Sunday afternoon at Anfield is being treated as a summit of the old powers. Man City arrive on Merseyside for their first game since they were found guilty of breaching Premier League rules, and the Kop is preparing as though a head of state were flying in to negotiate a trade deal. Bus welcomes are expected. Banners are being drafted, laminated and, in at least one known case, footnoted. Flags are being unfurled in the coordinated silence that usually precedes a treaty.
Let’s be honest about the stakes. This is not a football match. It is a diplomatic incident waiting for a referee to sign the communique. Stewards are being briefed. The stewards are being briefed on the briefing. Somewhere in the concourse a man is holding a pint and a theory about the compliance department, and nobody is going to dissuade him.
The fans are magnificent in their outrage and their theatre. Banshee chants have been rehearsed in car parks. The scarves are being sorted by colour with the care ambassadors bring to seating charts. Nobody wants to be the one who misses the moment the away end receives its traditional, deeply considered welcome.
The absurdity is the point. We have built a cathedral of grievance around a Sunday fixture, and we intend to sing in it until someone finally turns the lights off.