Sound the bells, Quasi lad, ‘cos Easter’s coming early this year. David de Jesus is undergoing a slow crucifixion, me hearties, and the only man to benefit from it is Michael Scapegoat Carrick. De Jesus performs like the image off the Turin shroud come to life. Two-dimensional (needs some chips, pudding and gravy), faded, ghostly; such is David’s intangibility in the box. Meanwhile, Scapegoat is enjoying a half-decent resurgence, much needed in the absence of virtually the entire team due to injury, tinkering and alleged punishments. There will always be weak spots in systems, all the way down to the infinitesimal. Inside atomic nuclei there are particles that jump onto other particles in patterns at fantastic speed, making sure the atom doesn’t blow itself apart due to incompatible electronics. Football teams are the same; there’s always a negative point, relative to the rest of the team. The trick is making the team cohesive enough that the negative spot moves from man to man, always away from the action. Barcelona are organised so that their negative spots are actually luxuries; an extra man in support during attack, or defensive play, or most likely overkill in the middle where an extra brick in the wall can win or lose a game. Much of this is due to the fact Messi is worth two good men while Iniesta and Xavi are worth one and a half apiece. United, on the other hand, seem to think it’s OK to put their weakest link anywhere they want. Even in goal. When Liverpool scored their first at Anfield in the cup game, why did Lindegaard start warming up on the touchline? Was he told to? Either way, it was a sickening sight; does any team playing remotely sensible football take chances like that at Anfield, or anywhere, really? I can’t decide whether SAF’s in cahoots with King Kenny, or he’s just hellbent on taking the piss and never quite getting away with it. Nani’s implosion, the Evra-Suarez affair, and now Lindegaardgate. The place seems mysterious and cursed, though I suspect more earthly reasons lie behind our failings.
Anyway, enough drivel. I’m experiencing the mildest winter in over a decade here in Connecticut. Time is flying and the buds will soon be popping. It seems like only yesterday we were commemorating Munich in 2011. I don’t feel right making emotional proclamations about the Babes. I never saw them play as a team, or felt the excitement build as the 1957-58 season gathered pace. I wasn’t even born. All I have are quotes and film footage and photographs of those young men who died. It doesn’t mean I don’t feel the pain. But listening to first hand accounts from the tribal elders is infinitely more powerful than listening to kids getting their Stone Island knickers in a knot ‘cuz some scouser (who himself wasn’t even born when Hillsborough happened) sings their famous Munich song. It’s time for dignity, but if the boys wanna fight you better let ‘em. And if someone else tells someone on a fucking internet message board that that song’s about the Quality Street gang please ask them what they actually know about THAT as well. And if YOU think I just said the famous Munich song is about the QS please determine the highest toilet in Manchester and have a good wank on it. And if you think by TOILET I meant council estate and by HIGHEST I meant Roflcoptr, then – alright, I’m as confused as you are, now, you cunt. Thanks a fucking lot. And I was doing so well for a while there an’ all…typical.
Anyone who understands my words knows I detest the clichéd bollocks that many partisan football writers serve up, including United supporters, but Paul Scholes has really got me going lately. Someone should compile a YouTube of his recent exploits with the Kinks’ proto-punk tune as a soundtrack, because Scholesey’s back like a superhero wreaking havoc with opponents’ defences. We were knocked out of the cup because of our weakest link, yes, but also because our strongest one was substituted. How long will we wait before another can fill those regal ginger boots? I bet Paul hasn’t got his fucking Twitter handle monogrammed on the bastards either. Having said that, he communicates with SAF via homing pigeon, so it’s swings and roundabouts I suppose.
I don’t make a lot of money from my writing (“No shit!” they shout, holding up “MIKE DUFF WALKS ON WATER” banners and wearing “MEATBAG BITES YER BALLS” scarves) because writing is for deranged hopheads who dream of fame and fortune while deliberately avoiding it. If we were mid-table every year it’d just be more funny words to sling at the shirts. Trophy winning has been fun but it’s not a patch on getting wasted and nearly nicked week in and week out, while ducking and diving through the tangled lianas of the Manchester ecosystem. I suppose it’s apt that some of us are now corpulent and old and happy to stand by as the young boys wanna fight. Yer better let ‘em.


