HOW do you analyse what happened at Carrow Road on Saturday afternoon? What do you focus on there? That game of football was quite possibly the maddest thing ever seen. The Reds were atrocious in the first half. Atrocious. Disgraceful. People have been sacked for less.

How many times can you fall for a one-two before someone will reasonably start to develop some form of big one-two conspiracy theory involving Alberto Moreno, Jordon Ibe and Emre Can taking bungs to let one-twos happen because half of Asia has loaded their house on more than 12 one-twos in 90 minutes? I prefer the conspiracy theory to the reality of the three of them letting Norwich one-two their way into their undies whenever they wanted.

One of my mates asked me at half time if Emre Can was wearing Rockport. I said I didn’t think so but you can sort of see his point.

Say what you want about modern art. We are surely witnessing an incredible portrayal of Mary Shelley’s Dr Frankenstein whenever we go the game. Stunning. Give the Turner prize to Albie Moreno and whoever created him instead of them houses in Toxteth. Very brave piece of work, creating a professional footballer, convincing someone to sign him and pay him, safe in the knowledge that you have somehow managed to get him to life with a heavily boiled cauliflower as a brain. Well done.

Seriously, the defending for the third goal is probably gross misconduct. The equivalent of pulling your pants down in the office and forming an arrow out of your tie which points directly at your willy. Do it tomorrow, see if you get sacked. I think you might. You probably should and so should Moreno.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HjzNepEzBxE

All of the above said, If you don’t enjoy last-minute winners you might as well pack in. I don’t care who you are. Pack in, leave football behind and go and live in the country somewhere. It will be better for everyone.

What are you in it for if you aren’t in it for that?

How was it for you?

I was in a bar in Dublin on my stag do anniversary trip with some lovely Manchester United fan friends who celebrated Norwich’s fourth and then apologised and tried to say they celebrated because it was a good goal.

Yer.

Mayhem ensued though followed by me climbing on my chair screaming “get in” for longer than was acceptable and belting out a rendition of a song my three-year-old son wrote, which goes something like this:

Undies, Undies, Undies
Undies, Undies, Undies
Undies, Undies, Undies.

Sing it at the top of your voice, it is life affirming. Combine it with a march while just in your undies and there is probably no better feeling.

Sing it while you watch Kloppo’s celebration.

Sing it while you wonder whether Benteke left one on the manager’s glasses on purpose.

Sing it while you think about Adam Lallana with no top on having probably the best moment of his life.

Sing it while you look at the players celebrating and have an internal argument with yourself about them having no character or bollocks.

Sing it while you think about our manager and let yourself fall a little bit more in love with him — go on, it’s fine, he won’t hurt you like all the rest.

Sing it while thinking about what Dan Sturridge will add to this team when he returns all new and hard and that.

Sing it while thinking about Danny Ings and how much Kloppo will love him.

Same for Joe Gomez.

Sing it safe in the knowledge that Kloppo will make it all OK and the Reds are on the march.

Sing it with abandon.

Sing it at the match for fuck’s sake.

Undies, Undies, Undies.