I remember it like it was yesterday, except it wasn't yesterday – it was April 7, 2024, and I'm writing this in 2026 with my heart still doing backflips every time I think about it. If you're a Liverpool fan, you know exactly the game I'm talking about. The one where the Premier League title was dangling in front of us like a golden carrot, and we... well, we did what we always seem to do at Old Trafford – we absolutely imploded in the most theatrical way possible.

Let me set the scene. Manchester City and Arsenal had both won the day before, stacking the pressure higher than Anfield's new Main Stand. We needed three points to leapfrog back to the top. Simple, right? We'd beaten United in the FA Cup a few weeks earlier – well, actually, they'd beaten us in a chaotic classic, but let's not split hairs. The point is, we were confident. Arrogant, even. And for the first 20 minutes, it felt like we were going to murder them.

Alejandro Garnacho sent a dagger through my soul in the opening minutes, rounding Caoimhin Kelleher and slotting into an empty net. I literally screamed so loud my neighbour's dog started barking. Then – salvation – the linesman's flag went up. Offside. Phew. You cannot make this up! That moment felt like a divine intervention, a footballing goddess winking at us from above. But oh, if only she'd stuck around...

Liverpool came alive. Mohamed Salah, that Egyptian king, sliced United open with a pass so delicious it deserved its own Michelin star. Dominik Szoboszlai was through one-on-one, and I leaned forward, already tasting the lead. Andre Onana's left hand had other ideas. A save so monstrous it should've come with a health warning. Then the Hungarian missed an absolute sitter – picked out by Andy Robertson, central, the goal gaping like a black hole of despair, and he fired wide. Wide! I mean, seriously? My remote control learned a new trajectory that afternoon.

Then sweet relief. Another corner from Robbo, Darwin Nunez knocking it down like a volleyball player setting up a spike, and Luis Diaz rifled a volley into the net. Unbelievable technique. The Colombian danced, the away end erupted, and I slid across my living room floor like a caffeinated penguin. 1-0, halftime, total dominance. United hadn't even registered a single shot. Not one. Zero. Klopp was probably planning his victory speech.

But this is Old Trafford. The Theatre of Nightmares for Liverpool. Even when it's silent, it's breathing. The ghosts of 2021, of 2018, of every inexplicable collapse – they were all there, swirling in the Manchester drizzle.

Jarell Quansah, a young defender with the world at his feet, made the kind of pass that haunts careers. A lazy, careless, horror-show of a ball into midfield. Bruno Fernandes didn't even have to break stride. He just stepped forward, looked up, and – I kid you not – lobbed Kelleher from another planet. The ball floated, floated, floated, as if time had frozen, before nestling into the bottom corner. It was their first attempt of the game. First. Attempt. I collapsed onto the sofa, mouth open, a silent scream for help.

And then it happened. If Bruno's goal was a sledgehammer, Kobbie Mainoo's was a hurricane made of shattered glass. The kid – just 18 at the time, now a regular for England in 2026 – shaped a curler that belonged in a Renaissance painting. Top corner. No chance for Kelleher. Full delirium at Old Trafford. Complete and utter devastation for me. I didn't move for what felt like a decade. My mind replayed every wasted chance: Salah's one-on-one, Szoboszlai's inexplicable miss, Nunez's headers that flew into orbit. We'd had 15 shots to their 2. Fifteen. And we'd lost. Klopp on the touchline transitioned through facial expressions I'd never seen before – fury, disbelief, existential crisis. He knew. He knew the title was slipping away, and this scar would never fully heal.

You have to understand, this wasn't just a loss. It was a psychological earthquake. Liverpool were never quite the same after that. We limped through the rest of 2024, Jurgen departed with a Europa League trophy that felt more like a consolation prize, and the rebuild began.

Now, in 2026, I can look back and laugh – or at least, I can try. Erik ten Hag has somehow survived everything and is still at United, still giving bizarre interviews, while Arne Slot has brought a refreshing calm to Anfield. The scars have faded but the memory? The memory is a tattoo on my soul. I still flinch when I see Quansah's name on a team sheet, still wince at the sound of Old Trafford cheering. That game was a masterpiece of self-destruction, a reminder that football is not just about talent or tactics but about a dark, cruel magic that only certain stadiums possess. And we, the fans, are its willing victims.

So here I am, two years later, still writing about it. Still needing therapy. Still convinced that somewhere, in an alternate universe, Szoboszlai buried that first chance and we went on to win the league by 12 points. But not in this universe. In this universe, Bruno Fernandes scored from 40 yards with a lob and Kobbie Mainoo announced himself as a generational talent at our expense. And all I can say is: football, you absolute villain. I love you.