Klopp has brought fun back to Liverpool, and it could take these Reds a long way

Here are a few words rarely used by professional footballers in post-match interviews: lachrymose, unconscionable, contemplative, existentialism, schadenfreude, doxa, munificence, fecund, metaphorically, jejune, socialism, rococo, platitudinous, yearning, pretentious, redistributive, taxation, floccinaucinihilipilification. In fairness, there's rarely any need.

Here's another that doesn't crop up very often: fun.

You'd think you'd hear that one more often. But when Adam Lallana uttered it on Match of the Day on Saturday night after Liverpool's astonishing 4-1 win at Manchester City, the ears couldn't have pricked up quicker had he started to wax lyrical about pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis. "Going forward we looked very dangerous. Philippe, Firmino, myself, Milly, Emre joining in, it was great fun."

Fun. The very thought! It's not a concept that gets much of a run-out in the increasingly po-faced world of football - those interminable list articles are always banging on about ten things we learned, never ten things we enjoyed - but it's one that might end up taking Jurgen Klopp's Liverpool a long way.

A sense of carefree joie de vivre has been missing at Anfield for quite a while now. Ever since the era of the Spice Boys, perhaps, who during the hedonistic Nineties knew how to have a good time, and were more than capable of infusing their football with that same life-affirming spirit.

Ask most neutrals, and that side is best remembered these days for their cream suits at the 1996 FA Cup final. Which is ludicrous, really. The gear looked pretty sharp. And as Rob Smyth pointed out in his stunning treatise on the Spice Boys and the Class of 92 in the Blizzard, nobody on the BBC panel thought Liverpool's garb worthy of comment ahead of the game. Only when the final was lost was their sartorial selection satirised.

So history, just like the fashion pages, was once again written by the winners. Fair enough. But the episode served to highlight the intense conservatism within English sport. Liverpool would have got away with losing that final had they turned up in a dark navy M&S number, and resisted the temptation to joke and smile during their pre-match Wembley walkabout. Turning up in natty threads while flagrantly enjoying their big day out proved to be a massive no-no once groupthink kicked in.

If Italia 90 and Gazzamania had been the point at which football became a truly national obsession, then Liverpool's cream suit debacle was the point at which the sport started taking itself very seriously indeed. Robbie Fowler and Steve McManaman did their best to keep playing with a smile on their faces, but it couldn't last. The opprobrium heaped on Liverpool was all out of whack, and who could blame anyone at the club, or in the wider game, from opting to play it with a straighter bat in order to avoid a torrent of ridicule and abuse, just in case they lose? (And something definitely did happen here, the Dentist Chair another line in the sand. Is it a coincidence that Euro 96 was the last tournament at which England were spotted enjoying themselves?)

Fun fell out of fashion. Cue nearly two decades of self-consciously heightened earnestness, a New Seriousness in which goalscorers celebrated with a snarl rather than a smile, or at least a studied non-celebration, while preening managers signally refused to react, ostentatiously scribbling Very Thoughtful Tactical Observations into notebooks. By the mid Noughties, mannered nonchalance was very much in vogue; good luck in finding a manager prepared to crack a smile upon winning the Champions League. What a sorry state for a branch of the entertainment industry.

Thankfully, there are signs that the mood is turning full circle. Leicester City top the Premier League with Jamie Vardy gallivanting like a modern-day Fowler, a grinning Claudio Ranieri happy to get in the pizza and beer. There's always a twinkle in Louis van Gaal's eye as he deadpans his way through some genuinely hilarious journalist-baiting interviews. Meanwhile over in Spain, Luis Suarez laughs it up through El Clasico, while someone should explain to Rafael Benitez and Cristiano Ronaldo the benefit of turning those frowns upside down. It's not much, not yet, but small acorns have a habit of growing.

The early signs under Klopp suggest Liverpool might be reaping the rewards of a more fun-fuelled approach to life, too. The club got awfully serious after the Spice Boys era, through the studious reigns of Houllier and Benitez. Even the let-it-all-hang-out title challenge under Brendan Rodgers ultimately buckled under the weight of overwrought yearning, this must not slip and all that. It's no coincidence that Liverpool's talisman throughout this era, Steven Gerrard, played his football with an almost permanent anxious frown, the poor guy carrying the weight of the world.

Which is not to say that Klopp can't be as intense as what's gone before, if the 90-minute running bollocking he delivered to Roberto Firmino at City was anything to go by. But he knows the importance of leavening the mix: sing-song laughter in the pre-match interviews, wild celebrations when goals go in, broad beams and warm hugs after a win. Savouring every minute, else what really is the point?

Liverpool's scintillating first-half performance at the Etihad suggests their manager's lust for life is becoming infectious. A heavy weight is being lifted. With fun back on the agenda, it could be quite a season.