It all seemed a little matter-of-fact on Sunday as Manchester City breezed past a seemingly disinterested West Ham side 2-0 to collect their second English Premier League title in three years. The table never lies so City can rightly be hailed as the best team in the land. But what the ladder doesn’t tell is simply that Liverpool handed the title to City. Only a few weeks ago the Scousers had the crown within their grasp. It was “their’s to lose” to use popular parlance. After all, they had overcome City 3-2 on an emotional afternoon at Anfield on April 13 and were seemingly geared for a smooth run-in to lift the ultimate domestic trophy for the first time since 1990. But in the end the pressure got to them and they buckled. A calamitous 0-2 home lapse to Chelsea opened the door for City, who needed no second invitation. Liverpool’s loss of control was emphasised when they conceded three goals in a barmy eight minutes at Crystal Palace to give away a 3-3 draw. It seemed all the expectations after a 24-year drought had served to addle Liverpool’s collective mind. The stirrings of the 25th anniversary of the Hillsborough disaster mixed in with all the overdue yearning for the title seemed to swirl around the club like a claustrophobic mist. It’s strange to think that just back in the 1980s it was Liverpool who won the title ad nauseam while Manchester United, their hated rivals from the other end of the East Lancashire Road, looked on in undisguised envy. It’s also easy to forget that until Sir Alex Ferguson’s regime reversed the roles, United had gone from 1968 until the first year of the Premiership in 1992 to be top dogs. So in my eyes, this will be the year that Liverpool threw away their big chance. How they react to this when the new season rolls around will be fascinating to behold. I wish no ill to Liverpool. Strangely, in a world awash with “plastic” football fans walking down the city streets of the planet in Man U, Liverpool, Arsenal, Chelsea and Johhny-come-lately Man City replica shirts, I know very few mates of Scouse persuasion. A rare Red in my global social circle is Stewart Jackson. An admirable former Daily Telegraph colleague from Longridge, who has shared many convivial occasions with me down the years over-imbibing and thriving on talking footballing nonsense. I feel for Stew after his Scouse mob have caved in. I am sure they – and he – will bounce back. Stew follows Liverpool all he can from his Enfield base, when his lovely wife Vicky will allow it. He was most famous for popping up in the crowd on TV during Liverpool’s “miracle of Istanbul” in the 2005 Champions League final against AC Milan. As Gabs and me watched the game in the Metro pub on Holloway Road, I declared in my know-all pundit tones that Liverpool had “no chance at all” of coming back from being 3-0 down at half-time. But what did I know? Come back they did, to secure the trophy on penalties. And Stewie revelled in the achievement on his return to the Canary Wharf office. Deservedly so. Yet despite all Liverpool’s successful adventures in Europe, this long-overdue Premiership accolade would have meant perhaps even more. In the end, the suffocating pressure told. It just shows that the race for the title can be a harrowing experience. Especially for the fans. The happenings bring back warped memories for me from 1994-95 when Blackburn Rovers almost committed a similar hari-kiri collapse so close to the finishing post. And I was in real jeopardy of being dubbed the biggest Jonah of all time. It was all a new phenomenon for us followers who had travelled the country watching Rovers through thin times and thinner. Bankrolled by Jack Walker’s cash and Kenny Dalglish’s shrewd and canny management the unbelievable was about to happen. We were on the brink of the title – only a matter of seasons since meandering along as nobodies in the old Division Two. Maybe it had all happened too fast. But all I know is that as I landed back in the UK to from Sydney to witness our march to glory, it all almost unravelled in front of my disbelieving eyes. My first stop was fine – a 2-1 win at Everton in true “muck and nettles’ style as we somehow survived a furious late onslaught by the home team. My later joke was that as Alan Shearer and Chris Sutton mulled over the ball at kick-off time, one said to the other : “I hear Dave’s back and at the ground.’ So I reckoned they gave me a “welcome home present’ in the form of Sutton’s goal after a mere 14 seconds. But the nearer we got to the prize, the more jangled things became. A 1-0 win at QPR seemed business as usual. Colin Hendry nodded in a goal at Elland Road but Leeds United pegged us back in injury time. I watched, twitching with nerves, from the press box as the accredited Sydney Morning Herald Northern England correspondent . (The Rovers away end had been sold out for weeks so sometimes you have to improvise). A surprise 2-3 home defeat to Man City (yes, those sods) meant that the supposed cakewalk to the summit that I had been surveying from 12,000 miles away in Sydney was suddenly becoming almost one step beyond. True, Crystal Palace were edged out at Ewood but then came an anaemic 2-0 surrender at West Ham. The massed ranks on the away end at Upton Park watched in muted bewilderment. This was not supposed to happen. I could see it all slipping away. Suddenly it seemed like Rovers were wading through treacle. “Jeez, why did you come home, Dave?”. None of my loyalist mates said that, but I knew – paranoid or not – that they were thinking it. Shearer’s header saw off his home town Newcastle United on VE Day, which became Victory at Ewood Day. The lead-up to the final hurdle at Anfield was horrendous. Mind games galore played out on me by myself. We all know that somehow Tim Sherwood lifted the trophy after our 2-1 loss didn’t matter as MUFC’s Andy Cole fluffed chance after chance at West Ham. Or rather, the crazy keeper Ludo kept everything out. We had won the title but I didn’t enjoy that evening. It was like we had done the deed by default. But we prevailed. Almost two decades on (where have the years gone?) at least I can reflect on one of my most poignant sporting pinnacles. Only next morning as I wandered round to Hannah Hickmott’s house (Ivan’s mum) on Ribchester Road was I able to take in the true significance of the event as we mulled over the sporting headlines with toast and brews of tea. Then, the following season, I went through the same crazy script but this time looking on as interested observer. Rovers’ post-title malaise had left us out of the running, but into the breach as the new challengers to Fergie’s ManU bullies stepped the free-flowing stylists of Kevin Keegan’s Newcastle. The Toon had not won the league for yonks and were in a similar state as Rovers had been. In other words, the nearer you get, the further the prize seems away. I had spent three crazed years living in Geordieland in the early 1980s during my time on the sports desk of the Shields Gazette. I knew what this would mean. I was willing them to do it. They had lost to ManU about Christmas time but as 1995 became 1996 they were 12 (yes, TWELVE) points clear at the top. I admit to being a fatalist at times – if something can go wrong, then I believe it will. But my great Geordie mates Mick Ramsey, Ged Clarke and Simon Malia can sometimes outdo even my dour Lancastrian forebodings. Yet as the run-in beckoned, the Toon were in the clear. Or were they? Cavalier Keegan took things into overdrive by introducing the maverick genius of Tino Asprilla into proceedings. Mental. Wonderful, but mental. Rather like Man City bringing in Rodney Marsh to complicate a title push in 1972, it proved too much to accommodate. Fergie’s mob pulled back the points until the Toon were floundering. Then came that epic 4-3 implosion against Liverpool at Anfield. Amazing television for all us neutrals, but not for bare-chested beer-bellied Geordies who started sobbing their eyes out on the away end as Sky’s cameras zoomed in. The title trail was becoming too much. Now my guilt complex kicks in. The Geordies were due at Ewood with us sauntering along to seventh place. The away contingent had sold out so we got the boy Ramsay a ticket in the Riverside Stand next to Shaun Gill and billeted him at Shaun’s pad, care of Ray and Sonia. Mick even enjoyed a monumental pub crawl around Accrington when the town still had pubs and the Sunday nights were famed as the place to be. He was showing no title nerves. He was mortal (Geordie lingo meaning drunk). We all were. We wished him well. “We hope you win tomorrow,” was the inebriated chorus on that Sunday night. But of course, you can’t do that. For Mick and the Toon hordes, the pre-game Bank Holiday Monday bevvies turned into mission A-OK as ex-Rover David Batty scored a rare goal on his return. Four minutes to go. Then the title curse struck. A non-entity striker of Geordie descent named Graham Fenton in cahoots with his Tyneside superstar pal Shearer, conjured up a very messy equaliser. 1-1. In those days, me, mum, dad and Mick Charnley had season tickets on the Darwen End right next to the away supporters. It often made for interesting viewing. When Fenton scuffed in another untidy goal in the final minute, it meant cruelty on a major scale. 2-1. Game, set, match. As I leapt up and down in delirium then settled down I looked across to see fat Geordie blokes crying. Again. We walked out, apologising to them over the fence. I said sorry to Mick in the Havelock. What to do? The title jinx had kicked in big-time. Newcastle had not managed to do what Rovers had the year before. ManU duly cleaned up. Rovers and Newcastle have never come as close again to claiming the ultimate prize. These days it’s all about the sort of disgusting cash that would make Jack Walker’s philanthropy look like pocket money. I hope Liverpool can come again, to spare us the sight of too many more Man City triumphs. Before the Arabs got involved, Rovers used to win at City for fun. Ditto at Chelsea before that shady Russian, Mr Abramovich, came onto the scene. But history has weighed heavily on Liverpool’s shoulders. Maybe they can make another charge next season. Chin up, Stew, there’s still plenty to look forward to.
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thedaverosecolumn 