Whatever had happened in Shropshire, we already knew there’s only one important competition now. For a few months, let’s just refuse to indulge in the annual “whatever happened to the FA Cup” mope-fest, let everybody else whine about disrespect etc.

We know what this season’s all about. What everyone else thinks matters not a jot. Shrewsbury’s irrelevant.

You could see against Wolves how difficult it’s becoming. Easy to focus on the stunning stats, suggest Liverpool might be making it hard for themselves.

Rubbish. It’s always been hard. Too many pretending it isn’t. They say it’s all over, then launch Operation Demean. “Yeah, you’ve won it but it’s a worthless achievement”. Neither is remotely true, but how delightfully childish when people think they can alter how we’re feeling right now.

As a conscientious objector in the banter wars, it becomes a study in the human condition. What an infantile breed we are.

Wolves were good enough to beat City twice, but the early goal still suggested a cakewalk that was never there.

I’m not sure what to make of the current Henderson love-in. I’ve a contrary inclination to start criticising him, now everyone’s being a kiss-arse. It’s an archaic strain of snobbery within me, like whenever a favourite band got in the charts.

Wolves came for us with a vengeance after that, their equaliser was no shock. Because Robertson was tormented by Traore, there were too many too swift to question him.

Can’t be brilliant all the time, other teams will try against us though we’ve done our best to make it seem like they’re not allowed to.

Time for Alisson to become more than a spectator then, which he did quietly and methodically. I can’t remember any miracle save he’s ever made, I’m sure there’s a retirement video for De Gea prepared with loads in it.

I’ll be old and traditional by saying there’s a lot of Ray Clemence in him; calm, efficient but most importantly alert. It’d be easy to take a mental snooze the way we play, but he rarely does.

Firmino’s winner was another example of how we get the job done. Our days of ripping teams apart are over, this is functional as hell now.

We sat through a decade of Houllier and Benitez, but amazingly it’s the giggling, gurning heavy metaller who may outdo them both in the pragmatism stakes.

Against United, chants about how we WILL win the league emerged. You can imagine my face when I heard them; nauseous, paralysed fright. It’s hard to suppress excitement, I’m not sure why I pretend mere words can dilute everyone’s giddiness.

It’s been a long wait, made worse by everyone piling on and lurking behind our drought. All great clubs have long spells without the title.

We’re singled out partly because of modern impatience and indulgence, largely because of a 20-year oasis before the 30-year desert — and everyone thinks it’s funny.

I’m still trying to voodoo us to the finishing line, admitting nothing, while everyone else orders champagne and (urrgh) debates what date or which stadium they’d prefer clinching it in.

Leave me out of your piffle, please. Someone’s got to keep sentry.

Mane’s injured, Fabinho looks rusty, Salah’s greediness is chronic now. That’s how Thursday’s winner transpired, him poncing about and Henderson, exasperated, slotting the ball to Roberto and saying, “was that so hard?”

How long can I keep this up? What a stupid question; till May, obviously.