An obvious talking point would be the manner of Spurs' goals. Both route-one, Robinson - Berbatov's flick - Keane's finish; the sort of thing that our usually sturdy defence would mop up a thousand times and barely break a sweat. We're used to seeing Hyypia outpaced these days, and nine times out of ten he has the positional sense and anticipation to make up for it, but it was a real shock to see him out-jumped and out-muscled. Big Sami has been such a constant servant for Liverpool for so long that this latest possible sign of his decline filled me with genuine sadness.
However, the papers have already carried out their overexcited inquest, and I don't think I've got anything new to add. The one thing we should be grateful for is that the usual mutterings about rotation have been silenced, since we were playing pretty much what I would call our best available team, apart from Riise at left-midfield; we've got better wingers and he should be playing left-back or not at all.
Instead I'm going to talk about our opening goal. These are what I consider the indisputable facts: Gerrard's free-kick was hit hard, and it took a significant deflection; Robinson kept it out, but put it straight to the feet of Voronin, who finished calmly. So far, so uncontroversial.
However, in most newspapers this seems to have been described as another "Robinson howler". Is that fair? It strikes me that the press have got their hyena-like jaws around a new victim and are not going to let him go until they've shaken all the life out of him.
When he left Leeds and joined Spurs, the papers were convinced Robinson was the new Shilton or Banks; David Seaman's illustrious career was just winding down in a sad spiral of mistakes and embarrassments, and Robinson, along with Chris Kirkland and Rob Green, were being held as the exciting new young things of English goalkeeping. Now, a few short years later, Robinson has had a bad start to the season, errors against Villa coming on top of an arguably unlucky mistake for England against Croatia at the end last season, and suddenly he is being held aloft as the worst goalkeeper since sliced bread. Readers old enough to remember sliced bread's ignominious season between the sticks at Cardiff City in the late Eighties will realise just how damning an indictment that is.
We saw the same happen at Liverpool to, in rapid succession, Sander Westerveld, Jerzy Dudek and Kirkland. Westerveld had, admittedly, been erratic for a season or two before Dudek and Kirkland were simultaneously brought in, but Dudek was exceptional for a whole season before suddenly having a couple of absolutely disastrous games against United and never being the same player again. Kirkland managed to protect himself from the worst of the papers' attacks for a couple of years by cleverly injuring every possible part of his body so that he never played (seriously - how do you bruise a kidney?), but, once he'd run out of limbs, vertebrae and organs to twist, strain or break and he had to face a few shots, he got dragged down by the hunting press pack just as savagely as his predecessors.
Is this fair? Goalkeeping is a highly-pressured, highly-visible profession, requiring not only split-second decision-making but the self-confidence to trust your instincts when you make those decisions. It makes sense, then, that when your confidence is shaken - say by letting a scuffed shot from a goal-shy Uruguayan mediocrity with a He-Man haircut trickle through first your arms then your legs before rolling feebly into the net at less than five miles an hour during a game against your most hated rivals - you might start questioning your instincts, and start finding yourself getting caught in that horrible no-man's-land between coming for a cross and staying on your line. That's to be expected, and the manager has a decision as to whether to leave you out for a bit to get your head together, or try to rebuild your confidence by putting you straight back on the horse.
However, as the cliché goes, form is temporary, class is permanent; a good keeper does not become a bad keeper overnight, however badly shaken their confidence is. In the rush for quick copy, simple narratives and obvious scapegoats, however, newspapers forget this - suddenly a spilled shot isn't a mistake or bad luck, it's symptomatic of his underlying incompetence. In a profession where confidence in your own abilities is everything, it's hardly surprising that so few keepers end up fulfilling their promise. Look at Tim Howard, Richard Wright, David James, even Fabien Barthez; a few high-profile cock-ups and they get farmed out to lesser clubs and/or made into a laughing stock.
I don't know what will happen with Paul Robinson - he's obviously resilient, having relocated from Ramsey Street to London and survived the collapse of his Lassiter's empire and the loss of his leg (I'm allowed one Neighbours joke, surely?), but the press is on his back so much at the moment that I suspect they won't rest until Scott Carson or Green gets a go for England, or Ben Foster when he comes back. He'll keep playing for Spurs, of course - their second-choice keeper is someone called Cerny who has yet, as far as I know, to get a minute on pitch for them - but everywhere he goes he'll get the chants of "dodgy keeper", and he'll probably never quite regain that early confidence.
Pepe Reina had a few wobbles in his first couple of seasons; palming a Lee Carsley free-kick straight on to the head of Andy Johnson in the Goodison derby was a particularly painful moment, as was getting himself naively sent off against Chelsea by the cheating little goblin Arjen Robben's theatrics. Thankfully Benitez had the good sense to ignore the press hysteria and stick with the young man (it's easy to forget that Pepe is only 24, since he has the hairline of a forty-three-year-old media sales executive called Clive), and now a season or so later he has at his disposal one of the finest keepers in the Premiership who is, you assume, only going to improve. However, it might only take one or two mistakes in big games, and suddenly the witch-hunt could begin again; and next time, it could cost a gifted player his career. I'm almost tempted to start a campaign - Protect the Keeper.