Phil Will Tear You Apart Again!
What a week! Seven days ago I was trudging out of Old Trafford absolutely convinced that we'd blown the title. Forget all that counterintuive nonsense that I'd fooled myself with after the Portmouth game, this time I knew for certain that the game was up. Chelsea would thrash Newcastle. We'd probably bottle it against Milan, and end the season potless. Queueing for the tram I sent a text to the Mrs advising her to hide anything sharp or that could be fashioned into a noose. It was to be a dark weekend.
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Fast forward to about 3 o'clock Sunday afternoon and I'm sprinting round the front room singing 'Mourinho are you listening?' and contemplating running over the road to hug my Geordie neighbour. Maybe it's not over after all.
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Cut to Tuesday and the absolute delirium when Wayne belted that ball into the back of the net. Considered rationally we're still in a pretty tight spot for the second leg, but as I floated out of the ground, still singing away, rational analysis wasn't at the forefront of my mind. It didn't just feel like the tie was won, but the trophy as well.
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Then comes Wednesday and the hammer blow that the Glazer's have seen fit to stick a fiver a game on the cost of my seat, taking my season ticket to a whopping £836. Of course I don't have to sit in such a prime piece of Old Trafford real estate, and even though i've only been in the seat a season, it'd feel like a wrench to relocate. But with most other teams freezing prices on the back of the windfall from the new TV deal you have to start questioning just how much you're willing to let your loyalty be taken for granted. Final decisions are yet to taken. Much thought remains to be done.
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So to today, and I'm still mulling over what i'll do next season whilst fretting about our missing defence and wondering if there's truth in all these stories that Fergie and Saha have had a terminal bust-up. Everton score first. Worrying, but it's early, and we haven't got going yet. Then we do get going, dominating the game. But Everton score again, and Rooney's first touch is once again looking a bit rough.
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But somehow, unlike at Portsmouth, I knew. I knew that we'd come back, not to just to equalise, but to win. And how. I'm sure eventually Phil Neville will allow himself a rueful smile, but he's too good a professional to do it for a while yet. Nonetheless, once a red, always a red. Mourinho has spent the week indulging in mind games, but the only important talking gets done on the pitch, and as we've seen today, with new regulations or the old ones, United are ready to be champions. Bring on Milan!
Forza United!
Well, what can you say? There are nights when all the rubbish that comes with being a United supporter can cause you to doubt whether it's worth the mither. You know the stuff; the inability to get through 90 minutes, regardless of the opposition, without singing about Liverpool; the generous way that the club rewards our loyalty by sticking another couple of quid on the ticket price; the fact that Kieran Richardson is still allowed in the ground, never mind onto the pitch.
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And then there are nights like last night, when every flicker of irritation floats into the night sky and United carry you to a place, supporters of few other teams will ever be privileged to visit. At half-time you could have told me that the Glazers had decided on the spur of the moment to take another £46 from my bank and I wouldn't have cared a jot, such was the sublime nature of what was on show before us.
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No one who wore red last night - well Richardson apart maybe - should not share in the deluge of praise. The Guardian gave Fletcher a stingy 7 out of 10 this morning, when it was quite clear that he was playing the game of his life and was worthy of a 10 at least. As for the like of Carrick and Ronaldo, we'd have to turn it up to 11 to rate their performances.
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After the jitters of Pompey and a start in which Totti had tried a couple of speculative long-range efforts, clearly hoping that Van der Saar would parry them to a grateful Roma poacher, what happened next was simply beyond imagination. This was football with a tempo, a verve, a freewheeling brilliance that would surely obliterate any opposition.
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And what next? The prospect of a United and Liverpool final is shimmering into view. Yes it's a bit ominous that Chelsea are out '99ing by chasing on four fronts and plucking late winners out of nowhere on a weekly basis, but when it counts, I fancy Benitez to outwit Mourinho. Which means that truncheon manufacturers will need to go into overdrive to meet the demand a United/Liverpool final will involve.
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But we'll worry about that another time. Today's all about shutting your eyes and seeing those glorious, dream-like sweeps upfield again. Ben Foster-less Watford, you're next.
We'll Never Die!
I think the operative word tonight will be 'counter-intuitive'. It's not a word that I've ever had cause to use before, and I'm not totally confident that I could fully explain what it means. Indeed, it's probably the kind of ghastly, trendy jargon - like the pearler 'ideation' - that the pumped full of Power Manual Toss vessels who appear on the Apprentice would use. But it's the word that popped into my head as I plunged my hands into a sink full of dirty pots and tried to make sense of what I'd just watched on the telly.
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United lost. My natural reaction at this point in the season, given that it's our second consecutive defeat - a fact that will be drummed home incessantly between now and Tuesday night - would be to give in to despair, to wallow in gloom, to embrace darkness. To flail at the cruel hand of fate, or the cruel hand of the referee that didn't point to the spot. Or the cruel hand of Sir Alex for handing in a team sheet on which he'd scribbled the words Kieran Richardson, tantamount to giving the opposition a one-nil start in my book.
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Normally I'd know for sure that it was all over. Chelsea have won it and there's nothing we can do about it. I'd spend the evening in the mother of all moods, enveloped in black misery, vowing that that's it, I'm never putting myself through this again. But not this time. This time I'm going to be counter-intuitive.
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A few minutes after pressing 'Publish' I will be downstairs getting nicely sloshed listening to the mighty fine new album by The Bees. Then I'll watch Borat. I'll remind myself that this was always likely to be the game where we'd come unstuck, given the fact that it's sandwiched between the two Roma games, the first of which was more testing and tumultuous than we could ever have possibly imagined. I'll remind myself that the intricate play didn't quite come off tonight, but it will again. I'll remind myself that though our finest players were fitful and indifferent tonight, next time they won't be.
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I'll think against what I would usually think. Which I think is what it means to be counter-intuitive. I think we'll still win the league. I think, you think I'm right.
