This is what I wrote at half-time in that match last night:
Wednesday night is put out rubbish night. Tramping round the house, bin bags in hand collecting the detritus that is the fallout of the Parrot household destined for our personal plot of landfill space.
Normally it is something I’d do at half-time if there is footie on the telly, but I broke my routine tonight and got it sorted early, with Liverpool being in the Champions’ League Final and not wanting to miss a moment. As the Spanish proverb has it, “Sit by a river long enough and one day the body of your enemy will float by.”
Which it looks like doing as I write this at half-time. (Sorry, but after last Saturday I don’t have much patriotism or sympathy left.)
And a variation on a 1999 joke: Why are the the wives of ManU players so happy? Because their menfolk can stay on top for two hours and still come second. And why are the wives of the Liverpool players so depressed? Because their blokes are blown away in 50 seconds.
A place in the Champs League next year to defend your title? Premature exclamation lads.
So it was me who was the premature one. Mind you, it looks like tears before bedtime if Uefa stick to their guns and don’t allow them to defend their crown next season. That should give at least one half of Liverpool something new to whine about for a year or three.