It’s customary at this time of year for columnists to cast their eye back over the season just finished and, with the benefit of hindsight, pick out the moments that defined it.
Either that or pick their own personal player of the year, and eulogise over the contribution made by that individual to the success or otherwise of the team in question.
Mindful of needing to improve my green credentials, and reduce the size of my carbon footprint (whatever that is), I intend to save space and trees by combining the two approaches – so here is my review of the composite player of the season.
No doubt about his head – no single incident had a greater impact on our season than John Arne Riise’s inexplicable attempt to clear a Kalou cross, that zipped into our six-yard box in injury time of a Champions League semi-final, with a header on the half-volley rather than swipe it into the stands with his right foot.
The clue as to why he chose this ridiculous course of action is in the last two words of the previous sentence – this particular artefact being the object of Indiana Jones’s latest quest.
Not that John gets the whole skull – it’s suitably adorned with Andrei Voronin’s ponytail, which will hopefully disappear next season along with its owner; and the mouth of Javier Mascherano, which got him sent off at Old Trafford and doomed us to another miserable day out at Hogwarts.
The arms are provided by Phil Neville and Frank de Bleekere. No need to introduce the former, a former Manc and a Bluenose – a rare cocktail indeed. So there was no-one better to handle the ball on the line during the closing minutes of the Goodison derby, get sent-off and present us with the winning goal.
You could argue that the appendages of Jamie Carragher deserve a mention, wrapped as they were around Joleon Lescott seconds later, to give Mark Clattenburg the opportunity to endear himself to Kopites for all time.
But my second upper limb is grafted from another official, the Belgian de Bleekere, for it was he who used the aforesaid to raise the red card in the direction of Marco Materazzi, paving the way for the defeat of Internazionale and setting up one of the great matches against Arsenal in the next round.
The torso, heart and lungs are the property of Mascherano, Carragher and Gerrard respectively. Collectively they are the spine of the side, and I wouldn’t swap them for anyone.
The backside belongs to Didier Drogba, whose performance at Anfield in April reminded me of that balsa wood furniture in old westerns: apparently tough, but falls apart at the slightest touch.
Unfortunately Rafa’s criticism of his theatrical reactions to physical contact, while hardly news, did seem to inspire him to knock us out of Europe in the second leg.
There are plenty of feet vying to be part of my composite footballer; who knows what might have happened had the seasons of Xabi Alonso, and more seriously, Daniel Agger, not been curtailed by broken metatarsals.
A strong case too, can be mounted for the size-12s that Tom Hicks inserted in his own mouth with a regularity that suggested his PR adviser was Duncan Ferguson.
But for me the honour goes to the 10 digits attached to the swift, apparently be-winged legs of the sublime Fernando Torres.
Curling the ball home at Derby County; steering it past the keeper at the end of dazzling runs against Marseilles and Chelsea; launching powerful strikes against Middlesbrough and Internazionale; turning and firing in one movement against Arsenal.
Yes this is a true heavenly body, destined for a place amongst the footballing gods.
Either that or pick their own personal player of the year, and eulogise over the contribution made by that individual to the success or otherwise of the team in question.
Mindful of needing to improve my green credentials, and reduce the size of my carbon footprint (whatever that is), I intend to save space and trees by combining the two approaches – so here is my review of the composite player of the season.
No doubt about his head – no single incident had a greater impact on our season than John Arne Riise’s inexplicable attempt to clear a Kalou cross, that zipped into our six-yard box in injury time of a Champions League semi-final, with a header on the half-volley rather than swipe it into the stands with his right foot.
The clue as to why he chose this ridiculous course of action is in the last two words of the previous sentence – this particular artefact being the object of Indiana Jones’s latest quest.
Not that John gets the whole skull – it’s suitably adorned with Andrei Voronin’s ponytail, which will hopefully disappear next season along with its owner; and the mouth of Javier Mascherano, which got him sent off at Old Trafford and doomed us to another miserable day out at Hogwarts.
The arms are provided by Phil Neville and Frank de Bleekere. No need to introduce the former, a former Manc and a Bluenose – a rare cocktail indeed. So there was no-one better to handle the ball on the line during the closing minutes of the Goodison derby, get sent-off and present us with the winning goal.
You could argue that the appendages of Jamie Carragher deserve a mention, wrapped as they were around Joleon Lescott seconds later, to give Mark Clattenburg the opportunity to endear himself to Kopites for all time.
But my second upper limb is grafted from another official, the Belgian de Bleekere, for it was he who used the aforesaid to raise the red card in the direction of Marco Materazzi, paving the way for the defeat of Internazionale and setting up one of the great matches against Arsenal in the next round.
The torso, heart and lungs are the property of Mascherano, Carragher and Gerrard respectively. Collectively they are the spine of the side, and I wouldn’t swap them for anyone.
The backside belongs to Didier Drogba, whose performance at Anfield in April reminded me of that balsa wood furniture in old westerns: apparently tough, but falls apart at the slightest touch.
Unfortunately Rafa’s criticism of his theatrical reactions to physical contact, while hardly news, did seem to inspire him to knock us out of Europe in the second leg.
There are plenty of feet vying to be part of my composite footballer; who knows what might have happened had the seasons of Xabi Alonso, and more seriously, Daniel Agger, not been curtailed by broken metatarsals.
A strong case too, can be mounted for the size-12s that Tom Hicks inserted in his own mouth with a regularity that suggested his PR adviser was Duncan Ferguson.
But for me the honour goes to the 10 digits attached to the swift, apparently be-winged legs of the sublime Fernando Torres.
Curling the ball home at Derby County; steering it past the keeper at the end of dazzling runs against Marseilles and Chelsea; launching powerful strikes against Middlesbrough and Internazionale; turning and firing in one movement against Arsenal.
Yes this is a true heavenly body, destined for a place amongst the footballing gods.
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