.
There’s also a ‘directors cut’…

Who’s bad?

I stopped sulking just in time to watch both England games this past week after a self imposed exile that stretches back to when the F.A, Capello, or whoever, reinstated John Terry as captain after he’d not actually apologised for all the bad stuff he’d done back in March of this year. I hadn’t missed much in those few halcyon months. Players and managers come and go, England remain the same.

I have always supported England since watching Bryan Robson tear around the pitch (and himself apart) with all the other considered best players from English football, Peter Beardsley, Gary Crisps and Glenn Hoddle during the World Cup in ’86 – one of my first real memories of watching a huge football event on telly.  However, during a few seconds of weakness, whilst watching the John Terry press conference I viewed the national team, via the F.A, without the aid of my usual footy filter … The countless missed opportunities by the F.A to make examples of players and staff who bring the game in to disrepute. The governing bodies general inability to govern effectively. Why aren’t THEY capping wages? Why aren’t THEY policing the investment in clubs? Why aren’t THEY limiting the impact on smaller clubs? Why do THEY allow the likes of The Daily Mail and The Sun to stamp their brand of fascism all over the game, ban them from the press conference and grounds. Ban them from covering matches. What are THEY doing! Careerists THE LOT OF EM! The corporate sponsorship adorning the walls – Mars, McDonald’s, Budweiser, the gambling adverts, Aaarrrggghh! And that was that. I’d had enough.

For one year I was a ‘Big’ England fan. Here I am then with an old friend, Matt. I’m the one on the right complete with ginger hair dye(!!!!)and curtains (I don’t know why). This was taken in a photo booth just after the England vs Scotland qualifier for Euro 2000 (exactly 12 years ago to this day, November 17th). What a tool. Previous to this delightful pictoral contraceptive, I was a fat Northerner on a fine-art course in a little southern city drowning in a small pond of  peers who all had pretentions of making it in London. I’d needed an identity and after losing about three stone one summer, I came back to University a new man (well, just the same really but painfully thin and with ginger hair dye). My new housemate Matt was a big footy fan, although he hid that behind his support of Southend United (Get on board, the jokes don’t get any better than this). He was the first proper footy fan I’d met in Bristol, a kindred spirit of sorts. Admittedly, Matt’s love of England trumped mine, he wasn’t a thug, but I excused a lot of people for presuming he was. I cringe to think of us drunkenly slurring chants in packed quiet bars and rampaging down leafy suburban streets waving an England flag from the pound shop. At the time though it provided me with something valuable, something comforting.

I moved out of the house with Matt the next year and into a shared house with some of those pretentious peers. I definitely didn’t become one of them, but the nights of re-editing the England team before all night PlayStation, with a couple of boxes of Carlsberg, were replaced by Connect 4, some film with no proper ending, and Hummus. Wait a minute … am I just retelling the James McAvoy film Starter For Ten? Of course I continued to watch England games with Matt, but not in the same way.

The difference between me and Matt is a simple one, Matt is proud to be English. I am in some respects proud of individual achievements by various fellow country folk and I am very proud of many aspects of our culture. I am definitely English. But proud in the true sense, no. I am embarrassed by the way in which our country has behaved historically, not to say I carry that burden with me throughout my daily life, there’s more important things to worry about like why my cat Casey has started doing really wet mess in her litter tray, or what’s on the telly later. That’s also not to say I think our country is any worse than any others. Saying I’m proud just isn’t something I would say. As is always the case someone has summed up my feelings better than I ever could, this time Neil Hannon off of the Divine Comedy in the song Sunshine…

I feel very strongly that the ills of football are very detached from my own relationship with it. I like football for the reasons I have always liked it. My heroes beating the villains. Triumph in the face of adversity. Happy Endings. Goals. Fun. The comfort of it’s different language. My friendships that  have formed through it and more importantly sharing it over and over again with those friends. The magic. It’s just footy isn’t it?

David Platt?

So, I sat there watching England on Tuesday with my best friend Rob just enjoying watching an England game with my best friend Rob. Enjoying making stupid comments on the scarcity of the arm tattoo and repeating the in-jokes we share during most matches we watch together. Supporting England like I’ve always done, occasionally looking the other way and whistling.

.

Implicit in trust is a close relationship between the truster and the to be trusted and unless you’re one of SAF’s friends or family members reading this (Hi Cathy!), we can assume that none of us here are on SAF’s Christmas card list this year and therefore not closely related to him in the more conventional way. However, arguably the same can be said of religious faith. I think it’s safe to assume that Muslims don’t pop round Allah’s house for tea every Tuesday (which is a shame cos he/she does a mean Halal chicken and chips). The ‘relationship’  formed is born through worship. Through the fans worship of Fergie, the trust in his judgement abounds and for the most part he is often afforded by some supporters a blind faith similar to that bestowed on religious deities.

Questions were raised when SAF began accessorising with some cherubs…

We know because we are told in almost every article ever written about him that he knows this club inside out. This reinforces our trust in him, because although not football managers ourselves we understand that that is an intrinsically important and good thing (plus we’ve all played ‘Football Manager’ and we all know that after the initial thrill of the hyper-realistic functionality that the backroom stuff is really boring).

We also know that he has a very high success rate compared with other managers. This without doubt strengthens our trust in him, because we all like to win lots and lots.

He puts faith in youth. He publicly protects his players. He’s respected by his peers. (He turns (down) water in (favour of) t(w)o (bottles of )wine). All things that provide evidence, that in respect of Manchester United, he is worthy of our trust. He is trustworthy.

Trust?!…I thought you said ‘thrust’.

How deep though does the trust go? Do we trust every team selection he makes? Every player he’s bought? Every word? Every decision? Every promise?  Although admittedly slightly loaded, I think most people would probably subscribe to the idea that how much you trust to invest in someone or something is personal to you; it’s a reflection of  the ethos you live your life by. I guess one of the points I want to make is that you don’t have to endlessly repeat cliched rhetoric to prove yourself to be the bestestest supporter ever. Also, I’m presuming that your support of your club, United or other, is unconditional and so to that end although Fergie is an integral part of our successful history, we aren’t endlessly beholden to him specifically. That’s not to say the success of the club isn’t dependent on the manager’s influence and because we can only rely on what has actually happened during his tenure, we can safely say he has been the main influence on our’s. I personally feel that trusting in him unconditionally – and in effect suggesting Fergie equals Manchester United – is a little unhealthy.

Still got it!

Over the past couple of years a section of fans have distanced themselves from the club and Fergie over his relationship with the Glazer family – they have lost their faith. He is no longer trusted by some and others have forsaken their support of United in light of his very apparent duplicitous actions; with no trust, their can be no relationship. The decision to publicly back the Glazers may possibly be one of Fergie’s biggest mistakes and possibly one of his biggest regrets(?), but, having said that, I trust his intention wasn’t to harm the reputation of the club. Unfortunately it has, and his own.

“We’re right behind you boss”

For me, Fergie’s ultimate aim has always been success, which, without encompassing every facet of being a fan, is the same of the supporters (of course success is all relative). His motivations though don’t come from the same place as a fans. He may well have ‘fallen in love’ with the club and undoubtedly will always regard United as a ‘part of him’, but without labouring the point, he could have had that at another club – had someone else come knocking. Fans tend not to choose a club, the club chooses you; for Fergie, United was a career choice. It was a choice made to provide a home for his family, something he has shown us on numerous occasions that he puts before the club. This for me is no more apparent than in his support of the Glazers: in protecting his own status within the club – by ‘dancing with The Devil’ -, Fergie is ensuring he can still provide for his own (although perhaps sounding like it, this is not a criticism).

Despite the fact he isn’t a fan (in the true sense) and his very real connection with the club initially comes from a very different place, this doesn’t mean he loves the club any less than fans, it’s just ‘different’. Still born of necessity, still impassioned, still love.

“Isn’t it past your bed time?”

He is a person (not a God) who puts his loved ones first – this is where I trust him. He is a proud person with unwavering determination – this is where I trust him. He manages to instill a self-belief in his players that is frightening – this is where I trust him. He is a real human being, who makes mistakes and learns from them (and sometimes doesn’t learn from them), who admits defeat and who takes responsibility – this is where I trust him. I can see the enthusiasm in his face, the emotion and although his motivations may come from an alternate place, I trust that he is absolutely, where he feels it is possible, and where he feels he can, trying to do the best for this club. Can’t you see it in his face?

Before players were introduced to pasta (how fancy pants!) and vitamin shakes (oh, you’re spoiling us) their diet consisted of lager and whiskey chasers and a half-time fag – so the story goes. The games were, thus, slower, as were the players (although no less entertaining) … this was of course, at least in United’s case, for one man … Bryan Robson.

When we talk of players with ‘engines’ now we are in the most part referring to what is, in effect, a highly trained athlete. Football in the 80s didn’t have dieticians, with computer generated and calibrated fitness programmes. If you were to recreate the scene from Rocky 4 with Robbo as Rocky and A.N.Other Premiership footballer playing the part of Dolph Lundgren, the outcome would be the same. Robbo on the mountain top. Premiership player legs akimbo at the foot of the treadmill.

His heart and desire were there for all to see. His all-action style was the envy of players and fans the world over. But this belies another truth about him: behind those attributes more readily observed of him, was a very talented and technically gifted footballer. His combative style was almost like a highly evolved smokescreen for a deadly finisher, and extremely proficient user of the ball. He seemed to score every week, although statistically he was a roughly a 1 in 4 man – still not bad for a midfielder.

Howaay!

If ever any player epitomised the footballing cliche of leading by example, then Robbo was that player. He was simply an irresistible force. He didn’t need to intimidate players with big tackles (not that he shirked them, or was shy of the odd one or two), he intimidated them with his unwavering drive. I remember watching some games and feeling like we were a man up on the opposition, such was his wont. If a professional footballer isn’t inspired by a player like Robbo in their dressing room, then they should probably consider a different vocation. As a team player there can probably be no clearer an example of his selflessness than when he turned down the opportunity to score a hat-trick in the final of the F.A cup in ’83. He was and will remain ‘Captain Marvel’.

His influence carried through and was arguably the catalyst for the generation that spawned the most successful period in the club’s history. When a player shows so much of the character that Robbo did, and the tangible response from the fans is there for all to see, it’s only natural for the players coming up through the club to strive to emulate that. Becks worshipped Robbo; he claims it was in fact Robbo who inspired him more than any other player. All of the youth players who came through in the early 90s earmark Robbo as a stand out influence on their career. It’s fitting that he was able to help lead the club to its first title in donkey’s years, and in turn lay down the foundation for things to come.

You two have got no chance.

Being installed as ambassador for the club, speaks volumes of his legacy at the club. Rarely does a player embody the spirit and passion on the pitch of the archetypal captain like Robbo. It’s these things that will live long in the memory of the fans. He would now, had his initially promising managerial career not curtailed off in a downward trajectory, be considered a natural successor to SAF (although it’s convenient to say this ignoring an infinite count of ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’).

I imagine that people would argue that it’s difficult to talk about Robbo’s legacy and reputation in light of the recent Dispatches documentary footage, without mentioning it. Well there you go I just did. Put it into a search engine if you missed it entirely. I rarely concern myself with player’s off-field affairs, that’s not to say I ignore them, but to me they exist as heroes and villains within the confines of the football pitch first and foremost and sometimes within the tunnel and then sometimes within the press rooms. How they really are when the insipidness and cliché of media training peals away and they turn out to be just as human as the rest of us is no more interesting, as it is unsurprising. (Yes. I’m aware of all the stories of footballers in the press and enjoy them and cringe at them in equal measure to a point.) Nothing can change how much of a hero Robbo was to me growing up, because he was just that at that time. That’s how I will remember him.

More telling of his legacy, is that he was recently voted the club’s greatest ever player by United legends themselves in the new book 19. He was THE United player of the 80s. His name will be forever woven into the fabric of our club. I fell in love with football because of Bryan Robson.

I believe I can fly…

Is it a Bird?… No, he’s just got braided hair you bigot! Is it a plane? … Well, he’s carrying a bit of extra cargo. and in some areas he’s first class (?!) … NO! It’s Anderson Luís de Abreu Oliveira. Anderson. Ando. Player of the season 2012. My hero *swoon*.

I tried calling Paddy Power (If ever anyone was destined to become the proprietor of a bookmakers based solely on their birth certificate alone then Paddy’s your man. Possibly only eclipsed by Bet Fred) to place a wager on Ando becoming Player of the Season for 2012 but they refused to take it. Not because it was a forgone conclusion, I just owe them a lot of money (Lies! I was actually addicted to gambling as a teenager, but now cigarettes and alcohol have filled the void). Anyway, where am I going with this waste of a paragraph? Anderson may not be the first name that springs to mind when people propose their suggestions for heirs to the POTY mantle but I’ve been banging on about Ando now since half-way through last season so I’m sticking with him.

Did you know that since his arrival in 2007 he has never completed a full pre-season programme due to injury. That’s his whole United career to date, going into the season not fully prepared. Longer term injuries aside, including the potential career threatening cruciate ligament he ruptured, it’s no wonder he’s been susceptible to niggles and struggled with fitness. Let’s be honest about it he has never really had an athletic frame. Or to put it in a more sympathetic way he doesn’t appear to be a player who is ‘naturally fit’ like say a Becks or a Giggsy. He struggles with fitness.

It was that last Scotch egg…

There is a ground swelling of growing admiration and hope for Ando. A lot of it genuine. But also a lot of it coming from a position of  “Well this is all we’ve got without Scholesy and with no ‘big signings’, so let’s get on with it”. But I think that that absolutely undermines Ando’s potential to be our new ‘big’ player. I think he’s the midfield player we’re missing. But great news, we’re not missing him, cos we’ve already got him. That fella who wears the number eight.

He’s a bundle of tenacity, all action, hungry, wants the ball, gives the ball, master of little triangles, big triangles, competent finisher, creative spark, fearless, hard and soft in equal measure, has a passing range of note,  exponent of the spectacular, capable of the subtle and he also has proven form in one of the requirements from my personal worthy of worship tick list – he likes to ham up his goal celebrations, check.

Look at his face…just look at his face.

(One weakness: He has an apparent problem with heading, can anyone provide evidence of him heading the ball?)

This picture should be in brackets. PROOF!

The problem he has had has been with his relationship with this ugly word that in football circles is a thing of beauty as it harnesses success … consistency. He’s young and still learning his trade in one of the toughest divisions in the world. The team can’t wait for him for ten games to find his range of passing. When you’ve had the likes of Paul Scholes who need ten minutes to find theirs it’s even harder. But now in the best condition he’s been in, his time I think is now. He will still try and do too much, because he’s hungry and still learning. He will run to each end of the pitch forgetting which position he’s been earmarked to hold and when the ball finally comes to him he will kick it like his legs are made of concrete with balls of blu-tack for feet. As he matures he will develop this aspect of his game. For now we should enjoy his willingness to do it all and not berate him, because with a little bit of patience, like SAF is showing him, we will have some player.

Ando…I can’t breath!

I confess I don’t actually think that this will be the season that Ando gets POTY, but that’s not because I think he can’t. I think this season has come to soon in his development. 2014 is a more realistic target. I’m still sticking with my prediction for him for POTY, because at heart I’m still a gambling man and sometimes the outsider comes up on the rails. (Feel free to substitute that last line for any racing cliche of your choosing) I predict the plaudits to come thick and fast for him as the season barrels along towards the business end. He’s just completed his first full pre-season. Premier League beware.

Who are they?

Preface: I feel I must preface this post with a note to say that, of course, I would very much welcome an influx of youth to the first team, who wouldn’t, right?!  To utter anything to the contrary flies in the face of our club’s unique history … I really do like kids, I just couldn’t eat a whole one (sorry, that was sponsored by the Institute of Dad Jokes).

Since the Class of ’92 so impudently gate crashed the grown up’s party to their obvious incredulity, the sport has evolved into a very different elephant. Needless to say, this is, in part, due to the world that exists outside of our football sphere going through some almighty dramatic changes itself.

If you were born post 1980 you are now widely acknowledged as a Digital Native. You are immersed within, and at one with the technology that shapes our social and cultural environment. It’s likely, some say, that you have no soul. You are no longer a face in the crowd, but an avatar on A. N. Other’s Twitter timeline. You express yourself through a series of emoticons and abbreviations, LOL #justsaying. (However, I didn’t intend to be drawn in to a tongue-in-cheek defamation of our yoof and return to my point.) The distractions presented to the current crop would only have been glimpsed in the dystopian nightmares of a young Becks or Scholesy.

Neville Neville would no doubt have spent quite a bit of time shouting his rambunctious sons in for their tea, as they played footy, jumpers for goalposts, in the streets. Whereas today the equivalent scene may find him shouting upstairs to stop his offspring cracking a carjacked junkie over the head in the streets of L.A.

The immediacy of our culture ensures the young and impressionable habits and hobbies have evolved beyond kicking a ball about in the park, after downing a bottle of blue pop and being sick in the hedge bottom. The values instilled from a more ‘old fashioned’ upbringing are no longer that easy to impart.   How can we expect that football is going to be coursing through the veins of today’s ‘kids’ like it did for the previous aforementioned ‘Class of 92’? I personally don’t think we can.

I will tip-toe around the increasingly clichéd territory of the ‘trappings of fame’. I’d also like to acknowledge with a passing nod that the ‘Class of ’92’ did not take on the world by themselves, they had leaders of the like the game can simply never replicate: Eric and Keano.

If it were to have a chance, it would have to happen sooner rather than later. I feel when SAF retires the traditions our club has clasped close to its chest and held dear with regards to the nurturing of the prospective talent will become more difficult to sustain, as the lust for instant gratification becomes king. Someone’s job will no doubt depend on it.

Far from being a naysayer I would like to conclude as I opened, I can’t think of anything more satisfying than seeing a product of our youth system (preferably, a local lad – Hi Danny) progress and break through into the first XI. I just believe that for a throng of them to do so, in the manner of the ‘Class of ’92′, would be less likely than it ever has. The number of ‘what if’s’ that such an occurrence usually struggles against, now has to compete with societal change.

Hello…

I would love nothing more than to be proved absolutely wrong as the waffling idiot that I am.

What a performance.

I spent at least all of the Champions League Final in 2009 sat in my local acting out, in glorious Technicolor, a one man travelling Father Ted tribute act. A brief dalliance as Dougal as I stared blankly into the giant screen abyss of an unfathomable future of failure, interrupted briefly by my faultless Ted, anxiously shovelling cigarettes into my face. These were just the accoutrements, the warm up acts if you will, for my impeccable Father Jack, “Feck!…Arse!…Drink!…CARRICK!…”. (My mate Rob, a Liverpool fan, was a triumph in the part of Mrs Doyle…beckoning Barcelona forward, “Go on, Go on, Go on, Go on, Go on.” But I had to unfortunately cut him from the final edit).

Carrick. Michael Adrian Carrick. Michael Carrick. Carrick. Not Micky, Mick, Mike, Carro, Ricky, Caz, Cazza, MC, Macca, or any of the other endlessly recycled ‘terms of endearment’ derived from the component parts of his name. It’s Carrick. Michael Carrick. I’m sure there are some United fans who can point to numerous monikers they’ve heard or have indeed used themselves to refer to Carrick, but I am simply erring on the side of folly to illustrate my own point of view – that he hasn’t exactly been brought into the United bosom as one of our own as a little cheeky ‘nickname’ often facilitates.

What's my name?

Yes I know ‘The Michael Carrick debate’ is a bit old hat now and a great deal of the fetishisation of the subject has subsided but I just wanted to stick my own oar in along with everyone else. I only have two things to add, although don’t ever mistake the addition of the word ‘only’ to mean this won’t go on a bit

1) Michael Carrick is not and never will be Paul Scholes, Roy Keane, Bryan Robson, Bobby Charlton etc…(repeat to fade). This is not his fault. If fans wish to have these players or damned near good impressions of these players constantly adorning our midfield then you need to send an S.A.E to ‘The secretary of The Universe’ or more specifically ‘The Sun’, asking for an explanation as to why our existence as football fans on this planet is detrimentally compromised by the fact our genetic make-up, born of all that ruddy star stuff, means we will never be blessed with the same great players twice.

2) Michael Carrick comes sans low centre of gravity. This is not his fault.  He is in no way ‘a soft touch’. He is unfortunately, genetically predisposed to being, in scientific terms, ‘brushed off the ball very easily’.

3) I know I said only two points, but I remembered one more thing: Michael Carrick is actually better than our grandma’s. I organised a little knock about behind closed doors and although Michael was a little outnumbered he still managed to nick the win on penalties.

Now, we all know, begrudgingly or because we are the select few of the highest intellect, that Scholesy is one of the most gifted midfielders to have graced Old Trafford, nay the world. But, if he was in a category for best toothbrush he wouldn’t be regarded so highly (we all know if Scholesy was a toothbrush, we’d get Ginger-vitis). A terrible analogy, probably one of the worst and most nonsensical you’re likely to come across (I just had to get the Ginger-vitis joke in). What I’m trying to say whilst taking you round the houses a few times is this: Making direct comparisons with things we hold familiar and true and with players of past and present could be considered an entirely flawed pursuit. Unfortunately for Michael Carrick it is almost the only near tangible means we have of passing judgement on him.

Check my breath.

(As a footnote to the above paragraph) Of course we have statistics and for the most part they provide fans with succulent side dishes to the main meal. But for me they are mere garnish and in themselves are flawed. I don’t want to labour this point too much through fear of enraging all the stat fans. All I’m saying is how do you truly define a complete pass or an incomplete pass? When a player (1) of inferior quality executes a wayward pass which is controlled by a player (2) of superior technical ability, does that count as a complete pass by player 1? Yes, statistics don’t lie, but politicians do and they use them all the time.

I would much prefer players in our starting XI who in my opinion are better footballers than Michael Carrick, but these players aren’t endlessly available. I personally think players with Michael Carrick’s intelligence, ability, loyalty and team ethic should always be welcome members of any squad.

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!”