BifEUROcated

Tom (@tom_mcghee)

What the fuck Brett? I come into Bifurcated Towers, on the weekend, dodging mad nationalist pensioners, only to find youse pair have done less than me. I’ll be honest, I’ve mainly been playing GTA, watching Sopranos (It’s about the mafia) and watching the football so it’s kinda become one in my mind; can’t see Silvio without seeing old Ronaldo etc. That aside, pretty good. Messi’s free-kick was sublime. And remember: vote remain July 23rd.

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Benno (@Benglorious)

I’m with Tom on this apart from the GTA and Sopranos thing – I’ve literally been doing nothing apart from United research for next season’s previews. I ain’t got time to bleed. And by bleed I mean write things about the Euros. Apart from this one thing I’ve written just now. In summation: goals are good, Mark Lawrenson is bad.

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Brett (@bifurcated_utd)

I did the title with white letters again.

*That’s funny cos the middle bit where it says ‘Week Uno’ is in white, so you can’t see what it says. What it says, I guess we’ll never know.

This isn’t just a lazy/crass cut and paste of our “best” Twitter bits…

It is. Bite us.

“I despaired when Brett, who shall remain nameless, said we had to do this review, but that was only until I realised how little effort was required. ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ A perfect summer blockbuster!! Would read again.” – B. Glorious, LA Times

“Can’t believe that Brett, who shall remain nameless, didn’t even take the time to embed the tweets in the hope of maximising our #numbers, thus clinching that big money sponsorship from a bookmaker’s that every internetter craves. That aside, pretty good.” – T. McGhee, Exchange & Mart

“You’re all fucking idiots.” – P. R. Antcast, Guns & Ammo

Welbeck has one ‘L’ of a problem with ‘greedy’ Lallana.

When it was announced earlier this week that both Andros Townsend and Michael Carrick would be returning from International duty to their respective employers, as a result of minor knocks picked up during England training, no-one thought anything of it… but that was one ‘L’ of a mistake…

Tensions frayed, earlier this week, when Danny Welbeck and Calum Chambers were reading the Metro on the bus on the way into training and noticed England teammates Gary Cahill and Adam Lallana were ‘carrying a spare’. The pair were left stunned by the shocking discovery and it proved too much for the young England stars to stomach; as both have been singled out and ridiculed for the overwhelming lack of the letter ‘L’ in their respective names, since birth.

Roy Hodgson has never hidden his preference for ‘Non-‘L’ers’, in handing Wayne Rooney, and before him, Steven Gerrard, the England captaincy, but it was assumed, by F.A bosses and experts, that the appointment of Gary Neville (a Two-‘L’er) – as a balance – had eased any lingering tension. Unfortunately the animosity between the One-‘L’ers, Non-‘L’ers, Two-‘L’ers and Surplus-‘L’ers, is yet again threatening to split the England dressing room in four!

When Michael Carrick a fellow One-‘L’er, and father figure to the young One-‘L’ers in the squad, confronted Cahill and Lallana, Towsend (a Non-‘L’er) stepped in: the violent scenes that erupted left the dressing room needing a really good tidy up.

A source said, “Rooney’s degenerative condition in his knees … no wait, you were asking me about ‘L’s in players names … I’m sorry you’ve lost me. That makes no sense.”

As you list the players that have gone down in the history books as the greatest players ever in the history books of history, it’s clear to see players with ‘L’s come out on top, if you ignore approximately half of them, Maradona, Eric Cantona, Cruyff etc… and just consider the ones that substantiate the theory that this is a real serious issue: Lionel Messi, Cristiano Ronaldo, Pele etc…

Either way it’s abundantly clear, it’s an ‘L’ of a problem for Roy and he needs to learn how to deal with it fast!

*No reason

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Ben (Benglorious):

Last game of the season!  At bloody last!  Haven’t written this much stuff since that time I had to make a list of Katie Price’s husbands.  At least my contract will be finally fulfilled and I can rest my weary bones.  I seriously doubt this season thing happens every year, so I’ll finally be free of this room.  Once I’ve gnawed through my wrist to get out of these handcuffs.

Southampton are another of those weirdly named teams.  To my knowledge, there’s no “Northampton” or any other Hampton with a compass point attached.  I DO know that there’s a Hampton Court Palace, so that must be where today’s opponents call home.

If Southampton have a palace as their stadium, they must be one of the richest clubs in the world.  Therefore, their players to watch out for MUST include Zico, Zidane, both Ronaldos (fat and thin), plus most of the Spanish national side as they won the country of South Africa in a game of football four years ago, which apparently makes them the best team in the world.

Prediction:  Giggsy’s last game in charge will bring out the best in our boys today.  Mata’s vision is going to be so visionary that he’ll play with an eyepatch in the second half just because he thinks it’s fairer for Southampton’s defence.  Unfortunately for them, he’ll have already set up four goals and scored two himself.  Robin will be on fire, scoring the aforementioned four goals before also handicapping himself by extinguishing the flames on his shirt that so bemused the defenders.  Giggs will come on to thunderous applause, score and then immediately sub himself off for New Kid 1 and New Kid 2.  Nobody will complain that we now have twelve players on the pitch because c’mon, it’s Giggsy’s last game.  1-0 Southampton.

About the author:  Finally found out the dimensions of a football pitch this morning, hence no Rooney goal in my prediction.

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Brett:

Still bored of talking about football.

Though, as I’ve heard from someone who knows someone, that it’s going to be Danny’s last game for us this season, I’ll predict he’ll get his customary two.

Prediction: 2-0. Danny with his customary two.

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p.s Here’s a thing about a thing I’m doing in Bristol in a few weeks…

I’ve been organising a festival: www.fofi.org.uk

It’s called the Festival of Football Ideas and it’s a celebration of football through the medium of art, music, literature and film.  The tag line I came up with sums up the spirit of the festival quite nicely, I think:

People who like football are people, just like us. Some of these people have other interests too. Some of them creative ones. It turns out artists like football. Poets like football. Academics, writers, comedians and even musicians; they all like football.
Many of them even love it.
Sometimes they all overlap gloriously. Imagine.
This is the Festival of Football Ideas.

I’m incredibly proud of what my small group of friends and I have managed to accomplish so far. It’s already exceeded any expectations we had when I first put the idea to them. Each one has bought their own individual skills to it. Whatever happens in the next couple of weeks, whether things run smoothly, or not so much, above all else, this is already a triumph of friendship.

Anyway, I won’t be writing and/or blogging much for a while ‘cus of the festival I just mentioned (keep up), but I will be blogging about the festival here:  FOFI BLOG

Ben (Benglorious):

When Mr Bifurcated (I don’t know his real name) asked me to contribute to his website, I immediately asked about the remuneration package.  After getting some very evasive responses, I finally realised that I was supposed to do it for free like all the other “writers”. This struck me as odd, particularly with regard to @tom_mcghee as I know him in real life and he charges me a Queenhead every time he texts me (it’s a plumber thing); but if that corporate shill does it for nothing then I suppose I can give it a go.  Until something better comes along.  Or I get bored.  But what if they don’t do it for free?  What if I’m being mugged off and they’re all laughing at me for being such an idiot?  Oh well, just like real life, then.

I thought I’d start by doing some research on the site, and came to the horrifying realisation that I would be expected to write about football; in particular, MAnchesTA United (pun #1).  I did not see that coming.  Particularly because I know for a fact that I’ve never said anything serious on Twitter about the beautiful game.  Or any other topic.  Ever.

Anyway; football.  I’m supposed to preview the Cardiff game but I’m refusing as I feel that a Welsh team shouldn’t be playing in an English league.  Not for nationalist reasons, mind you, but purely based on travel complications.  Why should we have to take our passports for domestic league and cup games?  They should be saved for those special occasions when we tour the Far East or the States on important shirt-selling missions.  Champions League?  Not a league and far too many non-champions playing so that’s irrelevant.  The upside of this Welsh segregation is that, in my mind, we’ve never played/never will play Cardiff or Swansea and so results against them don’t Mata (Boom! That’s #2).  I’m still outraged that United are out of the FA Cup due to an administrative error/lost ball during the ITV draw.

I imagine that Mr Bifurcated (note to self: find out his name) is pulling his hair out at my “short match preview” so I’ll wrap it up and do the only bit that will actually make it online…

Prediction: 3-1 to United, with a brace for RVP, both set up by our new number seven EIGHT who also bags the third before being subbed off to a standing ovation so he can get suited and booted for the press conference.  Romantic, eh?

About the author: I’ve never been to Wales.

Dislcaimer: All puns contained herein remain the intellectual property of @PaulGunning1.

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Brett:

Mata.

As for Cardiff…

Ole has breezed into the Premier League with the assurance of a man who’s never attempted to exit a coffee shop by pulling the push door. No doubt, as a child – “the foetus-featured, L-plated sniper” – he’d mastered potty-training well before his teens. What?!

Tis, on the surface of it, a strange job for Ole to have taken. But the reality is, the expectations of the fans are relatively low, he’s got money to spend, and if it goes wrong everyone’s going to blame that bloke wearing the massive baddy outfit, with the massive baddy face, who behaves like a massive baddy, with a massive baddy neon sign bolted to him reading ‘MASSIVE BADDY THIS WAY’, and not Ole.

When we played them earlier in the season – when everybody’s favourite spoonerism Malky Mackay was still in charge – we couldn’t beat them then, even with the away advantage. So, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see them limit Mata to just two brilliant goals.

Prediction: 2-1. Having received the signal, Ole to suddenly get up from his seat and calmly make his way towards the centre-circle, where he begins removing a patch of loose turf, revealing the rusty box where he’d some time before stashed his Remington Model 700 rifle. It all now becomes clear: *flashback waves* the incident with Rob Lee was a carefully orchestrated distraction. Haven’t you always wondered what Ole was doing as last man back? As Rob Lee had made his way over the halfway line, Ole had been busy burying an object – we now know to be the rifle – but the onrushing conventionally attractive footballer had disturbed him; and thus threatened to give the whole game away. Thinking on his feet, Ole gave chase, and brought GQ chops down, just outside the area, creating a hive of activity well away from the middle of the pitch. Ole was, of course, sent off, but as Newcastle prepared to take the free-kick, Ole, having now disguised himself as a discarded crisp packet (a costume he’d had on under his kit, in the event of something like this happening), returned quickly to the pitch, finished hiding the fire-arm, replaced the turf and disappeared on the next zephyr… *flashback waves* Ole (now back in the present – keep up!) loads the rifle in two slick movements (which gets a round of applause from the Old Trafford crowd, which he acknowledges), and with one shot he takes down his target. Meanwhile, Chris Woods and Phil Neville have removed their masks, to reveal they were themselves all along.

Danny to give his permission for Mata to score his customary two for him.

I was thinking about an adage that I like: “the problem with going on holiday in order to ‘get away from it all’, is that you take yourself with you.” This is pertinent when we think about football, as football is something we mostly like to think of as an ‘escape’.

I was thinking about Wayne Rooney and about how much I really, really don’t like him anymore and also about how much I used to really, really, really like him. How I liked him then because of what he represented: an unaffected, honest talent; the swashiest of swashbucklers. How I don’t like him now because his body language has become affected, he is – in my eyes – dishonest; his swash has buckled.

I was thinking of an equivalent player – from within my not-so-complicated heirarchy of favourite players – and then thinking, if it were say, Patrice, or perhaps Rio, who’d not actually put in a transfer request, not just the once, but the twice, if I’d feel the same sense of indignation, the same malcontent, the same amount of grumpy?

I was thinking about Danny as the antithesis of Rooney: a team player who hasn’t vocalised his likely disappointment at being asked-slash-forced-slash-for the good of the team, to play out of his preferred position. A player who seems to genuinely enjoy being a professional footballer, in the way I would if I were one. A player who absolutely wants to be a United player. A player who is easy to love … in the way I would be if I were a professional footballer. What?!

I was thinking about what draws me to certain players – what makes them my favourites – and it’s the dichotomy of relatedness and Otherness. I like players whose behaviour most mirrors what I think mine would look like if I were to swap lives with them. It might be something expressed physically, but definitely anchored within their mental approach; it might be apparent in the type of shot they shape for, or the sort of pass they favour, or the way they hold themselves in an interview – the details of them I think that only I notice. However, it is also definitely about their Otherness, the preternatural; their ability to do the things with a football that most of us couldn’t muster without Dali taking up residency in our frontal lobes.

I was thinking about the ubiquitous-slash-tired question: Messi or Ronaldo? How Ronaldo embodies a version of the ‘modern footballer’, caricatures it even, and Messi, another.

I was thinking about this quote by George Orwell in a book I was reading: “If thought corrupts language, then language can corrupt thought.”

I was thinking about how Rooney is generally portrayed in the press and that. How the language used is based largely on his physical appearance, with the subtext being that he is a ‘chav’ and then the class politics attached to that term with an asterisk. How attitudes spread through the media, whether we realise it or not, whether we accept it or not and whether we like it or not.

I was thinking about how much value is placed on the superficial, how we still need to start seeing individuals for what they are: individuals. How a superficial attitude propagates societal ills.

I was thinking it was just about football.

I was thinking: is it ever just about football?

I was thinking about cutting Rooney some slack.

Paul Gunning (@PaulGunning1)

‘It’s All Over Now, Baby Boo. ‘

So it’s come to this. Booing one of our own. I’d hoped this day would never come. Presumably it’s only a matter of time before we’re all holding up A4 sheets of paper with ‘Moyes Out’ hastily scribbled on them in biro, or racing onto the pitch at half time to tear up our season tickets (well, cutting them up with scissors we’ve smuggled past the stewards, before being arrested on terrorism charges), then giving a bile-ridden interview to the Manchester Evening News on a rainy Sir Alex Ferguson Way.

What’s weird is that I could have sworn we were all laughing at Arsenal fans on the opening day of this season, for the chorus of boos that greeted their loss to Aston Villa, at The Emirates.

Not to mention the constant jeering we’ve subjected Manchester City fans to over the years, for such shows of ticket-tearing disappointment.

What’s also baffling is that it was Nani that was on the receiving end of a sizeable number of the supporters’ ire.

Granted, he can, without doubt, be an incredibly frustrating player to watch; sublime one moment, who’s-given-that-toddler-a-football woeful the next. Still, he’s never submitted a transfer request, or questioned the club’s ambition, or whinged about his team mates or sloped about like a sulking teenager.

Indeed, I would even go so far as to say he seems like a fairly nice, harmless chap. Not a great deal between the ears, perhaps, but hardly a player that naturally attracts unabashed vitriol.

The boos aimed at Nani against Stoke, on Saturday, struck me as being even more ludicrous given that the crowd had been enjoying that old Old Trafford refrain of ‘Attack! Attack! Attack, attack, attack!’ during the match. If there’s one criticism you can’t really level at Nani, it’s that he’s guilty of constantly passing sideways; that his approach is conservative, or anti-United. If nothing else, he’s never afraid to try things out, to try to entertain, which is surely to be admired and encouraged at the Theatre of Dreams.

Perhaps he’s finally paying the price for having turned up in England declaring himself to be the next Cristiano Ronaldo, having demanded that United pay Sporting Lisbon the princely sum of £25.5m to form a tag-team with his Portugese compatriot. Hang on, I don’t think any of that was him, was it?

Well, maybe it’s Nani being booed because we’re tiring of his unadventurous starting line-ups and late, negative substitutions against lowly opposition, not to mention the arrogance he showed in sweeping into Old Trafford and firing the back-room staff as if they were bar-workers who’d just been caught, drunk as hobos, with their hands in the till. No, wait…

Then it must be his decision to sell the club to the Glazers, thus knee-capping Manchester United’s power in the transfer market, that has made him so many enemies. Hmmm…

The truth is, I can’t really see any justification for jeering Nani. He’s a player that tries hard and who is suffering some early season lack of form. He’s hardly on his own on that count.

It’s like coming home to find your wife in bed with another man, and kicking the dog down the stairs in response.

Using Nani as a scapegoat for United’s unconvincing start to the season only serves to make us look like the very fickle fans of other clubs we’ve spent the last two decades mocking with all the derision they deserved.

Save your boos for the referee or the opposition. Or just don’t bother turning up in the first place. Because if we start turning on our own, it’s just about all over.

Catch more of Paul’s excellent bloggings here: The Right Irreverend Blogger

Translator’s note: I’m not fully fluent in Spanish and Brett’s writing style is very unique (and occasionally hard to fathom even in English).

Yo no veo mucho fútbol *¡un sobresalto! – ¡qué horror! – ¡decapitáme!* así que, cuando estaba de vacaciones en España, en un bar, El Clásico apunto de comenzar, no era seguro como comportarme.  Para decir que los ojos estuvieron pegados a la tele, sería idealizar la escena un chiquitín porque, de verdad, pasé el primer semestre del partido subrepticiamente raspando desde mi plato, el estofado de ternera que mi novia y yo habíamos pedido por equivocación (ser vegan en Europa nos da estos retos) y no tenía ganas de parecer descortes, qué Británico soy.  No obstante, lo pasaba bien y al medio tiempo un péaton, quien echó un vistazo al tele, me preguntó el resultado. Hablo Spanglish y contesté: “Yo soy un helado”. El hombre le gustó esta respuesta y asintió con la cabeza.  En retrospectiva, claro que sí, él había notado que soy tonto.

Aparte de los blogs que leo de vez en cuando, escrito por William Abbs (@WilliamAbbs), no sé nada de La Liga *¡Decapita el resto de la cabeza! (el muñón sangriento)* pero lo que me noté más durante diferentes estancias en España – a pesar de las diferencias culturales entre España e Inglaterra – es la ubicuidad de los fans.  Las hinchas en un bar, el camarero, un grupo de hinchas por la calle, los niños jugando fútbol en un parque, o por la playa, todos reflejan los gestos y el comportamiento de los aficionados del fútbol de vuelta a casa – son casi idénticos.  Ni son las similitudes exclusivos a los aficionados.  El tratamiento del fútbol por The Media Española, también refleja algo de nuestro Media.  Cuando estuve en Espana, la noticia de ‘La Tristeza de Ronaldo’ hace poco se había escapado y todos los medios de comunicación no dejan de hablar y hablar y hablar de Ronaldo y su tristeza.  Me parecía muy familiar.  Pero, no somos los mismos y el fútbol Español y el fútbol de Inglaterra, por cierto, son distintos.

Se habían escrito mucho sobre la escuela del fútbol en España, de tiki-taka y todo lo de eso, y, sin duda, cosas como esos han influido mucho el éxito de los equipos de La Liga.  Pero yo quiero sugerir que – tal vez – la cultura Española se haya ayudado también.  No quiero generalizar, pero por toda España – en general – hay un sentido de la comunidad más fuerte que en Inglaterra.  Todos somos seres sociales por la naturaleza humana, y no quiero decir que los Ingleses son totalmente introvertidos, pero por comparación con los Españoles, sí.  Los Españoles dan la bienvenida al concepto de la sociabilidad.  Se gusta la compañía de otra gente (lo sé, son locos, no?!)  La mayoría de la gente almuerza con la familia y con los amigos, comienza la noche con El Paseo con la familia y con los amigos, y luego toma algo en un bar o en un restaurante con la familia y con los amigos, hasta la madrugada.  Esto no es de vez en cuando, esto es la vida Española jubilosa.  Además, el gobierno se dice que cada agosto es fiesta y también en España hay diecisiete días de festivo (variaciones locales equivalen a más) en comparación con los nueve de Inglaterra.  Mira – ¿quién crees tú se hace la vida más buena? Y, qué sabías ¡no he hablado del clima!

Sin duda, hay muchas razones, por las cuales el fútbol Español gobierna.  En muchas no he pensado, considerado, o discutido aquí.  Sin embargo, yo creo que, si la identidad nacional de tu país enfatiza la importancia de las cosas importantes verdaderas – como pasando un rato con los amados y deleitándose con una actitud de “trabajar para vivir, no vivir para trabajar”, vivirás bien y con la salud psíquica más fuerte y a su vez – con menos contaminación de la mente – tendrás más potencial para desbloquear la creatividad.

Hay una escena en The Mighty Boosh (bueno, lo más inteligente de los puntos de referencia, no, pero vaya conmigo) donde Howard y Vince se hace naufragar. Están en una isla y Howard (el pesimista) acusa a Vince (“el chico hecho del sol”) – quién se disfruta el sol y se comporta asi como el naufragio es una parte de la vacación – que “se cae en la trampa”.  La idea es que Vince, el chico más optimista del mundo, se enceguece al terror de lo que Howard es tan consciente.  El pesimismo de Howard resulta en una situación donde Howard no puede comprender como la situación pudiera ser nada otra cosa que una lucha terrible.  “Qué trampa?” contesta Vince “La trampa de la alegría de vivir?”

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There’s also a ‘directors cut’…

For the first time since Michael Owen, Manchester United are starting a season without a player wearing the number 7 shirt. In the end it took a neat side-step from Antonio Valencia (which is funny, ‘cus he doesn’t do that anymore) to consign the shirt to Albert Morgan’s sewing box for the foreseeable future. There it lays in unexpected, sacrosanc hibernation, all set to rise forth from it’s tomb into Albert’s thimbled grasp, thence to be emblazoned with the name of a maverick superstar of mythical repute, when the transfer window next creaks ajar (which is funny, ‘cus that won’t happen) (none of these things in brackets are funny).

Fans of certain clubs, like certain numbers: Newcastle fans like 9s because of the finest player to wear the shirt, Andy Cole and some others – much less interesting – I’ve never heard of. Southampton fans like 3s because of Franny Benali. And Liverpool are just way too easy a target for these shirt lols.  The list goes on and on, I’m sure – if you can be bothered to look. At United though, all of our shirt numbers have been worn by the best players that have ever played, so all are special: all could be retired in honour of any number of players. However, provided we conveniently forget the number 22, it’s the number 7 with which we are most enamoured.

In the days when players were more than just a number, it was George Best who originally made the number 7 a star. No longer would it represent a point in a numerically ordered list of names selected to take to the field for their club on a given match day, and simply denote the position traditionally referred to as outside right, and then latterly right winger, which eventually became more commonly regarded as the right midfielder –  it now was George Best, a metaphor of sorts, or is it an anthropomorphism? (as long as there’s long words in here, the accuracy of the meaning is perfunctory – I’m a blogger, that’s what we do)

Via lots of other players that no-one mentions, and Steve Coppell and Bryan Robson, the number 7 completed its spiritual journey when it came to rest on Eric’s changing room peg. The timing of this celestial alignment – as sweatshop polyester entwined with dark, steely tendrils of gallic chest hair at just the same time as the Premier League first introduced the squad numbering system – meant Eric would become the first player to officially claim ownership of the number, and own it he did.

Once this line was drawn, the number 7 became a strong motif for a new generation of football fans and David Beckham was keen to deflect in this glory: he took the number 7 after having decided the ’10′ he swapped for his ’24′ wasn’t the right fit for his pretensions. What David Beckham understood though, as a fan of the club, was ‘what it was’ to wear the number 7, and that made it alright. Fergie also understood the thing about the ’7′, and also understood that the CR7 branding would work less well in the future if Ronaldo would insist on wearing his preferred ’28′, and so shoved him into the shirt kicking and screaming (that’s funny ‘cus, etc…).

On the flipside, Fergie also oversaw Michael Owen’s sullying of the scared garm (perhaps pointing to an expectation that Fergie had in Owen that was never realised) and Valencia’s self-appropriated failure to live up to expectations – real or imagined.

There’s something, I think, that all the players who played in the number 7 shirt under Fergie have in common: Eric, a player with a disruptive reputation, joined off the back of a chance phone conversation; David Beckham was one of the collective youth that Fergie put his faith in; Ronaldo, a ‘light-weight show-pony’, was bought hurriedly after the United players wouldn’t shut up about him and other clubs had got wind; Michael Owen was a punt (I said punt) on an out-of-contract, out-of-form, ‘has-been’; Valencia was a relatively little known player from ‘lowly Wigan’, charged with replacing one of the best players in the word. In one way or another, they all represented something of a gamble (beyond the usual risk involved in the transfer of players). The successful outcomes though far outweighed the not so, and as Fergie himself recently noted (in the Harvard interview), his gambling instincts have played an integral part in his success at the club.

And so, when Moyes – coming a little out of leftfield – offered Nani a new long-term contract, I was excited. Not because of any lingering affection I have for Nani particularly (though I do have a bit), but because to me it represents a risk; taking a chance on a player whose bags were already in the taxi, backing a player who kicks all the right notes, just in the wrong order, a player – it would appear – Moyes has boldly chosen to believe in (at least for the immediate future). It’s a positive move, and at odds with some of the less inspiring (bordering on maddening) manoeuvres Moyes and the club have made during this, the gestation period of ’the new era’. Moyes has certainly not been given the job off the back of his reputation to roll the dice, and it’s hardly cause to ‘strap ourselves in’, but I think it provides an indication, a shaft of light, that he’s not entirely risk averse – which I was beginning to wonder about.

For now then, the number 7 needs some bedrest, some time to erase the trauma of the last few years. Then, when Moyes has got a season under his belt and developed his card game sufficiently, he can continue the legacy of the number 7 in the proper manner … by handing it to Adnan (that’s Januzaj to you non-United lot. Get used to hearing that name. Yeah, that told yer).

This post was originally featured on By Far The Greatest Team