The jubilation of Anfield spilled out on the evening breeze of Merseyside, drifting to the Boot Room pub not far away.
This tavern—a place soaked in the memories of countless Liverpool supporters was now consumed wholly by the ecstasy of back-to-back goals.
On the television, the screen replayed Julien's assist and Suárez's finish.
The commentator's passionate voice was swallowed full by the roar of the fans and the clatter of pint glasses.
"Julien! Suárez!"
The whole pub was chanting their names.
"I said we'd win big!" one fan shouted. "Look at this rhythm—Arsenal can't hold on!"
"Damn right! Someone in here was thumping his chest earlier saying we'd hammer Arsenal. We didn't believe him. Turns out the man's got an eye for it."
The voices traded back and forth until someone looked around the room.
"Speaking of which—where's that bloke? Shouldn't he be out here gloating right now?"
The noise dipped. Everyone followed the glance, scanning the pub, until their eyes landed on a sofa in the corner.
There sat the very fan—dead to the world, slumped sideways on the cushions, fast asleep.
His cheeks were flushed a deep, wine-dark red. A thin thread of drool hung from the corner of his mouth. His Liverpool shirt was crumpled beyond saving, a scarf was thrown carelessly across his chest.
The shouting, the clinking glasses, the television commentary—it all blurred together into a wall of sound that made the sofa itself seem to tremble. Yet it only earned the faintest twitch of his brow.
A few incoherent mumbles gurgled up from his throat, as though some dream had been interrupted. He rolled over and sank back under.
The fans nearby couldn't help themselves. Laughter rippled through the group.
"Would you look at him—passed out drunk and missed the whole celebration!"
The closest one reached over and gave his shoulder a gentle nudge. No response. Only a vague, unintelligible grumble, barely audible over the ruckus.
Then the television replayed Julien's brilliant run, and the pub erupted again.
Perhaps the wave of noise pierced through whatever dream he was having.
The sleeping fan's lips moved. His eyes stayed shut—but a few words slipped out: "Five… nil…"
Nobody caught it.
He slept on contentedly, the corners of his mouth curving up slightly, as though somewhere in his dreams he was watching his club sweep Arsenal 5–0.
He muttered one last blurry syllable—"Champions…"—then fell silent, utterly gone.
The pub roared on.
On screen, Arsenal had kicked off again.
The match continued.
The crowd at Anfield was still in full voice, and Liverpool already three goals to the good showed no sign of easing off. If anything, they pressed harder, feasting on Arsenal's increasingly rattled back line.
In the 43rd minute, Kanté won the ball in midfield and played it to De Bruyne. De Bruyne pushed forward and slid a pass to Julien, who was making a run down the left. Julien used his pace to shake Sagna and cut inside, then pulled it back across the box for Suárez.
The ball was just barely blocked out for a corner by Koscielny.
De Bruyne stepped up to take it, curving it toward Van Dijk's run. Van Dijk rose high and threw his head at it—powerful, but fractionally wide of the right post. A joint groan of near-miss disappointment swept through Anfield.
Arsenal found almost no room to hit back. They looked flustered.
In stoppage time, Liverpool conjured another chance.
Julien received a pass from Gerrard, shimmied past Wilshere with a quick one-two of his feet, then threaded a perfectly-weighted through ball that split the defence. Suárez ran onto it in a half-clear position. Facing Szczęsny coming off his line, Suárez went for the far corner and shaved the post.
In those final minutes, Arsenal were almost completely defenceless.
The playmaker was pinned down by Kanté and couldn't organise anything meaningful. Giroud was isolated, barely getting a touch. On the touchline, Wenger waved his arms ceaselessly, urging his side to steady themselves.
But his players had long since lost the thread in Liverpool's relentless high-tempo game. Passes went astray. Defensive positioning grew more chaotic by the minute. They could only absorb the pressure and cling to the 3–0 scoreline.
Pewee!
At last, the referee's whistle cut through everything. Half-time.
For Arsenal, it felt like a lifeline.
At least they could breathe.
Liverpool walked into the dressing room carrying a three-goal lead.
Martin Tyler's voice came through as the whistle sounded:
"That is half-time! Liverpool lead Arsenal three-nil—and this has been nothing short of a demolition job. Arsenal have been completely lost here at Anfield. From the opening minutes under pressure to the defensive collapse that followed, they've shown almost none of the resilience you'd expect from a club of their stature.
Liverpool's attacking output has been ferocious. Julien's individual quality and his reading of team shape have been seamless—but more critically, their transition game has been extremely sharp. Every time they win the ball back; it becomes a lethal threat almost immediately.
Is this what champions look like?
Calm tactical adjustments. Clinical transitions. Consistent output from the key men. Liverpool are showing the hallmarks of a top-level side. And remember—they haven't won the top flight since the Premier League era began. For years they've been searching for the road back.
But tonight, that road looks very, very short.
In the second half, the question is whether Wenger can find a way through—and whether Liverpool can sustain this level of dominance…"
Arsenal's players walked off with their heads down. Mertesacker and Koscielny came last, walking shoulder to shoulder, faces drawn, exchanging the odd soft words with nothing but helplessness was between them.
Wenger lingered at the back of the group, turned for one last look at the churning cauldron of Anfield, and let out a soft sigh.
Then he turned and walked into the dressing room. He had a half to prepare for.
The situation was deeply unfavourable for his Gunners now.
In the Arsenal dressing room, silence.
Only the weight of footsteps and the slow, heavy rhythm of breathing filled the air.
Three goals down at half-time.
Those final minutes were completely overrun. It sat on every man's chest like a stone.
Wenger walked in, there was no anger on his face, just the steady composure that had always been his.
As their manager, he couldn't afford to fall apart.
His eyes moved across the room, settling on each player in turn, before he took his place at the centre.
"I know you're hurting. But this game is not over. We lost the first half because our tactics were nullified—not because you stopped working. No one here carries this alone."
Some of the tension left the room. A few heads came up.
Wenger continued, "Liverpool's transition game is exceptional. Julien's movement and pace pulled our back line apart, but that wasn't just a defensive failure—our whole shape was pushed too high, and we gave them far too much space on the break. What we need now is not to dwell on those mistakes. We set them down. We adjust. We go again."
He didn't wait for a response.
He pulled the tactics board over, sketched out a few lines, and spoke,
"The midfield compresses. Wilshere, you drop deeper and form a double pivot with Arteta. We need to protect the centre and slow their transitions through that area."
He held Wilshere's gaze. "Your technique is more than good enough to do this. Dropping back doesn't mean you stop attacking—it means you become the link between our defence and our attack."
He shifted to the back four. "Mertesacker, Koscielny—tighter positions in the second half. No rushing into challenges. Maintain your distances wide, and do not give De Rocca the space to run in behind. Sagna—cut down your forward runs. Focus on De Rocca cutting inside. Combine with Koscielny when you have to. It is better to surrender the wing than to leave the back line exposed."
For the attacking end, he was equally direct,
"Özil—push up to the edge of the box, alongside Giroud. Cut out the unnecessary recycling in midfield. When you receive, find Giroud's hold-up play immediately, or look for Chamberlain with a through ball in behind. We need to be more direct. We're looking for the gaps that open up when Liverpool's defensive line hasn't finished setting. Cazorla—I want more intensity on the flank. Use your pace to disrupt Cissokho's rhythm.
We defend densely. We hit them on the break. Every attack must be decisive and clean. Every defensive moment must be covered as a unit. We are not chasing three goals. We are chasing one moment at a time."
Wenger set down the marker and gave one last look around the room.
"I know that coming back from three down at Anfield is one of the hardest things in football. But nothing on a football pitch is truly impossible. You are Arsenal players. You did not come here to surrender. Leave the first half in this room. Go out there and treat the next forty-five as a brand-new match. Give everything you have—and whatever the final result, I will be standing here with you."
"Come on!"
"Let's go!"
The players found their voices again.
Wenger allowed himself to show a faint smile.
He knew the deficit was likely too great. But a manager's job was never only tactics. It was keeping men together—keeping belief alive. Whatever the final result, he would make sure this team fought to the very last moment with their dignity intact.
Across the corridor, the atmosphere couldn't have been more different.
Liverpool's dressing room was light.
Klopp had the same message he always had—discipline, focus, respect but the mood around him was easy:
"Stay concentrated. A three-goal lead means nothing if you switch off. Arsene won't sit back and take this. Arsenal will adjust—count on it. I want everyone locked in on their jobs. Execute the same way you did in the first half, and cut out the sloppy mistakes.
Defensively—keep the shape tight. Kanté and Gerrard own the midfield. Don't give Özil the time to pick his passes. Wingers track back. Piszczek and Cissokho stay honest against Chamberlain and Cazorla's runs. Van Dijk commands the back line—no room for Giroud to hold the ball up."
Then Klopp's eyes drifted to Gerrard, and his mouth curved into a grin. "Steven—you of all people know that a three-goal lead at half-time isn't always safe, don't you?"
The room exploded in laughter.
Gerrard shook his head, still smiling. "Don't worry, Jürgen. We won't be giving them a chance."
Julien caught his teammates' eyes and lifted his chin toward them. "Save it for after—stay sharp. We only got three in the first half. Let's get three more in the second. Kill the suspense. Kill it dead."
"Yeah!"
Laughter roared again in the room but this time with an edge to it.
Klopp looked around at them then nodded slowly. "Good. That's exactly what I want to see. Respect the opposition. Trust yourselves. In the second half, every pass, every tackle, every run—make them count. For Anfield. For what we're building. Give everything."
The break was over.
Anfield was engulfed once more in a tidal wave of red.
The noise was louder even than the first half.
Three-nil at half-time. Against Arsenal. People were beginning to believe something that had felt like a dream for a very long time.
They had spent so many years circling the edge of it. Now the shape of a title was beginning to come into focus.
The players walked out to the pitch.
You'll Never Walk Alone rose up from forty-five thousand throats.
The sound rolled and rolled.
Pip!
The referee's whistle.
Second half began.
No changes from either side.
But from the first moment, the shift was clear—most visibly in Arsenal.
Özil was no longer deep in midfield, orchestrating. He'd moved up beside Giroud as a second striker.
From the kick-off, he received, sensed Gerrard closing, and without hesitation played a clean, incisive through ball that split Liverpool's midfield, finding Cazorla making a run down the left.
It was nothing like Arsenal's scattered counter-attacks in the first half. This was more direct, more piercing, aimed precisely at the space behind Liverpool's recovering wide players.
Cazorla drove forward at pace.
Piszczek didn't lunge. He dropped off, held his shape, while Gerrard swept across to double up. They had him in a pocket.
Cazorla read it early and pulled it back inside, looking for Özil arriving in support but Kanté had already read the pass. He made a clean tackle and intercepted Cazorla clearing the threat.
After the tackle, Kanté didn't hoof it long. He carried forward until the press came to him, then laid it off to De Bruyne.
De Bruyne was immediately closed down by Arsenal's midfield. He adjusted, barely—
Thump
Then sent one diagonal pass into the front line.
As the ball dropped into the final third, Suárez and Julien crossed their runs and Arsenal's back four shifted just a fraction out of position.
Julien didn't take the ball. He continued his run.
Suárez held off Mertesacker in the air, flicking the ball on with his head into the space Julien was sprinting toward.
Julien ran while his eyes were tracking the ball's arc.
The moment it dropped, he spun and put his body into Koscielny who'd rushed up to challenge.
He chested the ball and bounced it upward. Before it could even fall, Julien had already left the ground.
Koscielny reached for it—there was nothing he could do. Julien had carved out the space with his own body.
Thump!
Julien, in mid-air with a bicycle kick.
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