I SUPPOSE last week could have been better. I don’t remember Kelly Brook wandering into my office asking if I could help with her bra strap.

If Richard Branson wrote me into his will, he forgot to tell me.

And if Johnny Vegas went on the wagon, it passed me by.

For the moment, I’ll just have to make do with the knowledge that, to quote the abominable Max Boyce: “I was there”.

Five momentous days, two unforgettable results.

Even now I find it hard to wipe the smile off my face. Anxious parents pull their kids from my path; old ladies check their false teeth. Colleagues pile work on my desk without complaint and I’ve willingly lent complete strangers hundreds of pounds, my contribution to ‘quantitative easing’ – something I’d previously only equated with undoing your pants after a heavy meal.

The moon may be able to sway giant tides and make hair sprout from werewolves’ hands, but only football can swing your mood between the depths of despair and the heights of ecstasy.

Just over two weeks ago I sloped away from the soulless bowl of the Riverside Stadium, depressed almost beyond repair by our inability to defeat the second-worst side in the league, the calibre of our squad players, and the commercial callousness of Middlesbrough printing two versions of the match programme with different covers.

Yet here I am now, having witnessed two of the best performances from a Liverpool side in my memory, with a bounce in my step and a demeanour that can best be described as half Cheshire Cat, half Mad Hatter.

Yes, I know they might count for nothing if we fail to catch United by the end of the season, or go out to Porto in the next round of the Champions’ League.