the Telegraph's match report:
"On the sidelines stood the man credited with restoring Liverpool’s feelgood factor. Kenny Dalglish has always been a man apart, an island in the storm.
The technical area is his personal fiefdom. It is the only part of Anfield that belongs to him. Every other blade of grass, belongs to Luis Suarez, the man who brought the fear back.
The Uruguayan is a terror. He is a bewitching, bewildering menace, trailing roiling panic in his wake. The 24 year-old did not score in this dismantling of Bolton Wanderers. He does not need a goal. Often, he does not even need the ball. His presence alone is a torment.
An example, drawn from the moments just after Liverpool had taken the lead. It was just after Suarez, bristling with the impudence of genius, had cut Owen Coyle’s defence to shreds with a swerving pass played with the outside of his right boot and Jordan Henderson had curled his first goal for the club past Jussi Jaaskelainen, after the Finn had denied Stewart Downing.
Suarez stood on the halfway line, the ball at his feet. In front of him, Gary Cahill, rated at £17?million but not, as Coyle later confessed, at his “absolute maximum” thanks to the unsettling effects of a mooted move to Arsenal, and Zat Knight, a reliable campaigner. The forward feinted one way, then the other, and then accelerated away. Cahill looked left, Knight right, and the two collided. A pratfall, with Suarez as Road Runner, the defenders as a pair of Wile E. Coyotes. The pair exchanged barbs. A defence reduced to fear and loathing by their unrelenting foe.
Fear spreads and mutates, infecting, afflicting. Jaaskelainen dropped a high ball. Gretar Steinsson handled just outside the box. Coyle’s team shook, and splintered, and shattered."