26 April 2052 – Wembley looked like it was hosting a funeral instead of an FA Cup semi-final, and fittingly, Liverpool’s attacking spirit was the corpse. The Reds stumbled to a dismal 1-0 defeat against Chelsea, who now stumble undeservedly into yet another final, probably with some Tory donor waving a blue scarf in the posh seats.
Let’s not sugarcoat it – that was shite. Not just from Liverpool, but from the whole occasion. Chelsea had less of the ball, couldn’t string three passes together for most of the match, and yet they walk away with the win thanks to Johnny bloody Jenkins scuffing one into the corner in the 71st minute. A goal so mundane it barely woke the crowd from their corporate buffet-induced comas.
Statistically, Liverpool dominated. 21 shots to Chelsea’s 6. Possession? 56 bloody percent. xG? 0.57 to their 2.03 – I don’t even want to know how that’s calculated anymore, probably by a hedge fund manager with a dartboard. The point is: we had the chances, they had the fluke.
The only proper Red showing any bollocks was J. Stanisławski at the back, pulling a 7.0 performance out of the fire while the rest of them looked like they’d rather be at Salt Bae’s gaff than chasing another trip to Wembley. Vallejos tried to make things happen, but he was feeding on scraps. Dougie Agnew got booked, again – lad’s got more cards than a dodgy bookmaker in Birkenhead.
And the scran? Don’t get me started. Wembley’s culinary crimes were on full display – some sort of artisan vegan sausage roll that tasted like wet newspaper and regret. Not a bottle of salad cream in sight. What sort of hellscape is this country becoming?
So that’s it. Out of the cup. Another year, another semi-final heartbreak. Meanwhile Chelsea, the smug bastards, are off to the final, still dreaming of adding yet another FA Cup to their hoarded collection. That’s six in the last eight years. Greedy cunts.
As for Liverpool? Back to the league. Back to the grind. And back to hoping someone, anyone, finally puts a rocket up these players’ arses. Because nights like this? They’re not good enough. Not for this club. Not for this city.
– Digby
