Plucky Liverpool put six past a sorry Aston Villa and there's no-one left to blame.

The yawning chasm opens up before you. Clinging on with all your life, you can feel your soul sucked into the eternal vacuums of time and space. Ninety minutes passed like ninety seconds and in those moments there's nothing except a constantly updating twitter feed. It reads like this.

'fuk of Randy learner' - @Villa4life

You wake. Your christened eyes open up, closing as the sun's rays beat against your dreary lids. A hand rises to offer them shelter with the shadow created from your fingers against your forehead. You take in the scenes, a mass of people leaving their church in defiance of that sacred law, handed down from a mountain and etched in stone: 'Don't leave before the final whistle!'.

Leandro Bacuna strolls around the pitch, but what can he do to save this game? Daniel Sturridge's arms bend and wave before the Holte End, after a trip to the underworld he is welcomed back to this one with a goal. Minutes later (or is it only seconds?) Micah Richards looks to the sky. It's Aston Villa nil, Liverpool two and he's seen this so many times before.

You glance around, programmes filled with pictures and interviews fly through the air - lies and lies told by those who want their hands firmly placed 'tween the seams of your pockets. Many are realising the con and the game is up as the Northerners plant a third into the grasp of the net.

Screams and jibes fly freely. The howls of the enraged thicken the air. They call for the head of one man, the absent king and in his stead, they target his mental bodyguards. The spears are out and they need to land somewhere, surely? Jubilation continues with a fourth. Liverpudlian cries of ecstasy fill the air as their hero meets the surge of the crowd. Between sock and sloppy kiss, Divock Origi is in heaven. Strangely, a Bayer Levurkusen cap can be seen within the rush.

Gabby Agbonlahor sits broken on the ground, from the stands 'his brothers' heckle him. He limps off the pitch and is replaced. Another wreck to throw on the scrapheap that started in the year two-thousand and fifteen. A week away from heroics, he finds himself the villain, but for what reason? An elderly man sits, SLR camera held between his weakening hands, will this be his last visit to the Villa? Will he only ever bare witness to the streams of claret that are pumping so forcefully from the corpse of the lion? The same one he saw proudly standing on top of the words 'prepared', the motto that seems to be little more than a sardonic jab now.

Outside, fans pour past and vent into a microphone held by a young student. With no-one else to blame, with no-one else to fight and as the last breath wheezes out of their lion, slaughtered in their house, will they turn on each other? Fingers point so quickly and fans stream out of the ground. Those who are left will chant their war songs until it's all over. A bald Scotsman and a young Englishman applaud their fans whilst Joleon Lescott's ass sends out a tweet.