No wonder Rivaldo wasn't himself on Thursday night. No wonder he looked gobsmacked, nay, shellshocked, as Barcelona prepared to kick off against Liverpool. The revelation that Lisa had shot Phil had clearly left him stunned, not least because, like the rest of us, he didn't think Lisa had it in her.
Perhaps he had wagered 400 million pesetas on Ian Beale being the shooter and, as we know, professional footballers don't take the loss of a fiver lightly. Patrick Kluivert's money was on Dot Cotton being the culprit, which might account for his subdued display against the Liverpool back eleven and his failure to match Lisa's ability to hit the target.
The Liverpool players, of course, were unmoved by events in Albert Square, being Brookside men, so their minds were on the job, enabling them to produce a display that could result in Arsenal suing for a gross infringement of copyright.
True, that they were hammered 0-0 is a blow to their hopes of reaching the final but it doesn't make the vista any less appalling: Liverpool might possibly - and we should stress possibly - be on their way back.
God be with the days when they'd scored three but conceded four, with their goalie flapping at the breeze and their right back asking "who was I meant to be picking up again?" after Tony Cottee had just scored from a corner. "Tony Cottee," he'd be told. Halcyon days. We were happy then.
Only a defeat by Wycombe in the FA Cup semi-finals this weekend, a la that 4-3 setback against Crystal Palace in 1990, swiftly followed by a scruffy draw against Ipswich on Tuesday night will restore the faith and calm fears that they'll add the FA Cup, UEFA Cup and the runners-up spot in the Premiership (and Champions League qualification) to the already won Worthy Cup.
Liverpool supporters are hard to stomach at the best of times but this would make them insufferable. And it would mean that the rest of us would no longer need our sides restitched when they vow in August: "We'll win the league this season." It doesn't mean they will win the league next season, but suddenly the prediction doesn't sound half as funny.
The most irritating aspect of the Liverpool renaissance is that it is being led by a man who is very difficult to dislike, no matter how hard you try. Gerard Houllier, that is, or "JayRaard, Jay-Raard Whooo-Lee-Eh", as they call him on the Kop. Irksomely, Whooo-Lee-Eh appears to be a thoroughly decent sort of chap, which makes him difficult to demonise.
And what of Leeds' midweek performance? Some things are best left uncommented on, especially when they bring pain, but if Jim Sheridan is considering doing a remake of My Left Foot he'd do worse than to cast Ian "Hartie" Harte in the leading role.
HAVING audaciously prophesied back in August that Alan Smith would be as useful to Leeds this season as Lisa has been to Phil's general state of wellbeing I have reconsidered and have concluded he is the finest player in world football.
Not even Mark Hughes aggravated defenders with quite the same panache as this enchantingly cantankerous young fella. All through the Champions League he's given as much respect to legends like Paolo Maldini as he would to your average Dagenham and Redbridge reserve centre half. In other words the lad has no respect, which is a very good thing when you're attempting to score goals against Europe's elite.
I will now attempt to call a halt to the madness otherwise known as "Leeds' Champions League run" and "Alan Smith's fine form" by audaciously prophesying that Leeds will win it, with Smith getting the decisive goal in the final. There, that's them finished - cue 4-0 home win for Deportivo.
Galatasaray 3, Real Madrid 2? Blimey. The residents of Milan, hosts of this year's European Cup final, must be highly energized at the prospects of a Galatasaray v Leeds final. Early days yet, of course, but are you beginning to get a funny feeling? God yeah, me too.
Actually no, forget that funny feeling, I've had a grimmer premonition: Arsenal will win the European Cup. I can feel it in my bones, there's a terrifying inevitability to it all. When I close my eyes I see only Tony Adams raising the cup, just as Dennis Bergkamp arrives in the stadium having driven from north London to Milan by car. Like us, Dennis will be gutted.
Bayern Munich? Move along ladies, move along.
Team of the week? Alaves, of course. When the draw for the UEFA Cup semi-finals paired them with Kaiserslautern the German's goalie Georg Koch was asked if he feared the Spaniards. "No . . . actually, I haven't even heard of them," he said. As the old proverb goes: he has now. Alaves 5, Kaiserslautern 1. How many penalties did Alaves put past Georg. Just the three.
Another of their goals was scored by Jordi Cruyff who, although bearing the same name as the other Jordi Cruyff, can be no relation to the only player to have a less successful career at Old Trafford than Terry Gibson.
If you're thinking of purchasing an Alaves replica shirt in honour of their achievements be warned - they're pink. They were especially designed for the UEFA Cup and have the names of all their season-ticket holders embroidered into the fabric. Miguel and Juan Carlos, needless to say, are well chuffed. Safe to say, though, Georg Koch was not tickled pink on Thursday, his misery compounded by the fact he'd bet a tenner that Phil Mitchell had shot himself.
