The New Aston Villa?
We’re so used to hearing players in pre-season repeat the mantra about needing to get off a to a flyer that actually seeing them follow through on their words comes as quite a shock. So we’d be forgiven for getting a little giddy and carried away, after all we’ve played football of a pretty intoxicating kind, particularly the vintage uncorked by Ryan Giggs. But looking around at the company we’re keeping at the top of the table my doubts are starting to surface once again. Indeed I’m starting to think that United’s slide from pre-eminence has been even more precipitous than first feared. Take a look at our fellow early pace-setters, Aston Villa, Everton and Portsmouth. Exactly the kind of perennial mid-table also rans that you would never dream of lumping United with. The kind of teams who get a couple of lucky-breaks in August and early September and their fans inundate phone-ins with rash claims about ‘this being their year’. By November they’ve inevitably slid back into the state of anonymous mediocrity that they’re used to and memories of ‘this being their year’ evaporate in double-quick time as they fight to stave off relegation.
Is this what its come to for United as well? Is our virtually immaculate start to the season merely a red herring, the gods of football once again teasing us by dangling something shiny and wonderful in our faces then thwarting us when we reach out to grab it? (And don’t think the gods aren’t toying with us; did you see the Cup Final two years ago? Did you see the way we got close to Chelsea last year only to be trounced at their place and a final twist of the knife coming in Rooney’s injury? Oh they’ve got it in for us alright).
Is this their greatest insult yet? To find ourselves in such proximity to the Premiership’s legion of mediocrities. In fact I’d feel less nervous if Chelsea, Liverpool and Arsenal weren’t all wobbling away around mid-table, but were squatting directly behind us. Maybe I should be reassured by the style of the football we’re playing and by the way that we’ve calmly swerved around the latest obstacle that those pesky gods have hurled in our path, namely the unjust bans for Rooney and Scholes. These gods clearly have their emissaries on earth, vessels through which they will wage war on Manchester United Football Club. Brian Barwick’s one, Peter Kenyon another. Having tried his best to destroy us from within, Kenyon is now trying the from without method. Both will fail. ‘We’ll never die’ is more than a mere song, after all.
Sometimes I really wish I could just enjoy football. But then that's not the point, is it?
Ole, Ole, Ole!
At approximately 9:50 pm last night (Wed 23/8) strange phenomena were reported across the globe. In Lebanon and Israel soldiers from Hizbullah and Israel looked sadly towards their weapons and were overwhelmed with feelings of pity for all that has passed over the preceding weeks. As one, they resolved to make the cease-fire work. In Baghdad, a man about to strap himself with explosives and drive towards an allied forces checkpoint, paused and decided that today wasn’t a day for self-immolation. In Florida, doctors raced to the bedside of an ageing businessman as a massive stroke jolted his body. In South Manchester, a telephone rang. John Squire, former guitarist of the Stone Roses, answered and heard his erstwhile partner Ian Brown wondering if he was doing anything in the morning and if he fancied getting together for a bit of a jam. In Liverpool, people carried on robbing and murdering, but there’s no helping Scouser is there?
Cosmic harmonies drifted towards planet earth, sounding not unlike one of the extra tracks on the reissue of the Beach Boys ‘Pet Sounds’. All was well with the world.
And the reason for this sudden outbreak of interplanetary good vibrations? Ole Gunnar Solskjaer had just planted the ball in the Charlton net. After two years in the purgatory of the treatment room, Ole was back doing what Ole does best; rising from the bench and spreading a smile of joy around the world.
So, maybe I exaggerate a little, after all it’s doubtful anything could restore Squire and Brown to friendship, but the sense of contentment experienced as Ole scored, particularly as it was closely followed by the news percolating in from Teeside that Chelsea had lost, was hard to beat.
It’s been an unexpectedly good start to the season all round. Who would have predicted that I would glide out of Old Trafford on Sunday hailing Patrice Evra as possibly United’s Man of the Match? (Rooney apart that is. Rooney always being a class apart, and a separate category of ‘Man of the Match Who Isn’t Wayne Rooney’ needing devising).
Just as surprising was the fact that Fletcher didn’t just lash in a splendid goal last night, but that he dominated the midfield with a combination of strength and skill. Not to mention that Saha is making a mockery of jibes about the fact he’s manufactured entirely from balsa wood.
Chuck into the mix the currently imperious form of Ryan Giggs and even Rio Ferdinand and you wonder why we spent most of the summer months fretting about our limp performance in the transfer market. So you start urging caution on yourself, pleading not to get carried away too soon, bracing yourself for the inevitable crash. But for now, caution can do one. United are top of the league and if you listen carefully you’ll even hear the planets singing ‘Take me home United Road.’
