The crazy, sleepless world of today’s freedom fighting, wrestling, football superstars.

It’s been a curious old week in the game over the past seven days.

The early season touchline beard stroking and technical mastery of Rafa Benitez that engineered Liverpool’s ascent to the top of the league seems to have been replaced by a frantic flurrying for lost tactic notes in his facial fur.

Things have stopped going right on the pitch for Liverpool and off it things have gone, well “crazy”.

Those five letters may come to resemble the story of Rafa’s season.

The teams crumbling at Wigan midweek followed by the gaffer doing the same in the press room is a clear indiction that Liverpool are bottling it.

The dysphoria that current resides around the Red’s title aspirations isn’t new for prospective new comers in the title race.

It seems to be yet another case of the glorious fall from grace that comes when managers feel that to win the title they have to knock out “Mr Ferguson” with a heavy, well aimed verbal cuffing.

Ever since Rafa’s rant about referee’s favouring United and Fergie’s dismissal of the situation as the “ridiculous” babbling of the “disturbed” the club has been sent tumbling on a downward spiral.

At the moment Benitez resembles a small browbeaten child urged by his father to stand up to his feared rival the school bully. As the concerned dad tells his cowering offspring “change your piss stained underpants, put your head up and walk with your shoulders straight and if he picks on you again kick him straight in the bollocks”.

However, in this case when the goateed child returns to school and is cornered by the brute, the courageous swing of his right peg is dodged and counter-manoeuvred by the bully into a pain staking wedgie before victoriously dumping his victim into a litter bin submitting the poor lad to a lifetime of low self esteem and a career in I.T.

Rafa needs to learn quickly that championships against Manchester United are not won in the press room. He must inspire his side to get back to their early season form on the pitch and keep winning games no matter how well they play and maybe, just maybe they will have a chance.

Other interesting interludes this week have included the goal celebrations of Solomon Kalou and the curious case of Charles Insomnia, err N’Zogbia.

Little Charlie has refused to play for Newcastle again while Joe Kinnear is at the helm due to the managers inability to get his name right on the telly.

“They were schoolboy quotes. I should get a cane and give him six of the best” said the S&M loving Magpies boss.

And after scoring for Chelsea during Wednesday night's match against Middlesborough it was suggested Soloman Kalou’s crossed fist gesture was made in support of imprisoned countryman and writer Antoine Assalé Tiémoko.

Much debate has followed with the most likely conclusions being narrowed down to Tiemoko, the salute of his favourite WWE wrestler John Cena or a nod to his love of Akon’s Konvict Records label.

Whether it’s freedom of speech, bad music or grappling, perhaps it is the latter that should settle football’s scores.

I mean, look at what Rafa's use of freedom of speech has done to Liverpool.

Imagine N’Zogbia and Kinnear rolling round in the mud at the club’s training ground or the heavyweight championship bout between Fergie and Rafa.

Although I suspect if that were to happen Six Alex would have Benitez locked on the floor whilst sat on the Spaniard with a tweezer plucking hairs from his goatee one by one.

Perhaps Rafa should tag his partner Robbie Keane into the ring to help him survive the torment?

You lost but how about a tossing off from old Brucie?

The dust has well and truly settled.

The reality of the struggle to attain a top six finish against teams with premiership parachutes sewn together with pound notes will come back into play from Tuesday.

I remain a proud Claret in face of the Spurs defeat, that’s one thing that’s unwavering.

But now I would like to mourn the passing of Wednesday’s Wembley opportunity without the continued condescending moral comforting from other clubs supporters.

I don’t need or want a Spurs, Rovers or fan of any club to give me the token “well done” or “you boys deserved it more”.

For all their supercilious good will, they might as well come and whisper “there, there” in my ear whilst patting me on the head or why not go the whole hog and offer me a consolation hand-job to soothe my disappointment.

Football’s a cut throat game where fans biased opinions matter.

Working in a Blackburn office I’d rather have a gloating Rovers fan spouting gash about how great our demise was than seek his solace.

At least then there’s still something to hate about losing.

Today the whole workforce has turned into caricature of Bruce Forsyth, with each well wisher coining the “didn’t they do well” catchphrase.

Last night saw a Tottenham supporting friend of mine send a barrage of pissy text messages about how he wished we’d have gone through instead and will buy me a drink for every underserved Spurs goal.

Ok, I’ll still take the six drinks but depression keeps returning because of these people’s smug sentiments.

Now please stop treating me like a failed game show contestant and get back to your relegation battles.

It’s our loss and our moment that’s passed so let me wave to the camera and say I’ve had a jolly good day out without tickling my bottom from behind.

Because lets face it when things go wrong for them I won’t be offering them my tossing off hand in sympathy.

Proud to be a Claret

The final whistle blew after 120 minutes of Claret and Blue bravery.

We were 180 seconds away from Wembley.

Three minutes from the promise land.

You look around you in the stand, people had dared to dream. I had dared to dream.

Tears were shed as the gut wrenching blow of Pavlyuchenko’s winner was compounded by Defoe sticking his salty fingers deep into Burnley’s wound.

It’s not unusual for football to put you through every conceivable emotion but tonight was something incomparable to anything I’ve experienced before and perhaps will ever again.

Last time we reached a cup final in 1962 Spurs denied us victory. Tonight was to be no different in the quest to reach our first in forty seven years.

Many who were there that day in ’62 may never get another chance to see the small town club they adore play in another cup final.

And who knows, this may be the closest I ever get.

But I couldn’t ask anymore of those players and couldn’t be prouder.

Harry’s pooch faced smugness was well and truly wiped away; for tonight Houdini’s escape was a bungled effort which left him gasping for breath.

Spurs can have their heartless multi million pound squad; because tonight I saw two teams leagues apart in terms of character, cohesion and spirit.

The level of performance offered by everyone in Claret and Blue was something to behold.

It’s been a great cup run and something that will live long in the memory.

Beating the likes of Fulham, Arsenal and Chelsea on the road to the semi finals was a tremendous achievement, as was taking Tottenham right to the wire.

The thanks and credit must go to Owen Coyle and his team for what they’ve achieved so far this season.

But it’s not over yet.

I said at the start of the piece I dared to dream.

And I still do.

There may be no League Cup final for us this season, but there are still scalps to be taken in the F.A Cup and a trip to Wembley via the playoffs is still on.

Burnley Football Club should believe it.

The dream never dies.

Up the Clarets.

Let us through...we're from Burnley

As Barack Obama begins redecorating the Oval Office in his paint stained tracksuit bottoms today a similar struggle to gain success is about to take place.

Tonight President Coyle will lead out his beleaguered Claret and Blue troops into battle at Turf Moor.

Our weary Lancastrians have lost five from their last seven games and are faced with righting a three goal deficit after the unjust four one defeat inflicted at White Hart Lane a fortnight ago.

The pain of defeat put a dampener on our planned assault on the Capital’s nightlife afterwards, although it was ruined further by a jobs-worth doorman in Leicester Square deciding a group of six young northern gentlemen was far too many to fill his empty bar on a bitterly cold Tuesday night.

Injuries and suspensions have hit hard this month, while performance levels have dropped faster than the banks share prices.

A seasonal defeat at Preston was typical of the bad luck the team is having at the moment. Not even a wonder strike from Robbie Blake could stop the referee interpreting the rule book with Lilywhite tendentiousness.

While City’s Arabs are being knocked back for attempting to corrupt and seduce Kaka by slipping millions of euros down his jockstrap, the other end of football’s financial scale is hardly as enchanting.

Offloading the likes of Gabor Kiraly Ade Akinbiyi and Steve Jones has become a necessity in order to bring in new faces.

This leaves the club in an arduous position and makes the task of strengthening weaker positions in the team such as central defence and right full back doubly difficult.

But we fight on with what we have. And there’s no doubt that within the current squad there is an abundance of attacking quality and drive in the midfield.

If we can get Chris Eagles, Wade Elliot and Robbie Blake on song with Chris McCann and Kevin McDonald surging through the middle then anything’s possible.

Winning the game would be a fitting end to our life in the competition. The score line might not be enough to send us down to Wembley but it will lift the spirits of the fans when form isn’t great and games are coming thick and fast.

Plus it’ll put a halt to any more altercations with oafish, overly fastidious London door staff.

Although if we do make it to Wembley there won't be any bars in the capital not full of Claret and Blue come the first weekend in March.

The cruel tick of the clock

Approximately 20:45 on Tuesday night I was in heaven.

The half time whistle had been blown at White Hart Lane where Burnley had outplayed Spurs for the duration of the first period with their slick, open, attractive footballing display.

A brilliant piece of play by Chris Eagles had left the Tottenham defence motionless as he weaved into the box to square the ball for Martin Paterson to make it one nil to the Clarets.

There were scenes of joy and jubilation as the style and level of performance that’d already seen off Fulham, Chelsea and Arsenal looked to be working again. Jermain Defoe must have been pulling that ridiculous hat down over his face in disgust.

Hugs, handshakes and text messages to absent friends were flying around while contact with my Spurs mate had gone remarkably quiet. He must have been feeling a bit of a tit for all his pre match talk of a Claret and Blue annihilation.

The mood was perhaps epitomised by the big screen, which cruelly replayed the Burnley goal at several different angles, with each play receiving an ever louder cheer from the away fans.

The substantial number of “it’s never over until it’s over” clichés will testify that football isn’t a game to be resting on your laurels. Deep down we all know this, however on the odd occasion we allow ourselves to get carried away.

Burnley were leading in the semi finals of the League Cup for Christ’s sake.

But as we cheered and jeered, Harry Redknapp was busy giving a team talk of orgasmic proportions.

Whether he morphed into Coach D’Amato in “Any Given Sunday” or William Wallace at the Battle of Falkirk it certainly worked.

Perhaps ‘Arry had hooked up the action on the big screen through to the dressing room and it was him that was rewinding the video that was sending the fans in the stands as giddy as a teenager drinking their first bottle of blue WKD.

With the restart our joyful marriage to the first half was about to be met with the revelation of a cold, callous mistress.

A four goal humping in the second period left us with a deficit not even Gordon Ramsey would be able to rebuild.

The details of the way we imploded are now irrelevant. Of course, there is a chance of a second leg come back at the Turf.

Believe me, I’ve already dreamt of an early goal multiplying into two or maybe three while the North Londoner’s are still thinking about the shade of their Cup Final suits.

But realistically, the best we can hope for to beat Spurs on the night. Wembley may be a step too far, but Owen Coyle needs to pull up his men’s shorts to cover their red spanked bottoms and go down in a blaze of glory a week on Tuesday.

If we can end what has been a fantastic cup run on a high then I’m sure they’ll be a ground full of even more proud Clarets than there already are.

Gerrard's jukebox and a spot of bother

Steven Gerrard has found himself front page news this week.

Normally the star of the rear of a newspaper, the England international has been sharing pages with the Israeli attacks on Gaza, the despair in the housing market and Zoë, 17, from London.

He was arrested and subsequently charged with assault and affray following an altercation with the D.J at the vapidly named Lounge Inn in Southport in the early hours of Monday morning.

The whole sorry incident is said to have taken place over the D.J’s refusal to play one of Gerrard’s favourite songs.

A known admirer of the musical ditty’s of Phil Collins, its little wonder the man behind the decks kept his principals and was prepared to lose a tooth to rebuff the request.

If that was actually the case then he must be in line for the “Outstanding Contribution to Music Award” at this year’s Brit Awards.

Perhaps if Gerrard’s alleged misdemeanour had taken place in Knowsley it would have attracted less attention.

As a freeman of the borough, slapping around a part time D.J is surely only secondary to driving his sheep down the main street of his home town.

Whatever went on and whether he is innocent or not, Gerrard is undoubtedly one of the most important footballers to come out of the country in recent years.

His ability, drive, passion and indispensability has carried Liverpool to European success and to the brink of domestic triumph.

Every Red’s fan in the country will have fingers, toes and anything crossable crossed that this won’t influence their title aspirations.

If Gerrard does falter Rafa Benitez will have to hope Fernando Torres can rise from the treatment table to take the mantle and rediscover his form of last season.

But this blow comes at a time when Manchester United have fought their way to a series of one nil victories ready for their traditional New Year blitz on the Premier League.

We all now Sir Alex Ferguson will burst every blood vessel left in his increasingly cardinal cheeks to ensure it’s the Manchester Reds who sit perched at the top of the pile come May.

Gerrard will have to be more determined than ever if he is to be undeterred by the combined pressure of the clubs domestic and European campaigns, the legal process and the impending lambasting from opposition fans.

I imagine the chants of sewing bags, finding a file in the half time oranges and being sodamised in the showers have already been dreamt up.

Not to mention; “You’re just a sh** Joey Barton”.

I’m sure we’ll all be watching and listening intently when he takes to the field at Preston this evening.

If he is to eventually be found guilty and locked up it would be a flagitious blow to Liverpool Football Club’s attempts to rejoin the English Championship winning elite.

However it might provide Fabio Caello with the unlikeliest of solutions to the Lampard/Gerrard debate.