It is, indeed, a strange yet vital issue for every Liverpudlian. Nothing I’ve ever witnessed compares to the confused scenario it presents to Liverpudlians. To the pro-Houllierites the witch-hunt is simply indefensible. Meanwhile, to the anti-Houllierites so, it seems, is any defence of the man. To many of the vast bulk in between the situation appears impossible to formulate a reliable judgement upon.
‘Against the Tide’ was an angry piece. Reading back over it, at times it almost feels as if the feelings expressed are of the writer himself being cornered. It was the fifth in a series of articles I’d written defending Gerard Houllier. Commencing with one around Christmas time entitled ‘Stand By Your Man’ – which had in actual fact been quite critical albeit ultimately supportive of the manager – the pieces had become progressively more strident in his defence to match the mounting levels of criticism against him. ‘Against the Tide’ had pulled very few punches.
As the analogies infer, I had perceived the criticism against Gerard Houllier like some tidal wave that threatened to swamp him. So unfair did I see it all that it had reached the point where I was almost taking the insults personally. I should add that such a response was not untypical of me whenever something [Anfield or our city] or someone [our manager or Liverpudlians per se] precious to me is being attacked. It is the way I’m programmed.
The essence of the piece was that anybody slagging Houllier was merely a gloryhunting bastard masquerading as a Liverpool fan. When you’re attacked you evidently defend yourself even against those who purport to be from your own stock. As the stakes are raised a different sort of enemy can come into focus; even from within.
In the immediate aftermath of the Fulham and Charlton games I’d had at least half a dozen altercations with fellow Reds slagging the manager. Anyone who knows me will know they would not have been mellow disagreements. Nor were they. I was raging at what I saw as the complete inequity of it all. Now I’m approaching 53 years of age and clearly should know better but I am in no way ashamed to say that several of these arguments had sufficient vehemence to have quite easily gotten out of hand. Fact was, no way was I backing down in my defence of this man against what I perceived as utter drivel.
Later, in The Standard’s car park before our post-match bevy I sat and fumed as John Keith on Radio Merseyside proceeded with his remorseless manipulation of the phone-in so as to present a scenario of Reds across the city completely disaffected with and disillusioned by the manager. Or should I clarify this slightly – by the manager’s caution, his Wimbledon-like team, his purchase of inexperienced players, his non-purchase of established ones, his perseverance with Heskey, his post-match interviews and, no doubt if ever he had given them so much as a glimpse, the skidmarks on his Catenaccio style red, white and blue underpants. A democratic cross-section of Liverpudlians it wasn’t. A Houllier witch-hunt this most certainly was becoming. The overwhelming insinuation, nay, concensus was that Houllier could no longer do anything right. Indeed, that he was some sort of buffoon.
Nor had that been all. No sir. All this was merely the unpalatable dessert to the lavish banquet that formed its gory backdrop.
The aperitifs had been provided by the website forums where cavorting jackals gathered daily and nightly to discuss flesh-ripping strategies for Houllier’s impending carcass. The relentless tide of insults and slurs against the man took the breath away with their sheer vindictiveness and snide intent. Yet what was possibly even more dismaying was the non-responsiveness to such slandering of our manager from so many fellow Reds who themselves were clearly not anti-Houllier. It was almost as if slagging our manager had become an acceptable way for fellow Reds to conduct themselves. No problem lads. Simply the way society has evolved. Respect and integrity for the man at our helm? Are you kiddin? You some sort of fuckin dinosaur or something?
You bet I am.
The starter course, meanwhile, had been provided, amongst others, by Ian St John in the latest of his acerbic media swipes at ‘The Frenchman’. That had been merely rancorous though in its own insidious way no less disagreeable.
And the main course?
Well, sadly that had arrived courtesy of a person who if not exactly the bosomest of my buddies is someone I certainly still consider to be a mate of mine and, most definitely, a Red I hold in high esteem. Steve Kelly in the editorial of his influential and – invariably in my opinion – unmissable ‘Through The Wind And Rain’ fanzine had called not only for an end to Houllier’s reign but, subsequently on his website forum, had actually gone on to lambast the wretched fellow for bemoaning why so many ex-Reds were speaking out against him whilst ex-Blues stood shoulder to shoulder with their former club’s management.
Sacre Bleu!! The nerve of this Frenchman exclaimed an indignant Steve!! How dare this fellow come over to our shores and consider his meagre contribution to our cause gives him the right to defend himself against such unblemished and noble souls as our ex-Reds with their inestimable championship medals flashing for fun!!
I’d had enough. The collective shallowness, fickleness and hypocrisy was too much. Steve Kelly finally emerging from the closet within which he’d mooched around uncomfortably for four years I saw as the final straw. Cautious football, a mid-season collapse and dashed Premiership, Champions League and EUFA cup aspirations were one thing and certainly the criticisms, groans, whines and moans of any fan that accompanied those calamities were understandable. What I was hearing and reading was, however, quite another. This was utterly scandalous pillorying and writing off of a man who was doing – and had always done – his level best for the club. Indeed, who only eighteen months before, had almost died at its helm. This was a man who – whatever the respective merits of the competitions and whatever the cautious manner of much of their execution – had already given us four trophies to end what had been virtually a barren decade for silverware and who was still very much in the process – perhaps even the early stages – of formulating his master plans.
Alex Ferguson had not had this sort of tirade to contend with after his first five years at the helm of Manchester United had yielded zilch, yet here was Gerard Houllier being tried, judged, pronounced guilty, hung, drawn and quartered – or at the very least found to be disparagingly inadequate – by some of the very people who scarcely two years earlier had extolled his virtues to the Gods in the heavens. Who knows by some of them perhaps as one of the very gods in the heavens.