Fresh from my sojourn in Shropshire, it was not the ideal way to watch such a crucial match as the one at Anfield. I heard of Gary Speed's death from Diana In Heaven, who always seems to be ahead of the curve when it comes to dead people, and is usually very amusing, though there was only a 'what the fuck?' appended to Speedo's sudden appearance in the firmament yesterday. His death did not seem to overshadow the game though, and it looked like a fair old battle.
Mario proved yet again that a reputation will always precede and follow you, with the second challenge being - to say the least - more than harshly punished. I never did like Skrtel particularly; along with Lucas Leiva, one of those proficient and dull players which aren't going to recall the great days of LFC long past. Not an ideal day to watch a match, because we were having a little festive food and drink party at home, so it was all about furtive sneaking into the bedroom to listen to the radio between bouts of socialising.
Anyway, we stuck at it, and - thanks to the fabulous Joe Hart, retained our unbeaten league record. It's possible that, despite Hart's late heroics, we could perhaps have fashioned a win if we'd made more of some earlier chances, and if Lescott hadn't stuck out that bloody leg. Overall, I think I'm happy with a 1-1 at Anfield, especially as the Rags were so laughably held to the same scoreline at the Swamp, and especially after what I hear was a pretty poor show in Napoli during the week - a game which again escaped my close attention, sitting as I was in a pub in Shrewsbury which did not have the necessary evil of Sky Sports. It was with much glee that I overheard some dickhead Enfield Rag rant about how United were all over Newcastle, and should have destroyed them; how City have always been 'Shitty' for him, not a football club, just money... blah blah blah. Fucking wanker.
The ludicrous scheduling of matches, where a long and largely unnecessary break for international matches is followed by terrible fixture congestion means that (at least some form of) City schlep down to London on Tuesday night to play (at least some form of) Arsenal. And I will be in the crowd on that night, mingling with the unwashed Gooners' offspring, sitting on my hands. Not the offspring, of course.