Exercise in futility

When I was a football coach all those years ago, the way we described a striker who consistently failed to achieve the basic objectives of his trade - i.e., to put the ball into the net - was to say "he couldn't score in a brothel".

Now, of course, we live in gentler times. Were I still a coach, I'd ask about home life and sleeping habits, whether there were any worries that might be hindering goal scoring, or whether he'd perhaps walked under a ladder or tripped over a black cat. I would still, of course, be thinking that I was dealing with a player who couldn't hit the arse of a stationary donkey with a banjo.

These thought crossed my mind as I watched Liverpool play Newcastle this Wednesday afternoon. I had prepared the day perfectly: completed my writing assignment, dealt with the graphics people, sent off a snitty email... also not told Ottawacker Jr. about the game, so the effects of his Jonah-like jinx on Liverpool should not influence the result, as it so obviously did against West Brom in the previous encounter.

What a debacle. For while Mo Salah was the chief culprit of banjo failure, the whole team demonstrated clear inability to hit a barn door, to see a path towards an outhouse if it had red flags pointing the way, to hit the ground with their hats, to.... you get the picture.