In the feverish cauldron of English football, where tribal loyalties run deeper than the Mersey and grudges simmer like a pot left too long on the boil, few spectacles rival the Manchester United-Liverpool showdown. Sunday’s clash at Anfield, a fortress that had stood unbreached by United for nearly a decade, cracked wide open in spectacular fashion. The Red Devils, under the steady hand of new manager Ruben Amorim, eked out a gritty 2-1 victory—their first at this hallowed ground since the halcyon days of 2016. It wasn’t just three points on the board; it was a seismic shift, a psychological gut-punch to Arne Slot’s high-flying Liverpool side, who now find themselves staring down the barrel of their first home league defeat in over 400 days. Goals from Bruno Fernandes and Rasmus Hojlund sealed the deal, with the Danish striker’s late strike turning Kop wails into whispers of disbelief. But amid the post-match haze of jubilation and recrimination, one unlikely voice pierced the din: teenage darts sensation Luke Littler, the self-proclaimed “Nuke” and die-hard United devotee, who unleashed a barrage of social media barbs that had fans from Salford to Speke howling in equal parts outrage and amusement.
Littler, the 18-year-old prodigy whose meteoric rise from junior circuits to world champion status mirrors the improbable fairy tales of football underdogs, has never shied from wearing his heart on his sleeve—or, in this case, his Instagram feed. Fresh off clinching the World Grand Prix title earlier this month, a triumph that netted him £100,000 and cemented his status as darts’ golden boy, Littler turned his attention from the oche to Old Trafford’s orbit. His feed, usually a whirlwind of 180s and sponsor shoutouts, transformed into a victory lap of epic proportions. “Back under your rock Scousers,” he captioned a gleeful repost of Harry Maguire striking Ronaldinho’s iconic Brazil celebration pose—a nod to the maligned defender’s unexpected heroics in the win. But it was Littler’s pièce de résistance, a merciless takedown of Liverpool’s £116 million summer splash Florian Wirtz, that truly set the internet ablaze.
Wirtz, the silky German playmaker poached from Bayer Leverkusen in a deal that shattered Anfield’s transfer ceiling (only to be eclipsed later by Alexander Isak’s arrival), arrived amid sky-high expectations. At 22, he was billed as the heir to Kevin De Bruyne’s throne, a Bundesliga maestro whose vision and verve had lit up the continent. Yet, five months into his five-year contract, the shine has dulled to a frustrating matte. Subbed on for Conor Bradley around the hour mark against United, Wirtz flitted about like a ghost in the machine—zero shots on target, no key passes, just 45 touches in a game that demanded sorcery. It’s the starkest emblem of his Anfield malaise: 10 consecutive club matches without a goal or assist, a drought that has seen him demoted from Slot’s starting XI, warming the bench while the likes of Dominik Szoboszlai and Alexis Mac Allister hog the spotlight. “He’s gone 10 games without a goal contribution,” one pundit lamented post-match, echoing the growing chorus of doubt around a signing that was meant to turbocharge Liverpool’s title defense.
Enter Littler, armed not with a dart but with digital dynamite. Scrolling through his stories, fans were first treated to damning side-by-side stats from Transfermarkt: Maguire, the perennial punchline with his lumbering gait and error-prone aura, boasting two goals in the league this season—twice as many as Wirtz’s goose egg. “Maguire > Wirtz,” Littler implied with a simple screenshot dump, the comparison so audacious it bordered on farce. But the real gut-buster? A hilariously doctored image superimposing Wirtz’s cherubic face onto the pint-sized body of Ben 10, the American cartoon superhero whose alien-transforming watch symbolized boundless potential squandered on underwhelming exploits. Soundtracked to Kendrick Lamar’s diss-track anthem “Not Like Us,” the post was pure savagery—a reminder that in the coliseum of social media, no one’s safe from the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Littler’s jibe landed like a bullseye, racking up thousands of likes and retweets within hours, with United faithful dubbing it “the meme of the season” and Liverpool die-hards firing back with pleas for mercy on the kid’s still-blossoming career.
This isn’t Littler’s first rodeo in the crossfire of the Northwest derby. The Warrington wonder boy, whose darts odyssey began in a garden shed and peaked with a World Championship final run at 16, has long been United’s pint-sized provocateur. Back in January, after dethroning Michael van Gerwen for his maiden major, he cheekily vowed to parade the trophy at Old Trafford—then twisted the knife by gloating over knocking out Liverpool fan Stephen Bunting in the semis. “Pretty sure he’d have taken it to Anfield,” Littler quipped to Sky Sports, his grin as sharp as his checkouts. April saw him jeered at a Liverpool exhibition for his red allegiance, only for the teen to clap back with a timely reminder of the Reds’ derby drubbing by Everton. And in November, amid Amorim’s appointment buzz, Littler spread whispers that the Portuguese tactician had snubbed Anfield for Carrington—a fabrication so delicious it fooled even the most jaded journalists.
For United, this Anfield heist under Amorim—who’s already notched the biggest scalp of his tenure—feels like dawn breaking after a long, stormy night. Trailing Liverpool by double digits earlier in the campaign, the win injects rocket fuel into a season teetering on redemption. Fernandes’ penalty coolness and Hojlund’s predatory finish weren’t just results; they were statements, silencing critics who pegged Amorim’s side for mid-table mediocrity. Roy Keane, ever the curmudgeon, tempered the glee with a five-word reality check in the studio: “Don’t get carried away now.” Yet, for fans like Littler, it’s unadulterated bliss—a chance to revel in the rare air of supremacy over their fiercest foes.
Liverpool’s side of the story is grimmer. Slot’s squad, architects of a Premier League crown last term, looked leggy and disjointed, their press fractured and transitions toothless. Wirtz’s integration woes symbolize broader teething pains: the £116 million man’s languid Bundesliga flair clashes with the Premier League’s frenetic pulse, leaving him adrift in a sea of red. Whispers of sales—Luis Diaz potentially packing for pastures new to balance the books—add to the unease, a far cry from the Slot era’s early pomp. As Anfield faithful lick their wounds, one truth endures: in football’s grand theater, today’s villains are tomorrow’s vindicated.
Littler’s antics, though, transcend the pitch—they’re the lifeblood of fandom’s chaotic joy. At 18, with majors like the European Championship looming and a net worth swelling past seven figures, he’s not just a darts deity; he’s the everyman’s agitator, turning pixels into pitchforks. His Wirtz roast? It’s a reminder that rivalries thrive on the personal, the petty, the profoundly human. As United march on and Liverpool regroup, one suspects Littler’s feed will keep firing. After all, in the game of banter, the Nuke always hits first.
Leave a Reply