United Road Take Me Home

It’s all got a bit dark there for a while didn’t it? Needless to say about thirty minutes into the Arsenal game and all thoughts of renouncing my season ticket had utterly evaporated. It just goes to show that however much you think you’ve dosed yourself with a healthy sense of balance to offset the powerful gusts of hype that could convince any football fan that every single game is a matter of absolute life and death, you’re always at risk.

Viewed from today’s perspective the Derby is a still a memory that I don’t care to dwell on (perhaps that’s why so many dashed out early to get the scarves on e-bay and erase the painful memories?), but it no longer contaminates my every United related thought.

Better instead to dwell on that sumptuous performance against Arsenal, the aplomb with which Carrick is firing passes across the pitch like Scholes in his pomp, and the majestic, peerless presence of Rooney, the sole reason why I think I could never walk away as long as he’s pulling on a red shirt.

Him and Benzema up front together next year? How much do you want, Malcolm? Bargain.

So four days on from Black Sunday and up pops Rio in the paper with the usual platitudes about the players being determined to bounce back and put the nightmare behind them and blah blah blah. Excuse my cynicism Rio, but the sense of disillusion inspired by Sunday has yet to abate round these parts. Indeed my mood was hardly helped by the discovery that instead of spending Monday dishing out well-deserved bollockings at Carrington and doing some revision of the fundamentals of defending, Ferguson was in South Africa whoring up trade for the Summer Tour.

This only a matter of days after the Premier League has decided that it ‘owes it’ to its fans abroad to separate them from more of their money. From the minute that Gridiron game touched down at Wembley, you could see the dollar, yen and rupee signs glittering in the eyes of Premier League overlords. At the time The Observer ran a series that read like a horrible dystopian fantasy of sport’s future in which games are played all across the globe at the behest of television. Horribly prescient and horribly plausible.

This while we’re still coming to terms with the fact that United – as the season moves towards its most critical phase – fly off to give credibility to a morally repugnant regime in exchange for a million quid. And that firebrand shop steward from Govan says nowt about it. Not quite accurate, as in truth he utters some weasel words in defence of the trip that serve simply to ram home the contempt with which he’s happy to treat us.

Of course when the millions start tipping into the coffers from these not at all debilitating to form and health jaunts abroad, I’m sure that Glazers will whittle a chunk off the price of tickets won’t they?

All things considered, I think it might be time to think about not renewing.

So where do you start? With the nauseating sound of United fans clapping the city fans when they belatedly – by about, oh, 50 years – serenading Frank Swift? With the abject performance of virtually the entire United crowd – offering pretty conclusive proof that we’ll never experience a decent atmosphere at Old Trafford ever again; because if we can’t be arsed getting up for it today, then it’s probable we never will. With the even more abject performance of Rio Ferdinand – who played like his mind was wandering around the cosmetics department at Selfridges in town; though it almost feels unfair to single out one dismal performance from ten of them (Tevez being the only who can emerge from that with anything like credit).

Not since the debacle at the Riverside that precipitated Keano’s demise can I remember such a lacklustre United, one so utterly devoid of invention and ideas. It’s easy to silence all those doubts you have about how truly great United are when we’re knocking six past Newcastle. It’s easy to fall for the hype that tells you Ronaldo is the best player in Europe. Days like today tell you that the true measure of greatness comes when you perform in the biggest games – and don’t interpret that as a compliment to city; it wasn’t the opposition that was big today, it was the occasion – and too many big names failed to rise to it.

I’m pretty sure that at least one pundit tomorrow will make the point that city fans observed the minute’s silence immaculately, while the United fans observed the next 90 minutes silence even better. Sadly, they’ll be right on both counts.

Still, at least the scarves didn’t have AIG printed on them. I suppose in the current climate we should be thankful for that at least.