As once again the players of Manchester United go wandering into the night, their becrowned heads heavy with the bittersweet scent of victory, their tired legs and muscles once more burdened with the effort of carrying yet another trophy like a tortured devil around their weary necks; spare a thought for our long dormant neighbours in red, laying in wait by the sides of the great river Mersey.
For Liverpool FC, the best football team in the world, the fall from grace has finally reached its crushing nadir. And what a resplendent fall it has been, class shining through in perpetuum, repeatedly showing Mr Ferguson and his rabble of rag-tag mercenaries how properly a football club should traverse those ever meandering rivers of fate; with limitless decorum and grace.
And yet now, like metaphors in the night, those fearful Liverpudlian eyes, unshackled from the looming albatross of success, are no longer cast behind them like so many whiplash suffering owls, but are now cast about-face, a whole new perspective upon them, with a view as might have a dog, fresh from the vets, its be-coned head a constant distraction from the unwavering stench of its recently operated-on behind. A red devil has surely been lifted from their backs; but lifted it was, not without a fight.
No, fellow United fans, cast your minds back to the twenty years hence past; did once those mighty but fallen footballing gods from the banks of the Mersey give us a ride to the title free from battle both tooth and nail? Was once the barb of our cheating, satanic tail free from the vice-like grip of the golden talons of the Liver Bird? Nay, it pains me to say, it was not. And this is what scares me.
A King has returned unto the hallowed mountains of Anfield like a seahorse in the night; his sword as keen, his shield as hefty, his will and his might as immovable and as majestic as ever. The name of this King? The name our lips do tremble to mention? The name but whispered amongst us as we stand in chickenhearted huddles, our hesitant eyes cast around us all in a dither, aghast at the grandiose splendour of its every utterance? This King's name is Kenny, King Kenny Dalgliesh, and in this King, I fear, we have at long last met our destroyer.
And so, my fellow reds, as a night of twenty years gives way to day like a beachball in the night, we must alas prepare the relinquishment of our crown; Mr Ferguson, his rancid claws shaking in his boots, must set his ever dulling mind towards that final abdication. I solemnly implore each and every one of you to enjoy this summer as best you can, considering the circumstances, for of this there can be no doubt; next year is the year of Liverpool Football Club.