WHEN I woke up on Sunday morning all I could think about was undies.

I’d had a dream at some point during the night that I was in the Asda in Bootle and they had loads of boss undies on sale on some kind of bargain shelf by the entrance door. The mad bit was that the undies on sale were all the same as the ones that make up my collection. They were effectively my bills, but with less holes and neatly packaged on a shelf in Bootle. What were my undies doing on a shelf in Asda? I have no idea. Why did I insist on buying all of them? I have no idea. Why had I gone to the Asda in Bootle when it is without doubt one of the worst shopping experiences that can befall anyone? Again, no answers were forthcoming from my dream memories so once I was fully awake I spent a good 15 minutes trying to figure out the possible meaning behind the dream.

I came up with two theories initially.

Undies Theory 1: I was out yesterday. Out from 2pm. Out in a big way to watch the Mighty Reds, to toast their success and catch up with mates who I haven’t seen for ages. It was going to be heavy. On one of these days a couple of years ago the conversation got on to undies and subsequently inventions. An initial discussion about the perils of wearing white undies (one of the lads only wears white Calvins) led seamlessly on to going on the ale in white undies and the possible consequences of a full-day drinking Guinness on the said undies. The conversation led quickly on to someone needing to come up with a solution for these potential problems (let’s not go into details on this issue, we can all imagine) which led seamlessly to the invention of: Invisibills – “The stain disguisers”. Perfect for all-dayers.

Before we finished our pints to head home we were looking up the patent process convinced we had struck on a goldmine and spent the taxi ride home trying to book Dragons’ Den until someone pointed out that we had a bit of a rival already out there in the form of any pair of black undies.

Bastard.

Undies Theory 2: I wrote some words on here after Norwich away that included the song my son made up entitled Undies Undies Undies.

For those who haven’t come across it before it is a heartfelt little number written to celebrate any event of sheer joy. Convinced that the Reds were going to be great the song was fresh in my mind.

A third theory began to form in my mind’s eye the more the morning went on. Gone was the previous confidence and belief that we would win and in its place the nagging doubts, the what ifs — a fear of the unknown was pervading every ounce of my brain.

Images of joy were suddenly replaced by flashes, snippets of disaster. What if Kloppo isn’t a genius? What if Albie Moreno hasn’t had a brain transplant during the summer and does something bananas? What if Big Si reverts to type and starts lashing the ball in his net again? What if I was dreaming about undies because I was shitting myself about the Reds’ chances and deep down in the recesses of my mind knew that some of these what ifs were more when will they happen? And people who shit themselves need to think about undies more than people who don’t because they have significantly more undies-based admin to carry out.

And then the game kicked off and the negative what ifs began to play out in front of our eyes. The Reds were sluggish all over the pitch (with the possible exception of Mane and the centre halves), not aggressive enough and more importantly couldn’t pass or control the ball, which is a bit of an issue really.

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Albie Moreno appeared to either have some form of nervous breakdown for 20 minutes or was possibly being controlled by a giant Xbox-in-the-sky-playing Greek God, with a fetish for being arlarse. The headed through ball/two-footed death lunge that preceded the penalty and started the rot was astonishing. Gutted that the referee didn’t give the pen or that the Arsenal lad didn’t see the attempted drop kick coming, The Greek God controlling Albie then lashed out his special move from Streets of Rage and convinced Albs to make a late push for the Olympic record for attempting to kick a shin to the moon when it would have been much easier to kick the ball out for a throw.

Our response to the penalty save was pretty much unforgivable. No-one anywhere on the pitch thinks it might be a good idea for us to sit in for a minute, to take the sting out of the game, kill it for five, and so our shape goes to bits, Albie’s God overlord keeps his finger on the sprint button for a bit and they score and the game is finished and I don’t think I’ll ever forgive them and then they are all forgiven, forever, for any future misdemeanours.

The 20 minutes after Coutinho’s first was as good as it gets. The Reds were brilliant. They played with the intensity, purpose and aggression that was lacking in the first half.

They knew Arsenal were on the back foot, and so decided to take that back foot and belt them round the chops with it until they begged for mercy. The pace and purpose on the break was glorious. Sadio Mane was glorious but the willingness for more, to dominate, to kill them off was brilliant to see. This Liverpool side revels in disorder, in pulling a game and opposition apart so they don’t know whether they are coming or going. The one question left after the 20-minute super spell and subsequent relaxing was whether we would be able to see the game out. Once they scored the third heads went left, right and centre and yet — despite conceding three goals — I thought we defended pretty well, Albie’s whacky 15-minute spell aside.

The Reds are on the march again and all of them lingering doubts and fears from before the match have disappeared to be replaced by a fresh set of questions.

• What will happen when the Reds actually play well for 90 minutes?
• How many will we score with Dan Sturridge playing?
• Who’s going to beat us?
• What undies will I wear when we win the league and go on the ale for a week? I don’t think “Invisibills” will cut it. Do you reckon I could make a pair out of re-enforced baby wipes?

Get on the blower to the Dragons, lad, we are on to something here.

Up the mighty undie-wearing Reds.

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