And now you’re gonna etc…

Here’s 5 magical things we magic:

1. Brett is bad.

2. He was working. If anything he’s a working class hero imho.

3. Agree to disagree.

4. Tory.

5. We won. Get over it.

6. Make me.

6. I thing you’re both great.

7. That’s great.

Prediction: Blackburn to do really well until they realise it’s not the mid-90’s. United to do that thing they do that looks like we’re bad/good* but we’re actually good/bad**. 0-0 United.

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*Do you really need this joke format explaining?

**Really?

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 (@tom_mcghee)

Blackburn is a small northern town in the north and also the surname of my neighbours when I was a kid. Their son was called ‘Dino’. Imagine living with that.

Blackburn Rovers are their local team and they once helped Alan Shearer win his one medal. He could’ve won a shit load more at another club but he turned them down twice, but not for money. Did he win more? Who fucking cares. Chris Sutton also played for them before his career became a joke and he failed so badly at Chelsea. Great pundit though, doesn’t remind me a budget Piers Morgan at all. Which leads me into my 9th point: the ruddy magic of the cup. The ‘magic of the cup’ is a myth; magic is neither real nor good, as demonstrated by every TV magician ever. Also, even if it were real, it would be cheating. Why am I up this early?

John Wick 2 (2017)

Haven’t seen it yet but heard good things. Aside from that BeardedGenius nonce who claimed he didn’t get it but he hadn’t seen it yet. Which makes no sense.

Prediction: Dino Blackburn was the first lad who had an earring when I was a kid. That must mean something, 4-0 United, Pogba to hit woodwork 13 times.

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(@bifurcated_utd)

I’m just the worst.

Prediction: 0-0 United.

Who invited Buzz Killington to SAF’s birthday?!

Onwards to 2012.

20 minutes in I couldn’t see anything but a comfortable win. Everyone was on their game and I didn’t feel there were many signs of real nerves. Wazza and Chicha were starting to link up in a style reminiscent of Yorkie and Andrew Cole. This is hyper-critical on my part but I do think Little Pea needs to work on his final ball. He works the space so well and then sometimes wastes it with a poor to average cross. Eeeeek, how can I really say anything negative after the season he’s had (Don’t worry I’ll rap my own knuckles for it straight after I’ve finished writing this).

PIG was the instigator of the wobbles when he started playing like a zombie stumbling around in porridge. I’m quite happy he’s going.

In the end we were well worth the point. Thought Geoff Shreeves could have been a bit less Sky Sports while interviewing Giggsy. Just let them get on with it, Geoff. “Are you enjoying it”, “Does it feel great to be celebrating the 19th title” etc etc…Well maybe if you’d have left him to celebrate instead of trapping him with the inane questioning he may have enjoyed it even more. As for the attack on Berba citing his lack of games recently as possible disappointment – cringeworthy.

That such an incredible achievement as 19 league titles was completed in such an undramatic and nervous way was perhaps redolent of our season. But who cares? I mean really, I’m already fed up with reading “Though not a classic Ferguson side, this team..” and “Lacking the glitz and glamour of bygone…” blah blah blah. We won, we were better than the rest of the teams in the league. End of, and thank you. As Ryan Giggs said: “We’re champions and we’re in the Champions League final, it’s a rubbish team.”

Okay, so far off to a bad start. I am perhaps in need of a crash course in the science of self–enunciation, but please bear with me. I intend to ingratiate myself with you in the future and for this I will mostly be using the other distinguishing characteristics I have, in a very considered manner, decorated myself with during the past 32 years. For now though, these more appealing sides to my personality are secondary to the perversion and the bias I am sharing with you for the purposes of this article (apologies to those of you who tuned in presuming this was a frank confession from Sepp Blatter).

Wonderfully executed.

I was almost exclusively educated, at least in my formative years during the 80s, through hours and hours of watching telly until my eyes went square (believe the hype, kids). High on my weekly schedule were Knight Rider, Airwolf, The Littlest Hobo and Columbo, but it was The A-Team that was my absolute favourite. This being so, I developed a perversion for stories which have ‘goodies and baddies’. This perversion manifests itself in me taking great pleasure in specific incidents that are unique to football. Those incidents which, if they were to occur beyond the confines of a football stadium, would be viewed in a very different way. I’m talking about incidents such as the Zidane super head-butt on the pacifist, Materazzi and the wonderfully executed Cantona Kung-fu Kick on Palace fan and all round charitable fella, Matthew Simmons. There are a countless number of these ‘events’ where fans instinctively polarise to their preferred protagonist, choosing their ‘goody’ and ‘baddy’. They set their stall out in condemnation, vilification, dumbfoundedness, celebration, unfaltering loyalty and stoicism, all the emotions nature has delicately blessed us with (delete as appropriate). Within the minutiae of the subsequent debates fans define themselves beyond the usual ‘banter’ of supporting opposing clubs. This is where my perversion finds its gratification.

My bias has sneaked up on me somewhat over time. My only real pleasure when supporting United in the 80s came from thumbing through newspapers just to see if there were any pictures of Robbo, Sparky or Choccy (my three favourites at the time), to cut out and stick in my scrap book. I was blissfully unaware of rivalry or ‘the opposition’ as a concept at all. However, as a teenager struggling to fit into his own skin, this changed. I first remember developing a dislike (never hate, I’m a lover not a fighter) for baddies like Alan Shearer, Chris Sutton, Graeme Le Saux, Stuart Ripley, David Batty, Colin Hendry and Tim Sherwood not exclusively these players but they were the ones which were the main target of my pubescent (mild) vitriol. The players that have since followed in this lineage have been none other than those who ply their trade for clubs who are our archest of enemies at the given time. The current list comprises of most of the Chelsea squad (although, rather absurdly, not Drogba, more on this another time maybe). This of course is fuelled primarily by jealousy on my part, although it can also have its foundation in more reasonable assertions from time to time. It doesn’t matter how much United players ape the shameful, violent, questionable or embarrassing behaviours of their title challenging contemporaries. I will find a way of leaping heroically to their defence, at least on some level.

The Bard of Upton Park.

As an illustration of my bias in practice and how my perverse nature found nourishment from the ensuing mass-debate (ooh-er), there is probably no better example than when The Bard of Old Trafford imparted his angst-ridden, satirical commentary against the tyrannical stranglehold Sky has over his beloved sport at Upton Park (yep, when Wazza said ‘f*ck’ down the camera). As much as my assessment of this event is heavily weighted with a whimsical tongue-firmly-in-cheek, it is not far from an argument that I have had in Rooney’s defence. At my worst, I am inanely biased. For example, if Steven Gerrard (a baddy) would have done similar I would probably just ignore it or maybe think he was a really big twonk. That’s not to say I am incapable of differentiating between right and wrong and/or from the appropriating of statistical information within contexts of behaviour (neither am I incapable of kneejerk reaction). I just tend to prefer filtering this through my own personal perception of all this stuff, more often than not by taking it with a healthy pinch of salt, innit.

I would like nothing more as the credits begin to roll on this season – a season where we have (almost) successfully claimed our 19th title and potentially claimed another Champions League trophy – for the final scene to resemble thus: SAF, playing the part of Hannibal Smith, is pulling out a Havana Cigar of 1970s American car salesman proportions from his top shirt pocket and leaning back in his chair, lighting it. He raises his glass to Mourinho, who is sitting opposite playing the part of Templeton Peck ‘The Face Man’ and pouting in appreciation – the vainglorious sycophant (unfortunately the rest of the A-Team aren’t present, as Howlin Mad Murdoch has recently left the A-Team to form media group News Corp and Mr.T has been waiting in the Chinook to drop the Atomic Bomb on anyone who carried out a mundane task whilst neglecting their duty to become morbidly obese from over-eating chocolate bars). Fergie then proclaims smugly, “I love it (just love it) when a plan comes together!”