Wolves 2-1 Liverpool: Arne Slot's side were outfought by Rob Edwards' battlers

You cannot say he hadn't called it. Arne Slot had been invited on Monday to offer a view on the standard of the Premier League and, listening to his 'football heart', he explained how he wasn't enjoying what he was seeing.

Well, he didn't enjoy this – not in the slightest. Liverpool, on a charmless night, had played as conservatively as a batsman eschewing boundaries in favour of the occasional poked single, trying to nudge their tally forward, but ended up having their stumps knocked out of the ground.

What a triumph this was for Wolves – deserved, too. There hasn't been much cheer around here this season but Rob Edwards has done super work since coming in as manager, restoring pride and picking up some terrific results but this late, late show was the best of the lot.

Did he enjoy it? You bet he did. Off he went down the touchline, arms whirling like windmills as the deciding goal from Andre looped over Alisson Becker. The celebrations would continue long after the whistle, as three theatrical air punches had those on the South Bank roaring with joyous abandon.

'We have to enjoy it,' said Edwards. 'We aren't as bad as people thought.'

Whether it will be enough to keep Wolves up is a debate for another day but, here, they were bouncing to Status Quo – even Robert Plant of Led Zeplin – and hollering out with all they could muster, the volume at maximum level as Slot thundered down the tunnel.

This is a movie he has seen too many times before. Andre’s goal came in the 94th minute, the fifth time in this campaign Liverpool have thrown a game away. It is a Premier League record and one, frankly, that should embarrass them.

‘It’s the same old story,’ Slot said forlornly. ‘It sums up our season.’

It is a season that remains on the precipice. There is a realm in which Liverpool finish the campaign with a piece of silverware, safely parked in the top four, but the parallel universe – the one that most likely – sees them potless and excluded from the positions that carry such importance.

A game that, in reality, should have been straightforward for a team that is pursuing a place in next season’s Champions League morphed into the equivalent of listening to a sermon on economics in a stuffy, poorly ventilated lecture theatre: a recipe to leave you dozing.

Backwards and sideways Liverpool went and while at one stage they had 41 touches in the Wolves penalty area, they were predictable and slovenly and never looked capable of blowing down the opposition house. When they huff and puff like this, they look distinctly ordinary.

They had plenty of the ball to start with but did next to nothing with it. There was one moment of light, when Hugo Ekitike set off like a tap dancer crossing a ballroom, all fast feet and elastic legs, but after covering 60 yards with grace, Jeremie Frimpong bludgeoned his shooting chance over the bar.

This was Liverpool in a nutshell. As Wolves worked stoically, with the impressive Joao Gomes catching the eye, the overriding impression was that Slot’s men had, carelessly, allowed another 45 minutes to bypass them.

It wasn’t quite like their abject efforts the last time they were in Middle England, at Nottingham Forest on February 22, but it was laboured, horribly so. Slot spent plenty of time pacing, head bowed with his hand stuffed in his pockets, desperately hoping for respite. It would never come.

These were the nights when, historically, Mo Salah would shatter the gloom like a bolt of lightning, hurtling in from the right with the ball glued to his foot, taking the responsibility on his shoulders to find a way forward for his team.

Salah had scored the winner at this stadium last season, thrashing home a penalty, but at the moment the man who looked like he could walk on water now resembles someone wading through treacle, the pizzazz worryingly absent.

The incident which summed up his night more than anything came in the 66th minute when, after more patient play, Alexis Mac Allister rolled a pass out to him on the corner of the area but the Egyptian’s shot cleared the bar by a bigger distance than Frimpong.

History also tells you that it is wrong to make a definitive conclusion on Salah. He’s been too ferocious a competitor and too consistent with his numbers to make a snap judgement, but this worrying sequence was heading to an 11th Premier League without a goal.

Just when all seemed lost, he burst into life. Wolves had taken the lead when Rodrigo Gomes scuttled away from Ibrahima Konate, after Virgil van Dijk had meekly lost a challenge to Tolu, but salvation appeared to have come when Salah intervened.

A loose ball arrived at his feet, he charged forward as those in Old Gold backed off and, with just enough goal to aim at, he fizzed a shot that beat Jose Sa and left Wolves sick. He didn’t celebrate, mind you, as you suspect he knew Liverpool were vulnerable.

So it proved to be. Alisson’s poor kick put Liverpool into trouble and with the lines not cleared, Andre had a chance to shoot. Andre’s effort took a deflection off Joe Gomez and it looped painfully over the Brazilian keeper. Cue bedlam – the kind which absolutely should be enjoyed.