Jurgen Klopp's heading for a modern-football miracle, good luck to whoever follows him at Liverpool - The Warm-Up

It is, by any measure you care to propose, a good time to be a Liverpool fan. Wednesday brings a 2-0 win in the Champions League; Thursday comes with a contract extension for the man at the heart of it, Jürgen Klopp. What's coming today? We've had a sneak peek at the secret almanac, and can exclusively reveal that each and every Liverpool supporter will today find a fiver in the pocket of those trousers that they haven't worn for a while. Buy yourself something nice.

Klopp's new deal runs until the summer of 2026, which will take his time in charge at Anfield to 11 years. That'll be longer than all the greats - Paisley, Fagan, Dalglish, Hodgson - bar Bill Shankly. And in the context of hire 'em and fire 'em modern football, it'll be something close to a miracle.

Assuming, that is, modern football doesn't wear him out in the meantime. But honestly, you have to worry for Liverpool fans. Yes, they're getting another four years of high-class attacking football, overseen by a coach who loves and more importantly gets the club. Yes, they'll likely spend all that time competing for trophies and, more importantly, making wonderful memories together. And yes, the immediate future looks as bright and glittering and fun as the immediate past.

But what then? The longer Klopp stays in the dugout, the harder the task for the poor sucker that has to follow him. The bigger the statue, the larger and deeper the shadow. With every giddy victory, with every trophy push, with every charming interview, the job of being the next Liverpool manager gets exponentially harder. Really, the club should probably let him go right now. It's the sensible move. We've checked with fans of the other 19 clubs and they all agree. You're welcome, FSG. You're welcome.

Perhaps the most impressive feature of West Ham's Europa League adventure, which isn't quite over yet, has been their refusal to behave like the European newbies they are. For the competition has been provoking them. First knockout European game since the arrival of colour television? Here, have Sevilla. They win this competition. A lot. Oh, you dealt with that? Here, have an early red card against Lyon. They play in the Champions League, you know. Like, a lot.

Got through that as well, did you? Right, have an early goal for Eintracht Frankfurt. Really early. Inside the first minute. Let's see how you deal with that.

And as with all the previous bumps and twists, the answer came: pretty well. You'd think this team had been negotiating the emotional tangle of knockout European football for years. Of course, it's perhaps a little strange to be surprised at professional footballers going out there and doing their jobs professionally. But the smell of a trophy can do funny things to people.

Perhaps West Ham were a little more ragged than usual. Perhaps a little skittish. But then Eintracht Frankfurt have been the most impressive side in this season's Europa League, particularly away from home: quick, slick and slippery in attack. And, after conquering the Camp Nou, entirely without fear. Both goals were beautifully worked, and West Ham's defence had an itchy night from the first whistle to the last.

But if control was elusive, then West Ham were still able to manufacture moments. Three times they rattled the woodwork, and it's perhaps for the best that Jarred Bowen's late bicycle kick didn't come down on the exciting side of the goalline. The UK government has plenty to be getting on with, without having to try and get the London Stadium back down from a low orbit.

The odds are against the comeback. But then that was true in the last round, and the one before that, and yet the David Moyes' European Good Time Party has rumbled on. Common sense suggests that Frankfurt should win the tie, and they'd be worthy and exciting winners of the whole competition. But a famous night in Frankfurt would be entirely in keeping with the way West Ham have been going.

While all the fun was happening in Europe, Chelsea were taking care of matters domestic. The men's team suffered the profound embarrassment of failing to beat Manchester United, a team so broken, so knackered, so fundamentally checked out that their interim manager is halfway to Austria and their fans have forgotten how to spell.

That game finished 1-1, which doesn't do much for United's increasingly theoretical pursuit of fourth place, and makes little difference to Chelsea's gentle drift towards the FA Cup final. But Reece James played well though, and played 90 minutes, so that's nice.

Back in London, the women's team actually had something important to be getting on with. Tottenham at home, a title race to keep alive. And an unplanned setback. First Chelsea took the lead, which was as expected. Then Tottenham equalised, which wasn't.

But no matter. Arsenal fans had mere seconds to get their hopes up, before Pernille Harder did that thing she does (football, brilliantly) and then Sam Kerr did that thing she does (put the ball in the net). Chelsea have played far better than this. Chelsea have looked much more assured. But Chelsea have got the three points they wanted, and the title race squeaks on.

There are few things in football so careless as conceding straight after half-time. All that chit-chat, gone. A quarter of an hour of clapping and urging and back-slapping and tacticking, all dust in seconds. The taste of the orange slices, curdling to bitter lemon. Look what you've done, Duje Ćaleta-Car. You've wasted a perfectly good strategy meeting.

For a few hours yesterday afternoon, superagent Mino Raiola was presumed dead. Journalists were saying it. Newspapers were reporting it. And yet, it wasn't true. Ill and in hospital, yes. Dead, no.

The sneaky move would have been to stay quiet until the obituaries landed, just to see who was saying what, but we're guessing Raiola is far too busy for that kind of thing. So here he is, denying his own passing on Twitter. Not something you see every day.

Apropos of absolutely nothing, how about that Ronald Koeman? Played as defender, right, but get this: scored loads of goals as well. Hundreds and hundreds of them. He even won the Champions League golden boot in 1994, as Luke Osman describes for These Football Times (via the Guardian).

"Koeman’s goalscoring is almost unfathomable in hindsight," writes Osman. "He scored 239 goals in his career; he reached double figures in each of his six seasons at Barcelona; and he scored 26 goals for PSV in the 1987–88 season, when the club won the Eredivisie, Dutch Cup and European Cup. Not only did he score the winning goal in the final when Barcelona won their first European Cup in 1992, but he was also the joint top scorer in the competition when they returned to the final in 1994."

It's Friday, which means it must be time for some more action from football's most brutal scrap: the brawl for Championship play-off places. Sheffield United are currently sitting in sixth, and they take on QPR this evening. In La Liga, Sevilla host Cádiz, and over in France, Strasbourg will be welcoming newly-crowned champions PSG.

Or there's the snooker. It's a single table situation. Point your face at Discovery.