Finally, a victory over Europe to unite the nation in admiration

On Sunday, record numbers of us hunkered down to enjoy the final part of Line of Duty. A series based on unexpected plot twists, it kept us gripped to the last with its ability to pull the rug from under our assumptions. Its writer, Jed Mercurio, however, would be the first to admit that when it comes to presenting us with the implausible, the ridiculous and the totally unexpected, he can never match what happened on Tuesday night. But then nothing imagined could ever compete with the magnificent drama of Liverpool’s 4-0 victory over Barcelona in the Champions League semi-final.

This is what sport can do for us: completely overturn our expectations. There was me, a lifelong follower of Liverpool’s bitterest rivals Manchester United, someone who enjoys little more than watching the Anfield club falter, leaping from my sofa when the fourth goal was scored in delighted acknowledgement of the sheer absurdity of what was unfolding. Because nobody predicted the underdog would so comprehensively unseat the favourite.

It might seem ridiculous to cast a sporting corporation as historic as Liverpool as the underdog. But, in sport, context is everything. And here was Jurgen Klopp’s Anfield side up against a team including Lionel Messi, inarguably the greatest individual ever to play the game. Alongside him were two former Liverpool stars – Luis Suarez and Philippe Coutinho – who had traded Merseyside for Spain believing the grass was greener in Europe. Up against them were Andy Robertson, plucked from obscurity in Scotland, and the cheeky Scouser Trent Alexander-arnold. This was David against Goliath.

Moreover, this was a David who was 3-0 down after the tie’s first leg and was required,

by grim mathematics, to inflict a hammering on a sophisticated, cosmopolitan opponent. As Liverpool did so, the watching millions became ever more engaged. It couldn’t happen, could it? Even we United fans were obliged to acknowledge the spirit, the passion, the drive. For this was a victory won through fearsome collective desire, fanned from the stands by 55,000 spellbound supporters.

But it was the fourth goal, the one that won it, that best sums up this glorious triumph. It was contrived through the cheek of the local lad, Alexander-arnold, a bit of Scouse wit unpicking a team constructed expensively from the very best in the world. The moment he pretended not to take a corner, then quickly spun the ball in behind a distracted, bemused, bamboozled Barca defence, for Divock Origi to steer it into the Spaniards’ net, was the moment the pebble struck Goliath’s temple.

No one saw it coming, but this was a victory against Europe that united the nation in sheer admiration; an energising, glorious triumph over the most substantial odds, a win that illuminated the darkest, most dispiriting of times.

How those in charge of our country’s destiny must have looked on and wished they could borrow just a jot of such success. How our Prime Minister could use some of Alexander-arnold’s devilment to wrong-foot her opponents, send not just those in Europe but those on the green benches of the House of Commons the wrong way. How our leaders could use a touch, a sprinkle, a dusting of Klopp magic.

But that is the trouble with sport: it is not real life. follow Jim White on Twitter @jimw1; read more at telegraph.co.uk/opinion