Hugo Ekitike is a gladiator in a pound shop, unaware that the Romans have hobbled the lions

It’s a good thing that football doesn’t matter, because if it did, I might be tempted to start ranting.

And if I did, that Newcastle United rant might look something like this:

Saturday night at Anfield was furious. Just a rage-inducing horror.

I’m not talking about Newcastle’s performance in their biggest defeat of the season; sensible people cannot agree on that. We were good in the first half, worse in the second I thought.

I’m talking about everything else. Because we’re nothing more than a naive gambler in Vegas, who plays a decent hand every now and then, but the house always, always wins.

First, Alexander had to see Isak in the stands. Banquo’s ghost, the ugly face of ambition, looking bored and indifferent to the chaos he has caused. Did he even notice that the two attackers we had to sign at short notice, real runners but not at his level, had both dropped out?

Eddie Howe continues to work on how to play without one of the world’s most instinctive players, but it’s a cycle that can’t be squared. I expect Isak has moved on, and to be honest, I thought so too, until this Saturday night knocked us back into place.

Alexander Isak left because he is more likely to win the big trophies at Liverpool (ED: And more than double his wages…). He’s right, of course, because of a biased system that long ago lifted the ladder among the clubs of Liverpool, Arsenal, Chelsea and Manchester. As a result, we may strike the odd blow at the leading, protected clubs, but the status quo will always ultimately prevail.

Newcastle United defeated Liverpool in the Carabao Cup final last year to deliver an unusually exciting blow in the battle we will always lose. But even that was made annoying by my acquaintance’s Liverpool fans. They offered patronizing congratulations (“oh, I don’t mind, it’s great that the Geordies are finally winning something”), knowing their ambitions are grander and not worrying too much about this background gimmick.

Then there was the summer of stress, when Liverpool did the work of an afternoon for two months and signed our most important player. But it’s much worse than that. Flush with cash, and on a whim they also bought the peroxide prat, Hugo Ekitike. It was clearly a bad player, but a talented bad player. This was a player we had been following for years, and the obvious replacement for Isak. Liverpool ended up getting all the toys because they’re a big kid, we’re not, and that’s how the big kids want it.

So it has been clear for a while that Liverpool really irritates me. It’s possible that I started the race in a bad mood.

We scored through Gordon and hopes rose. Not my hope, you understand, but my kids sitting on the couch seemed to enjoy it. I saw reality coming from miles away. And of course Ekitike scored. Twice. Who else would score? The crucial signing at Newcastle, the nice signing at Liverpool, would always haunt us. What really got me, though, was his charmless celebration: the angry face, the angry chest thrusts, the joyless looks around the stadium. He is a gladiator in a pound shop, unaware that the Romans have bothered the lions.

Thierry Henry always partied so much, and that’s why I could never stand him, despite his talent. The joyless celebration of the goal drove me crazy, and I wanted to shout: “You are not a plucky underdog pulling off an improbable victory! You are an elite player, lazily taking advantage of the advantages that have been ingrained since you arrived in the country!”. At least smile bloody and enjoy your success.

So when Ekitike snaps and snickers while celebrating his goals, he thinks it’s one thing, but it’s actually another. He thinks he has righted injustice – that he is a freedom fighter who is putting the world back on a just footing. But he is Darth Bloody Vader – frontman of the evil empire – firing the Death Star’s laser at a hopelessly overpowered enemy planet. He’s a flat-out bully, B-team bowling bouncer, in a way that was both predictable and deeply depressing.

Liverpool’s third goal was even more annoying than that.

The goal itself was nothing: scored at walking pace, gently rolled into the net, like a gift in the final moments of a testimonial match. But the celebrations drove me up against the wall. Liverpool’s players barely raised their arms as they knew it wasn’t much. It sealed a victory they had always assumed was theirs. The world was as we all knew it. They walked around congratulating each other with a lukewarm enthusiasm that stuck in my throat, and when I heard the ‘celebration’ from the Anfield crowd I almost stuck a foot through my TV.

Before I continue, I ask you to go back and watch the highlights. Close your eyes and just listen as that third Liverpool goal is scored. Do you hear what I hear?

I hear a quiet, pathetically weak, half-hearted “yes,” as if someone has called for an ad shoot. The cheering reflects the players’ celebration and is self-congratulatory, proving that even the home fans know the truth on some level: this is not a real victory and the game is rigged.

They may be in a real battle with the other bullies at the big club, but against everyone else? Not at all. They know they will finish above all other clubs almost every year. Every now and then there will be an exception that proves the rule: Leicester coming out of nowhere, Aston Villa on a doomed quest to break in (ED: Newcastle United finishing above Liverpool in 2022/23), but this always recovers after a one-season divergence. They can’t get excited about a done deal. I’m surprised the scousers bother turning up.

I understand Liverpool ended up scoring four. I didn’t watch it at the time, so I can’t say much about that. At 3-1 the match was not simply lost: the defeat was so crammed down my throat that it almost choked me. I dismissed myself because I thought I had to protect the children from my extreme cynicism.

But wait! Aren’t we also a privileged club, clogged with unspendable money and just as likely to want to connect the clubs among us? Yes! Yes. We. Are. I dare say Brentford did not enjoy our search for Wissa and the Championship clubs may have limited sympathy for our plight. To me, their anger is as justified as mine – and if a Watford or Sheffield Wednesday fan wrote their equivalent of this rant, I’d nod along.

So where does this leave my fandom? Things have gotten better in the Eddie Howe era. That’s clear. We have better players, win more games, play in Europe and even won something. I am grateful for that.

But if I really believe – and I do – that we will never break into the true Premier League elite, why bother? I don’t have a good answer for that and it’s hard to see this week’s match against Manchester City improving my mood.

I would crawl into a darkened room if I wasn’t already there.