Dave’s Ramblings – Liverpool

May 10, 2026 Admin

I thought it prudent to warn you from the outset. This is going to be one of those rare phenomena we haven’t witnessed in quite some time: A decent result, a positive performance and, brace yourselves, a team that actually looked like they wanted to be on the pitch wearing a blue shirt.

I know some might not share my positive attitude. This was, after all, one of the poorest Liverpool sides we’ve seen in years. A team so off the pace I half expected Arne Slot to sub himself on out of frustration.

But, considering we’d lost six league games on the bounce, had half the squad held together with Velcro and ibuprofen, today puts us in a far better place heading into the cup final next week.

Liverpool started the stronger, with Gravenberch finishing well. He curled one beautifully into the net from the edge of the box after some clever work from Rio Ngumoha.

And of course it had to be Rio didn’t it? The lad who left us because he thought he’d get more opportunities at Liverpool. That’s the footballing equivalent of dumping your girlfriend for someone else, then accidentally helping her move house.

So there we were. One down after six minutes. The kind of start that we have become far too accustomed to of late.

There were genuine concerns about what might happen next. Visions of another collapse. Another eighty odd minutes of full blown adults being emotionally waterboarded by football.

But then it turned into an episode of Tales of the Unexpected. It was like the players collectively looked at each other and thought, ‘Absolutely not. We are NOT getting booed off again this week.’

And somehow, through what I can only assume was witchcraft, pride, or the fear of social media reactions, we took control.

There were chances. Plenty of them. Especially from Cucu, who suddenly looked less like a man trapped in a footballing identity crisis and more like the player we actually thought was good. He was overlapping, tackling and even crossing. I was half expecting him to cure a disease before half-time.

Then, with 10 minutes to go before the break, we pulled level. Enzo whipped in a free-kick that somehow evaded absolutely everybody. Defenders, attackers, probably several laws of physics, and ended up in the back of the net.

Nobody knew if anyone touched it. Nobody knew if it was intentional. I’m not even convinced the ball knew where it was going. But, we erupted like we’d just won the Champions League, instead of witnessing the footballing equivalent of a WhatsApp message sent to the wrong group somehow working out perfectly.

Enzo almost put us ahead shortly after that, and then not long into the second half we all lost our minds when Cole Palmer scored. Pandemonium. Limbs everywhere. Complete strangers hugging like long-lost relatives at Heathrow arrivals.

For one glorious moment, it felt like Chelsea were back. Properly back. The swagger, the noise, the hope.

But of course, we had all forgotten Liverpool’s most influential player: V. A. Bloody. R.

After several minutes of forensic investigation, usually reserved for crime documentaries, the goal was ruled out. I can only assume Cucu’s hair was marginally offside somewhere in the build-up.

I haven’t seen it on TV yet. By the letter of the law it may well have been correct… but it still felt about as fair as getting fined by a speed camera while your car’s parked.

All of this activity and positivity eventually managed to wake Liverpool up from the deep sleep they’d been enjoying. They had a goal ruled out themselves and then hit the woodwork twice, which was nice of the football gods, because for once the frame of the goal seemed to be wearing blue.

But the real moment came when we were denied what looked, from where I stood, like the most stonewall penalty since actual masonry was invented.

Now, again, I haven’t seen it back on TV yet, so there is every chance I’m viewing this through the completely balanced and rational lens of a Chelsea supporter who’d already emotionally awarded the penalty, celebrated the goal, and started abusing the referee in three separate tenses.

But honestly? I think we may have been done over.

Who could possibly have imagined such a thing? Little old Chelsea getting shafted at Anfield. Next you’ll be telling me the Kop occasionally influences referees and Jamie Carragher might not be entirely objective.

In all honesty, a draw was probably a fair result… painful though it is to admit that without immediately needing a lie down. Especially considering we spent huge parts of the game making Liverpool look distinctly ordinary. Like a team that had accidentally wandered into the wrong five-a-side pitch.

Driving home, I found myself in that rare and confusing emotional state only football can create: simultaneously delighted and deeply annoyed.

We’d picked up a point I absolutely wasn’t expecting before kick-off… yet somehow left Anfield feeling robbed that we hadn’t taken all three. Which, given the state of us a week ago, is the footballing equivalent of surviving a shipwreck and then complaining about the minibar selection on the rescue boat.

My takeaways…

We’ve probably left it far too late to seriously dream about European qualification through the league. That ship hasn’t just sailed, it’s disappeared over the horizon while we were still arguing on the dock about team selection.

But this performance does at least give me hope for next weekend. Dangerous, irresponsible hope. The kind of hope that has repeatedly punched Chelsea fans directly in the soul this season.

Still, it’s realistically our only route into Europe now, so naturally I’m fully prepared to convince myself we’re about to become 1970 Brazil for one game only… before potentially collapsing again like a garden chair from B&Q.

Reece is back, the players actually resemble a functioning football team again, and we still have the chance to finish the season with actual silverware. Proper silverware too, not just the emotional support trophy of ‘we tried our best.’

Could it really happen?

For the first time in what feels like several geological eras, my weekend hasn’t been ruined by Chelsea performing in the league like a group of strangers who met in the car park ten minutes before kick-off.

There’s energy again. There’s belief again. There are even signs of tactical organisation, which frankly had me checking whether I’d accidentally sat in the wrong stadium.

Now yes, this could absolutely still be another false dawn. Chelsea fans have seen more false dawns this season than a man trapped in Groundhog Day. But at this point I’m embracing it anyway.

Hope may be dangerous, irrational, and historically catastrophic for my mental wellbeing… but after the last few months, I’m clinging to it like Nicolas Jackson trying to stay onside.

Final positive… how refreshing it was to hear the Liverpool fans booing their team, and us cheering ours. This could yet be a thing of beauty!!

Photos can be found here

Onwards and upwards. UTC 💙

Dave M