenting desire and will to win. Sure, you need to be a good team, solid well organised, energetic, creative and potent, but you also need bottle - just ask Kevin Keegan. And United sensed a weakness in the Gunner's rearguard and attacked them, leaving Wenger and Co with their collective tail drooping between their legs, as Ferguson's men stole in at the far post to take the league crown. They are worthy champions, and Arsenal Cup winners or not, now face a summer of painful reflection. Conversely after Ferguson's "most pleasing achievement" I wonder what will be on his mind this summer.

In the aftermath of the title win, Ferguson emphasised his priorities, by claiming that it is 'simply not good enough' that a club of United's stature has won only two European Cups, the same number as Nottingham Forest believe it or not. And he has a point, although that is as much his own fault as any other manager in the club's history. If every manager has his weakness, Ferguson's is his stubbornness. He won the treble in 1999, possibly the best season an English club will ever have (and we Liverpudlians are not too proud to admit it). But save for 1999, whilst his United side dominated English football, Yorke and Cole forged an attack that was never good enough to help United master Europe. For a club that has won eight titles in eleven years in England to have played in only one European final smacks of underachievement. Since then however, much of the dead wood has been removed, and one of the world's most effective strikers is now on their books.

Ruud Van Nistelrooy's not the best player in the world. In fact Henry at Arsenal has more ability in his little toe than Van Nistelrooy can boast in his entire body, but the Dutchman is undoubtedly the best goal scorer in the country. They wouldn't have got near the title without him, of that there is no doubt. And with him United can now go on and really try and achieve something in Europe. Their fans' Scouse obsession will not permit Fergie to let the quest for European glory hinder their progress in the push for the Premiership, with the Mancunians still trailing Liverpool by three in that department, but where they are really behind is in European terms. In the eleven seasons in which Liverpool won eight titles, we represented the country in six European finals, five of which we won, not to mention the five domestic cups thrown in for good measure in that time.

United need to win another European Cup before they can be considered a great side, and they now have a team capable of doing just that next season. They have the best side in the country, they behaved in a manner, both on and off the field, which suggested they wanted it most, and are therefore rightful champions of England. It remains to be seen whether they can take it a step further. As for Arsenal and Liverpool, together with the other pretenders to the thrown Chelsea and Newcastle, it's catch up time again next year I'm afraid.

We are United's most bitter rivals because we are England's most successful club. And United are ours because they are our closest competitors. So surely I should feel totally dejected at seeing United winning the league? Well considering their performances for the first three months of the season, maybe so, for anyone to be that bad and end up as champions is disappointing. Despite the fact United have the best side in the country, I'm amazed they have won the league, and I'm equally flabbergasted about the manner in which Arsenal put it on a plate for them.

But that's a testimony to the weakness of the English league this year. Followers of the Red Devils may claim this is an attempt to belittle their title success, which is probably partly true, but there you have it. For United may have won the league despite a truly woeful beginning. But it must also be said, what of their competitors? There's Newcastle, with the worst back four in the history of association football; Chelsea is a team of overrated individuals who don't even know each other's name never mind speak the same language; Liverpool who were cheeky enough to push for a top three finish despite their worst run in the league in fifty-odd years; and of course Arsenal who forgot that they had to actually live up to their own arrogant predictions in order to win the league. I mean some even threw Everton's name in the hat at some point, almost as if to emphasise how ridiculous the level of competition has been.

United won the league because no one but Arsenal were good enough to stop them, and Arsenal, whilst in a commanding lead thought they were so good that United wouldn't even bother trying to catch them. But the Mancunians' relentless pursuit of Arsenal and the manner in which they crawled back the lead says it all. They are worthy winners. It's taken him a few years but Ferguson has eventually learned that it's better not to cut your nose off to spite your face. Despite an embarrassment of midfield talent, his side has underachieved for years without a genuinely world-class striker. Now he has one of the best, and it's difficult to see anyone, save the mighty Madrid stopping them.

I have bemoaned Wenger for predicting success, and yet I know that is exactly what I did at the start of this campaign. With the previous three seasons seeing Liverpool finish fourth, third and second, the expectation was understandable. But I am a fan, and as such that is my job. We are afforded the right to complain and brag, to cockily dismiss the threat of competitors and arrogantly predict periods of dominance. But managers must maintain an air of dignity and modesty in their quest for honours. Wenger failed to adhere to this ruling, whereas the experienced Ferguson followed the textbook of effective football management to the letter, and therefore no one can begrudge United the title. I may not be running out to Old Trafford to offer my personal congratulations, but we Scousers are never too big to admit it when the best team reigns victorious, regardless of who they are.

Now you might be wondering why I've been delving so deeply into the recent fortunes of Arsenal and United, when Liverpool is supposed to be the subject of my commentary, particularly given the importance of the forthcoming showdown at Stamford Bridge. But anyone who finishes above Liverpool is our concern. Just when it seemed like we were ready to mount a credible challenge for premiership honours, we self-destructed. And we must learn not only from the mistakes we have made but also from the achievements of those who have been more successful than us this term if we are to progress.

But the area in which Liverpool must move forward is on the pitch. Players must be bought and sold at Anfield in the summer, and I'm sure they will. Houllier, I have no doubt, will be as ruthless as he has been in the past in pursuit of the Championship he so craves. Ziege, Westerveld and Barmby were all Houllier purchases and crowd favourites but he deemed them not good enough for the club and got sold them. And I have every faith in the man for the coming campaign. If two or three don't go, replaced with at least four quality players, I'll walk into the Blue house on the first day of next season, address the inhabitants and claim it was I who painted the Dixie Dean statue red. Or maybe I'll just jump off a cliff, as that will probably see less damage inflicted to my slight physique. Houllier WILL bring the championship home. Trust me. And if he doesn't do it next year, I'll still be a patient man, for I remember the Souness and Evans campaigns all too well, and know how far we've come under Houllier's guidance.

No fan has the right to complain. I don't care if you've been watching Liverpool since the fifties, and 'this French fella' in your eyes is 'not playing the game right'. I hear the disgruntled voices that have seen championship-winning sides destroy teams question each other on how long they would give the manager. Well I saw Kenny's champions of '88 who lost two league games all season. If we hadn't have been banned from Europe, European Cup winners PSV would have been no match for us that year either, of that there is no doubt. So how long would I give him? A bloody decade. Dudek, Hyypia, Henchoz, Riise, Hamman, Murphy, Gerrard and Owen. Eight names that will win the Premiership with Houllier, with the first five, lest we forget, having been brought to the club by the 'the man from France who makes us dance'. Add four players of proven quality to that list, which I believe Houllier will do and we will be well up there next season. Not to mention Kirkland, Carragher, Traore, Smicer, Diouf and Baros all of which will be eager to play when called upon. With everyone writing us off, next term could be an interesting year. But before turning my attentions to next season, I should really concentrate on wrapping up the current campaign.

And so another has nearly reached its climax. But before the final games of the season, in which West Ham and Bolton fight out the final relegation place, Blackburn and Everton battle it out for a UEFA Cup spot and Liverpool and Chelsea go head to head, in a bid not to join them and instead grab the remaining Champions League place, a little respite was required. So with the weekend's ultra important game looming, we decided to take some time out from the rigors of professional football fandom, and go and watch Everton reserves. Fortunately we at least had some interest in the game, with the team they happened to be playing being Liverpool. Shankly once claimed there were two teams on Merseyside, Liverpool and Liverpool reserves. I'm just glad the great man wasn't around to see this one.

We were lucky enough to acquire a place in an executive box for this totally meaningless game. Everton annihilated us 5-1, with Liverpool having two sent off in the second half, the latter being Markus Babbel, on what was probably his last game for the club. We were sat next to first team coach Jacques Crevoisier and the legendary Ian Rush, and also met Sammy Lee and Phil Thompson, all of which were happy to sign an autograph and offer convincing predictions for the weekend's all-important game. Recently crowned manager of the season David Moyes was also there, and when I asked him if he fancied taking Heskey to Everton, he just laughed and shrugged his shoulders. And then, when questioned about who he wanted to win out of Liverpool and Chelsea, he expressed favouritism for the London side. This was followed by the Scot asking in return, 'You don't want me to lie do you?'

'Did you say die?' the lad next to me cheekily replied. Moyes laughed nervously, evidently a little taken aback. We wished him good luck for their final game against United however, despite his footballing persuasion, and no soon as he had left we began switching our attentions to Chelsea.

So to Sunday, and Liverpool's final game of the season. In the days leading up to the all-important encounter I must confess to being more than a little excited. It was a cup final, and despite its significance I was determined to enjoy it whatever happened. Chelsea merely needed a draw, whereas only victory would see Liverpool win the ten million pound jackpot that comes with Champions League qualification. It was make-or-break and the odds looked stacked against us, particularly given that Chelsea had beaten us on six consecutive occasions at the Bridge and we had not won there since 1989. Even I had to admit it didn't look promising. But when you're a Liverpudlian hopes springs eternal.

Travel arrangements for this vital affair had been hard work to say the least. Having decided against going down the day before, I was faced with a scramble to sort out a lift, as none of the lads were going by train and I didn't really fancy getting ripped off on my own. From the three usual suspects, I was the only one with a ticket, but the other two initially seemed keen on joining me in the lift I had managed to blag from a mate of a mate who drinks in the Albert, despite the fact the two accomplices had five pence between them - and if you think I'm exaggerating, think again.

The only problem was all the lads lived in different places, with the driver less than keen to do a tour of Liverpool before the inevitable tour of London that accompanies any search for a club based in the capital. And not many buses go to Anfield at 6.00 on a Sunday morning. I was not keen on arguing my mates' corner to the driver, so had given them the number of the poor fella stuck with transport duties. After a brief discussion the night before the game, my mates having been unable to strike a deal for themselves had kindly informed the driver NONE of us required a lift to the ground. He'd been on the ale for ten hours at the time of the conversation, and to be fair probably didn't know what he was saying.

Blissfully unaware of this I arrived at the Albert at 6.45 on the morning of the game, with a belly full of brandy, having not yet been to bed and had managed to get to an off license for supplies. As 7.45 came and went, I was getting panicky, stood in the cold in Anfield. So through a mate of a mate I made inquiries as to the whereabouts of my lift. I managed to ascertain on the 'phone that my bevvied acquaintance had turned down the offer of a lift on my behalf the previous evening. Thankfully however the driver was running late, and wasn't yet on the motorway, and he agreed to return home to pick up a very grateful, nervous and bladdered Scouser. Regardless of my fortune and relief I decided to contact the two idiots responsible who had decided to swerve the trip, and threaten them with a Chelsea smile in retaliation for their drunken stupidity, which nearly saw me miss the last game of the season. Not that such brutal antics are my speciality, but when in RomeÔ

We met with another group at Watford gap services, en route to London and soon arrived in Fulham. After parking up we entered the Distillery pub in Hammersmith, subsequently making the pub our own for the day. The barmaid was from Kirkby, and the Chelsea fans inside proved pleasant enough - relatively speaking at least, with the reputation of the fans of the (in)famous CFC always well deserved in my experience. There was no singing in the pub though, as we were all a bit on edge, knowing we were about to witness a massive, winner-takes-all game.

The pubs around the ground were full of Hacket-sporting cockneys with England rings and Chelsea earrings, and I chuckled to myself as I remembered Ewan McGregor in the film Trainspotting saying, "Some people hate the English. I don't, they're just w!$%ers." Insightful man that John Hodge. But I made sure my laughter was not too hoarse and not seen to be in the direction of anyone in particular as the pubs around Fulham Broadway station are not always especially accommodating for Scousers. I was wearing my 'The Scum Liverpudlians never forget' t-shirt which always seems to go down well in the Capital, and sure enough it raised a few eyebrows. The mere fact that a Scouser was in one of their pubs no doubt had something to do with the dodgy looks I received though.

As we met with various other groups of lads en route to the away end, the East stand which lies adjacent to the Shed - Chelsea's most infamous end, it became apparent how nervous the Liverpool fans seemed to be. Everyone I spoke to had an uneasy look about them. We needed a massive performance from our team, and few who pay to watch them week in week out seemed confident.

The atmosphere was good in the ground, but nervy at the same time, which breeds a different kind of ambience. It's difficult to explain, but in a nut shell, games can be quiet, with no singing and very little noise like Old Trafford, then there are big matches where the chanting dominates, with Basle the obvious example, and then there are nervous meetings, where people are too anxious to sing, but make lots of background noise as they kick every ball and offer shrieks of 'handball' whenever the ball leaves the ground. And this was certainly of the latter type.

The players entered the arena to a song that laughably 'welcomes' you to the Shed, which undoubtedly carries a bit of tongue in cheek for some of the older fans who went home and away in the '70s and '80s. It's a bloody annoying tune, and sums up everything that's bad about the modern game. Don't get me wrong, there have been numerous positive changes in the game, but some developments drive you round the bend. I mean there were actually women at the game on Sunday - WomenÔ And then there's the laughable Chelsea Village hotel complex, dear oh dear. Instead surely the Gladiator theme tune should have been booming out of the loud speakers as the players entered the battlefield, in collaboration with the recital of some motivational speech. 'Once more into the breech dear friendsÔ'

This was a day when we desperately needed our 'big game' players to be firing on all cylinders, though as a unit we looked lethargic and uninventive. Chelsea have only played forty-eight games this season, but with internationals, some of our squad have taken part in seventy, and Chelsea did look the fresher. But that is no excuse. The Blues looked up for it, and we certainly did not. Freshness smeshness, victory comes to he who wants it most, right Monsieur Wenger?

We might have won a cup already, but we lost the cup final that really mattered financially, as the multi million pound jackpot that would certainly aid our team's development proved a step too far. Our recuperation from a shocking midseason 'blip' was, as expected, to prove too costly to recover from.

Houllier's side did start the brighter of the two and actually took the lead when Hyypia headed home a Danny Murphy cross after ten minutes, with the traveling Kop going wild with hysteria. At that point we should have shut up shop, defended as if our lives depended on it, and hit them on the break as they poured forward. But our resistance was to last all of two minutes, as Marcel Desailly met a Jesper Gronkjaer cross with another headed goal to level the game. Midway through the first half the goal creator then became goal scorer as Gronkjaer proved the man to hammer in the final nail of our Champions League coffin. From that moment on, we looked deflated and without the tools needed to pump ourselves up.

With Liverpool unable to break down the Chelsea rearguard, Ranieri's side wisely opted not to take risks in a bid to add to their lead, knowing Liverpool had to score two without reply to leave London with any satisfaction, which was looking increasingly unlikely. Out of eleven men in red who took to the pitch, at least half were well below par, and we knew we couldn't afford for one to have a bad game never mind seven. The problem was, with the team Houllier initially sent out to represent us not living up to the task, we had little hope in anyone not picked from the start coming on to rescue us. The problem with having a weak squad is the regular players don't live in fear for their place, and often operate far too much within the comfort zone.

And as if to sum up where our problems lie at present, the players we brought on as substitutes in the second half were the ineffective Emile Heskey, Patrik Berger, who I just assumed must have died, as its been that long since anyone has heard anything about him, and everyone's favourite, the tireless workaholic that is Bruno Cheyrou. Four words å simply not good enough. The travelling Kop knew we were finished, and so did Chelsea, who simply killed the game off. We did manage to find the back of the net with a quarter of an hour remaining but Baros' effort was, in the opinion of the referee, preceded by a handling incident by the Czech striker. It was the only ray of hope in a bitterly disappointing second half for Liverpool.

And whilst we bemoaned the lack of quality both on the pitch and the bench in a red shirt, Chelsea decided to extract the urine, as the best player in either squad entered the arena. And true to his reputation, Gianfranco Zola was simply spellbinding for the twenty-odd minutes he was granted. If this is his last game for the London side then it is a travesty. Thirty-seven he maybe, but Gary McAllister didn't do too badly for us at that age - I'd snap the diminutive Sardinian up tomorrow and so would every Kopite. We cheered every thing he did, more so than even his own fans. He's a genius and if that's the last English football will see of the little wizard, I think I speak for anyone lucky enough to have seen him play to say he will be sorely missed.

With the home side having secured an advantage, they didn't exactly force the issue in the second period, though Chelsea did have their moments after the break, with Melchiot hitting the post. As Dudek was still scrambling to his feet after pushing the effort onto the woodwork, Carragher rushed straight over to the official and claimed an infringement in the rules. It turns out though that fullbacks are allowed to shoot, sorry Jamie.

As Liverpool ran around aimlessly, all looking to each other for inspiration, our most motivational player decided he had had enough. For to cap off a brilliant day, Steven Gerrard then saw red for a very late tackle on Graeme Le Saux. The crowd did not berate him though as no one really cared, and anyway the victim is not the most popular man in Liverpool. It was late in the day, and he did what I suspect any of us would have done in his shoes. The game and the Champions League was already way beyond us, and he was one player in red who seemed as frustrated as those in the stands sporting the same colour. Moments later the referee called the game to a halt and ended (or began) our misery, as the reality of failure began to set in.

We left the ground obviously despondent, but although the odd Chelsea fan acted in a manner worthy of a swift dig, most were just in buoyant mood, and understandably so, without being particularly out of order. Had such a game have occurred in Europe, we would have been singing their name as they left the field, in acknowledgment of their superiority. They deserve Champions League football next term, Liverpool quite simply do not. Before the game though, Houllier had this to say: "I think we deserve it more than any other team. There have been times when we have had to fight back from the depths of despair when we played well and were unlucky. We are fighting until the very end. No team in the Premier League will have earned a place in the Champions League more than us. I mean it. We have shown our mental strength." But anyone could see that it was Chelsea who were worthy of a place alongside Europe's elite, with the season as a whole, and the final showdown proving to substantiate the fact. It was fighting talk and I don't blame him for it, but the truthful realization that we have been at 'the depths of despair' for too long this season is the causality for our demise. We are simply not good enough.

A flag often displayed at Anfield dedicated to Michael Owen reads, "A voice from above said - all mankind shall see the gift." The lad is indeed a gift from the good Lord, and we are lucky enough to have several others in the squad as well. And if the man upstairs would be so kind as to throw two or three more our way this summer, and reward those less blessed with footballing talent currently employed by the club with a move to a team more fitting to their level of ability. A team with no brain, desperate fans and a bit of money, like Tottenham, we will be up there challenging the Mancs again next season, after a year of frustrating mediocrity. But it has to be said, after a painful though in truth expected defeat, none of us were in the business of consoling each other with such philosophical gibberish as we jumped the bus back to the car. The mood in the camp remained fairly quiet, with each of us no doubt reflecting personally on the season just gone.

As we approached the cars we passed the Distillery again, and couldn't resist stopping for a few more brandies. The Chelsea fans from before (who despite living a mile from the ground did not go to the game), were obviously delighted to see us, but were sporting in their celebrations I have to admit. I'm sure some Scousers who went to this game will have a different tale to tell regarding the hospitality of Chelsea fans this weekend, but in our experiences, they were actually quite agreeable. They even (just about) did not mind hearing 'You'll Never Walk Alone' being played on the Jukebox, with the three Scousers remaining screaming along as loud as we could. It was a good way to end what was a disappointing but also enjoyable day in the capital.

For the entire journey we sung our hearts out and talked of how the media's sensationalized criticism will drive us on to the league title next season. In brief moments of silence I couldn't help but smile, as I thought of the poor inhabitants of that London boozer, as they were made to sit through Jerry Marsden's 'Ferry Cross the Mersey' seven consecutive times on the Jukebox back at the Distillery. I couldn't help the passing dig å it was well worth the two quid.

We stopped at the same services as before, just north of London, and had the desperation of our plight put into perspective as we bumped into West Ham fans, fresh from witnessing their team subjected to heartbreaking relegation on the last game of the season. But their one consolation is they will at least have fun next year, visiting grounds they haven't seen in years, and winning at them too, before claming the first division title and returning to the Premiership on the crest of a wave.

And as the season comes to a close, and you'll think about all the things you'll miss about going to the game in the dreaded summer break, which immediately becomes referred to as the 'close season', one thing that's always near the top of my list is bumping into other fans en route to the match. When you're on the train this doesn't usually involve the exchanging of pleasantries with fellow spectators, but at the services, when fans of different teams who travel by scarf-displaying cars bump into each other, the atmosphere is usually one of tolerance, respect even, and I'll miss those little snippets of conversation you tend to have with passing fans, before getting back in your car and Looking out for more shirts on the motorway and then reaching for the paper to see whom the team in question is playing.

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Match days in England are great days, and the first weekend after the football season is always a strange one. This year I'm not going to quit cold turkey, as there's the drama of the FA Cup final on Saturday, and then Rick Parry, our chief Executive is taking us, in the Club's first team bus I must add, to see one of the Liverpool coaches and a good mate of mine captain Buscough in the FA Trophy Final against Tamworth. And then I'm watching the mighty Spain in all likelihood annihilate Northern Ireland at Windsor Park in June, but short of that, the only football I'll be involved in is coaching 'soccer' in the good old US of A for a couple of months, before returning to business on August 16th for the curtain raiser of what just could be our year (who am I kidding?!) It's a hard life but some one's got to do it.

I was in a state of near collapse when I returned to the Peoples' Republic after twenty-five hours on the ale, but couldn't turn down the chance to have a final drink with the lads in town before eventually turning in, as reds and blues came together to share in our collective misery on the night of the final day. We've had UEFA qualification in the bag for months so not doing any better was always going to be disappointing. But it wasn't all bad news, as Everton having looked a shoe-in for European football all season, were pipped by Liverpool legend Souness and his Blackburn side in the race for UEFA Cup qualification on the last day, thanks to a defeat by Man United at Goodison Park. Ha ha ha ha.

So three hundred and eighty Premiership games have come and gone, of which I've seen thirty-eight. I know that doesn't sound like an impressive statistic, but in the last twelve months I have also been to more pointless games not connected with my beloved Liverpool than I should have done, with Chelsea away serving as my eightieth game of the season. But more importantly I've seen every Liverpool game this season, a record I'm proud of, having never done it before.

After the World Cup in Japan, trips to Le Havre, Valencia, Moscow, Basle, Arnhem, Auxerre and Glasgow have been classic experiences and although it's been a bad season for the club, we fans have had a laugh along the way. And I am still as proud of the club than ever. More so even than I was when we lifted the league title in 1992, won the quintet in 2001 or the treble in 1984 - the first season I experienced the mighty Spion Kop. Fifth in the league and a cup win is underachievement for this club, and there is no hiding that fact. But we love it anyway, and come rain or shine it will no doubt be the same faces every week next season at home and abroad in the name of this great club. And I will be in attendance too, wherever it takes me. As for Liverpool Red Diary, the end is nigh. I think I'll just pack the flags and the trackies, and leave the notepad behind next season. Ta for reading it - it's been emotional.

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