The Rebound: Everton’s Titanic deck chairs, Leeds United’s exorcist, and Liverpool’s lack of decorum

It was a match that neither could afford to lose, and in the end, to be fair, neither did. That being said, you can’t imagine that either Dean Smith or Sean Dyche will be particularly satiated by their sharing of the spoils on Monday evening. It’s a philosophical musing, but is a six-pointer still a six-pointer when it results in a draw? Answers on a postcard, please.

On paper, of course, the crevice between Leicester City and Everton could hardly be narrower. Just one point separates the two clubs heading into the final four games of the season - and that’s not to mention Leeds United and Nottingham Forest, who are both somehow bookended by the boys in blue. There is daylight, but it is squeezing in through a pin prick rather than cascading through a bay window.

Last night’s relegation cockfight at the King Power was an opportunity for both the Foxes and the Toffees to land a telling blow in their respective bids for survival. Both will come away feeling like they kind of blew it a little. In particular, James Maddison must have spent large swathes of the early hours staring at the blank, mocking canvas of his bedroom ceiling. The talismanic playmaker, so pivotal to everything that Leicester do well these days, took a similarly central approach to his first half penalty and was thwarted by Jordan Pickford - the England number one aided and counselled by an omniscient genie that resides in his water bottle, or something. I dunno. It’s certainly more believable than, say, a data analyst putting in hours of research, relaying that information to the Everton goalkeeper in a concise and effective manner, and then receiving any kind of credit. But I digress.

In the aftermath of his save, Pickford was criticised by many for having the audacity to pump his fist in relief. Forget the fact that his intervention was essentially as significant as a goal, or that it provided the platform from which his side could salvage a point - it turns out that when you’re in an abject, miserable situation, you’re not allowed to celebrate anything. Perhaps then, we should take the decision to cancel the Coronation until we address the need for foodbanks in the fifth largest economy in the world? Anyone? No?

In terms of what Monday’s result means for the relegation battle writ large, Leicester have moved - momentarily, at least - out of the bottom three. They are also unbeaten for a third game running, and there is a growing sense that they might just be okay. The same cannot be said of Everton.

The Toffees are one of English football’s great Titanics; they are supposed to be unsinkable, purportedly ready for anything. Last night’s draw, quite aside from steering them clear of the looming iceberg in their path, did little but rearrange the deck chairs. Soon, you fear, the string quartet will be tuning up for one last, mournful rendition of Z Cars as the icy waters of the Championship lap at their ankles.

Elsewhere, a certain Mr. Allardyce has turned off into the Junction 32 outlet village just outside Castleford, and is desperately rutting around the Moss Bros for a blue and yellow striped tie. You see, Leeds United have smashed the glass and hammer the comically over-sized red button labelled ‘Big Sam’. Nobody can resist the lure of the dinosaurs for too long. It’s why there are six Jurassic Park films.

Anyways, Sam has four games to stop the rot in a squad where the only thing worse than their defensive woes is their ability to meet and greet with fans. Between now and the end of the season, Leeds face Manchester City, Newcastle United, West Ham, and Tottenham. On second thoughts, maybe Allardyce should put down the necktie and pick up a black shirt and a dog collar. Leeds don’t need a new manager bounce, they need an exorcist.

And finally, a word on Jurgen Klopp. I like the German, I really do. I admire his infectious brand of heavy metal football and the manner in which he revitalised and unified one of the most towering powerhouses in the English game. I even like his silly little club shop caps and how his smile could be used to illuminate subterranean archaeological digs. But the way that he reacted to his side’s late, late winner against Tottenham on Sunday afternoon was not acceptable.

The Liverpool manager, rather than revelling in a moment that will reverberate down the grand corridors of Premier League history, chose to scream and bawl in the face of fourth official John Brooks. It was aggressive and petty and, honestly, quite pathetic.

Klopp’s justification was that referee Paul Tierney had allegedly made inappropriate comments to him earlier in the match. The PGMOL, for their part, ‘strongly refute’ Klopp’s accusations. But regardless of what was or was not said, there is no excuse for the Anfield boss to act as maniacally as he did. Even if you are incensed by an off-hand jibe, be the bigger the person, pal; show some decorum, maintain some dignity.

Again, I like Klopp, but he cannot continue to threaten and bluster under the guise of unbridled passion. And while we’re on the subject, if you’re going to pull your hamstring celebrating a stoppage time goal from the dugout, don’t be like Jurgen. Instead, be like everybody’s favourite Jaffa Cake-obsessed adoptive grandpa, Tony Mowbray.