There's a rather unconventional touring theatre group by the name of the Reduced Shakespeare Company, dedicated to distilling the main features of the bard's work down into bite-sized pieces where for instance, Prospero, Puck and Scandinavian royalty share a flat next door to some noisy Scottish wifeys.

Those travelling to Hampshire for the third time this season once again witnessed their touring footballing equivalent: Newcastle United, where ten months-worth of football trials, triumphs and tribulations were compressed into ninety mental minutes for our delectation and desperation.

Three or four months ago we'd have been making some sort of vaguely optimistic noises about this result and trying to accentuate the positive parts, like the Bowyer and Ambrose goals.

Now though that time is well past and we're into the cycle of each game being a so-called Cup Final and therefore being inevitably followed by a post-mortem, illustrated with press pics of a mournful Alan Shearer trying not to catch anyone's eye as he trudged off the field of play. Tonight it was the defence all at sea, just like old times, as we mixed guts and fight with basic errors.

Sturrock's crew by the end of this game seemed to mostly consist of stowaways from the new Queen Mary, allowed out from below decks for one night only. But in an all-too familiar scenario they were able to expose our soft underbelly and leave us marooned once again, dependent on our salvation through the deeds of others.

Looking at the bigger picture, the sad part is that if Liverpool manage to bank even half of the money various "businessmen" are vying to give them at present, then in 12 months time we could be the ones cheering on a side with a decidedly high "who" factor, not Southampton - our only interest being in banana skinning the big lads.

They've taken our supposedly "nailed on" City of Culture tag (ho ho ho) and nabbed the Champs league qualifying place that our players believed they were down on the VIP guest list for. Owen and company now threaten to walk on, with our hope in their hands. The rope ladder looks like being drawn up between the top four and the rest and we've missed out, not only for this season but for what could be for the forseeable future.

Enough doom-laden prophecies and to the game itself, which was a genuine topsy- turvy six goal thriller of the type we used to enjoy in times past - you know, when football didn't mean everything and the only time you had tears in your eyes inside a ground was when you'd caught your vitals on a crush barrier.

(memo to travelling fans at Anfield - applaud players if desired then:

Leave promptly after the final whistle. Do not remain slumped in your seat staring at your shoes/passing clouds. Do not cuddle your mate. Do not wear stupid hats. You are not a celebrity. It's the end of the season, not a mining disaster.)

But not only was it one goal short of being yet another televised toon 4-3 for Sky to endlessly recycle, it was well short in top level performances and classy acts from both sides.

Bramble's ineptness attracted much justifiable criticism among fans and pundits alike, but nobody should be shocked by his display - along with Stevie Caldwell and Andy O'Brien, Titus only ever looks vaguely comfortable when playing a supporting role to Woodgate. With the latter player sidelined as much as he's fit, we are consequently unstable at the back, a situation not helped when Bernard decides to have an off night/week/month as he has recently appeared to have done.

Such was Bramble's plight here in the second half that he looked at one point in grave danger of being dismissed and giving us the additional burden of playing with ten men. There again, that didn't seem to hinder Southampton when injury left them in a similar plight for the final few minutes - they just kept on scoring and conceding goals with carefree abandon.....

One might have thought that Hughes could have been pulled into the middle and Griffin introduced at right back, but despite the latter warming up no change was made at the back. One can only speculate in what circumstances Griff would have been brought on - a riot?

And if Bramble was weak, then what of the other former tractor boys? After rubbishing Ambrose recently he at least played with something resembling fire in his belly and almost scored on of the goals of the season before rescuing what could yet be a priceless point in extra time.

Alongside him was the returning Dyer, who was industrious in the extreme in the 75 minutes he was on the pitch. Had Sky done a montage of his shift tonight then the background soundtrack could easily have been Arthur Askey's "busy busy bee" - a boost to the side, a model of perpetual motion etc etc. All great stuff.

That is until we noted that certain England Manager was yards away in the main stand and that the player suffered no adverse reaction to his exertions after the game. Hmmmm...

Could Dyer's tender hamstring therefore not have been tempted out from licensed premises to take on Marseille or lend some much needed pace to the battle to beat Wolves? Obviously not - these games may have been important to us but they weren't Euro2004 auditions apparently.

Despite what Sir Bobby thinks, there are many now within the club now firmly of the opinion that the number 8 is very, very far from being our leading man.

And what of the talent, the box office draw, the charismatic hero in the number nine shirt? Oh dear. This is turning into anything but a happy ending.

What lines Al had he fluffed and no amount of prompting from the sidelines could coax a headlining performance from him as he corpsed for the third time in a week. The look on his face when the young Saints 'keeper somehow blocked his close-range header spoke absolute volumes. 

Saints fans turning up tonight who remembered a young Shearer's opening scenes at the Del will have been saddened at what they saw tonight. Running on empty, he looked exhausted - the physical challenge and mental strain of the season catching up with him. I know how he felt.

And had Al set his face this season against Sir Bobby in the way he undoubtedly did in the latter days of the Gullit regime, then we'd be engaged in a scuffle in the bottom half of the table, not the top.

Anyone who believes that Al should be in a Portuguese dressing room come June and not a Portuguese swimming pool is simply bonkers. We give thanks for his international retirement and are indeed grateful for the injury-free run and consequent goal haul this season. The worry is though that he doesn't come up again next time out and his final campaign becomes a season too far.

While the big productions appear on the silver screen next season we might still play to packed houses but in reality we'll be on the fringe, with a charismatic but irrelevant leader. Maybe we might have a domestic cup run eh? Just like Middlesb.....no, stop that now.

As ever, not everything is black and white and circumstances do alter, but what we do reprise season after season is a collapse over the finishing line after being caught on the final bend by our rivals - it's just this year that we never actually got ahead of the pack for any noticeable period.    

Welcome to the new reality - where we have a little bit more in common with the mackems, Leeds and the rest of those faded so-called "big clubs" than we'd like to admit and share less characteristics with the new big four than our egos would have us believe. We look like becoming the new Spurs - and how depressing is that?                          

Biffa