TheNamelessThing.com

The big news this week was that the Barcelona authorities had designated a large area between the docks and the city for the 7,000 traveling Mancs to use as a massive piss-up and stoning (it's legal there, apparently) zone. This debauch was accompanied by Manchester music all day long, from 11:00 am to 6:00 pm, with bands like New order, The Stone Roses, Happy Mondays, and the Bee Gees being played all day at full volume. It's a wonder any of them made it to the match. I went to that fabulous UEFA Champions League final on May 26, 1999, and without such a playland I struggled to make it to the Nou Camp! And so with all the merriment (and a weak joke about the Brothers Grim - sorry, Gibb - behind us) everyone set off to the Theatre of, er, really good dreams, but not quite as good as United's Theatre, or something like that (all lies; Camp Nou pisses on OT in many ways).

Football? Tut tut. What a drastic run-in we're being forced to consume here at the end of what once promised to be at least a Double-winning season. Manchester United, not so much pinned back in their own half as paralysed with fear and arse-faultiness, playing duff balls up, too long, too rakish, too high, and generally too rubbish. And there's folk that'll have you know we did well last night!

The penalty was nothing to worry about. It was only one and a half minutes in, so it was almost not a real penalty. If you believe it. Even when Ronaldo, sweat streaming off him with heat and nerves, apparently attempted to float the ball into the top corner, as he sent the goalie the wrong way, only to see his languid effort cannon off a post. Who the fuck put that there? asked the 7,000 Mancs who'd made the trip...the answer, of course, was that it had been there a very long time. In fact it was there when Solskjaer kicked the ball in much the same direction a million years ago in 1999, only that time it found its way into the net, and I remember jumping up in my seat and going mental, unable to believe it.

What I was unable to believe last night was far more painful though. After the usual Fergie "we will score eighteen, and we're not scared of them at all" press bulletins for two days, United settled into a brief period of relatively flowing football. But for some reason this collapsed, as Barca's ability to keep possession caused their confidence to grow, especially with it being so easy to keep the ball away from us and easy to get the ball off us on the rare occasions we actually had it.

We shrunk, shrivelled like a recoiling extremity in a cold North Sea, our penetration diminishing from nothing to almost negative, while the Spanish chaps swept the pill about like it was made of potty putty. Or something. We made it to half time with Rooney flung out on the flank, Ronnie roaming around like a man lost in a desert (or a chaparral, or whatever they call that particular biome), and Tevez running in circles like Muttley, trying to catch a pigeon. The pigeon was a pill, a UEFA-sanctioned sphere packed with air (21% oxygen, 78% nitrogen, the rest trace gases, including a rising fraction of carbon dioxide), and it seemed to be eluding us to such an extent I was forced to stamp my feet and jump up in my living room and shout, "What the fuck are you fucking doing with it you, you....cunts?!?!?!". Which was a shame, cos a cat was asleep nearby and was forced to relocate at very short order.

We drew 0-0 and there's folks that say it were a grand result. And then there's me, and one or two others, who think it was utter shite and we were lucky not to be seriously cacking our pants today. We have it all to do next week, now.

And on Saturday, me and missus are gonna drive down to New Haven (blood in the streets there, according to the Lizard King) to make it for the 7:45 am kick-off. It's Chelsea. Let's see what we can do against a domestic outfit, eh?