When Patrice Evra said English food was “catastrophic”, he was serious. He is one of 26 brothers and sisters (two sadly deceased) but I’ll wager those numbers didn’t prevent his mam from knocking together a better tea than Neville’s, Rooney’s or Bryan Robson’s each and every night. This is a man raised in a culture where food was made from scratch, not out of a box from Morrison’s or a giant vat of boiling oil from the corner chippy. How does that make you feel, eh, Tatlock? That little Senegalese goat –my favourite United player for the past three seasons – contradicts his generalist qualities only in his pickiness for decent scran. In every other way he is an omnivorous devil-boy, an awesome attacking defender who is always involved in our sorties down the left, nibbling at the stubborn weeds of confidence in opposing defenders. I sometimes wonder what he thinks of Obertan’s head…(What’s French for “desiccated mummy cranium”? Come to that, what’s Cornish for “gobshite”?) I see scintillating music between the two in the future; the Beefheart of Evra and the Zappa of Mummy Head combining to produce dazzling concertos. Obertan has that same trickiness we saw in the young Ronaldo. The difference is, Obertan’s tricks actually caress and manipulate the ball, always mindfully pushing it towards the goal. Young Ronnie’s party piece consisted of 18 completely unnecessary stepovers that often preceded him being turned over by more experienced defenders…But he’s gone, so let’s get the Boddies in and not get bitter. Hopefully we’ll earn a pile off Madrid for Obertan once we’ve spent several years whipping him into shape. Makes it all worthwhile. It’s a shrinking globe in an expanding universe. We’ve preyed on the minnows, stripping them of their best talent for generations. Karma’s a bitch but it’s a bitch with cash.
Football has become a science. They’ve done their sums and presented the proofs. Taken an ultra-canny Scotsman and turned him into a financial futures manager. Sir Alex acquires developing blobs and hones them into footballing world-beaters. Madrid step in and do the deal and the dosh goes to the Glazers. Either that or he’s taking it up to the Inner Hebrides and giving it Wicker Man. It’s become a science and Fergie is the Newton, the Einstein, the big man with the skills to pay the bills – or slinging it down a bottomless hole covered by a heavy trapdoor under Glazer Towers. When Einstein first uttered those immortal words, “To be or not to be, that is the question,” he was talking about something important. He was talking about progress, and evolution and drama. He was proving that balls weren’t attached to chains, and that the whole field was exactly that – a field. A dynamic non-uniform region subject to the sub-fields within it. Ferguson understands this truth better than any other manager in the league and it’s evident nearly every time United play; when you see Scholes put it out to Evra and Evra in to Rooney and Rooney out to Giggs, etc (or Obertan determinedly charging it into the main stand), you’re watching a ball moving inside a field, not simply propelled along invisible connecting lines between players. Balls are funny things. Little balls are no less powerful than giant balls; the earth’s influence on the moon isn’t cancelled out by the sun’s influence on the earth – the overall sun-field yields to the micro-influences within it, down and down, all the way to Giggs interacting with Evra, who’s pouncing along the left touchline with the ball at his feet and a bellyful of catastrophic food.
But snapping up youngsters and belting sense into ‘em isn’t the be-all and end-all of it. Giggs, Sharpe, Hughes, the Nevilles, Beckham, Keane, Brown, O’ Shea, Fletcher, Rooney, Ronaldo – maybe I should add Wellbeck and Macheda – have been balanced by our more mature acquisitions, like McClair, Bruce, Schmeichel, Cantona, Sheringham and the mysteriously fading Ferdinand. Whether Scouse Mike will ever fall into this latter group is highly doubtful. After all, the dirty little scouse twat said he’d rather play for Liverpool for half what he gets paid at United, and Liverpool are fucking shite, so you do the math(s). Mike is the same age Anelka was when he joined Chelsea. Do you remember laughing at Anelka when, about to leave Bolton (yeah, that’s right, Bolton), he speculated that he might consider United. Me and the yank at work – the one who said Manchester was too far from civilisation – pissed ourselves. Who on earth did Anelka think he was? As if United would sign a legend-in-his-own- prima-donna-mind like him! We all make mistakes. Two more of Fergie’s not-so-fledglings are Evra and Carrick. Carrick has been occasionally lethal with his shooting, but some say that Evra equals Michael Carrick squared, he’s that good. Depends whether you like it down the middle or tickled around the left, I suppose. You poncey cunt.
Isaac Newton, the man who originally proclaimed “E equals MC squared”, was referring, not to United players, but to the time he spent living among the addled Bwiti tribe of West Africa (rum lad, was the young Isaac). Unfortunately, he was wrong; no way is an E equal to methoxycoronaridine squared. Methoxycoronaridine is a derivative of the root bark of the iboga shrub. I too spent time with the Bwiti and self-administered MC many times. If you were to square a clinical dose of that, you’d still be nowhere near the vibrant horror of a good pill. Natural highs are fucking wank, let’s face it. I’ll leave my natural high stories for later. MUCH later. I had more fun, aged 9, listening to me dad’s Andy Williams albums. But I digress.
The game – all games – are a science. When Pythagoras shouted “Eureka!” he was hysterical, running down the street in his dick-suit, babbling about “too many cocks spoiling the broth” (yeah, he invented that one, too; those Greek baths were rum places). According to Pythagoras, three types of men existed, illustrated by the three types of people who attended the ancient Greek Olympic Games. Those who sell, those who compete, and those who spectate. Football is the same today. From those selling snide gear and tickets, to wage-slaves like Ronaldo, to the starry-eyed pigs in the executive suite trough, nothing’s changed. Those three are the angles of the footballing triangle. So be there or be square, like Scouse Mike’s napper.
Football is like writing. Actually, it’s fuck all like writing, unless you write as part of a writing team. You could say that we who write for UWS are a team, but if you’ve ever been on the Groundside forum (and witnessed us ripping each other to shreds) that romantic notion would be instantly crushed. Do you write what you think is best or what the people want? Fergie knows the answer: true football, like true writing, divides people. That’s why we detest Chelsea’s brats; they are our polar opposites in attitude. They’re evil, scowling wind-up bastards. A bit like me when I’m on the Groundside forum. But why write something purely to please? There is no better feeling than to write something and have people say, “what the fuck were you doing there?” while others say, “that was brilliant, I really enjoyed that!” Like Fergie’s team selections. Sometimes it’s nebulous and outright queer, until the game starts and we realise what the old man is up to. Other times we’re drawing 0-0 against cack and it’s the 83rd minute and Scouse Mike’s doddering on the touchline with his fake tan and angular skull, and Berbatov’s sat sulking in a seat and it’s all going avocado-shaped in a horrible, green knobbly hurry. But avocados have no real shape, not when they’re properly ripe. That’s why we bail ourselves out of the pan so often. It’s the flex of the team. The field, in four-dimensional spacetime over which our indestructible scarlet captain – excuse me, boss – seems to have such masterful control. He instinctively recognises his moment, like a top chef in some swish organic supermarket giving a piece of fruit a good squeeze. He knows where the weak spots are, and whether we have the pace and power to open them up. But Ferg must get bored down there in the dugout sometimes. Probably thinks, “fuck it, if I bring so-and-so on he could make a run through the left channel and Giggsy’ll lay one off for him an’ we’ll score…balls to that…I think I’ll just do fuck all and tell some useless cunt to warm up for a laugh…” He’s a man that crushes overripe avocados for fun. Then he smears them all over that little bald Mexican dog sitting next to him on the bench until it’s completely green. The dog wanders away towards the technical area so he slowly draws a weird blue plastic claw from its sheath, a gripping talon attached to a long plastic tube with a chicken tendon running through it. He forcefully grabs the dog’s bald nuts dragging it back…then, showing no mercy he jumps on its slimy green hide and wrestles it silly, right there in the dugout….and it’s the 85th minute now and we’re goggle-eyed, going, “What is Fergie DOING?!” Oh, fuck…looks like I digressed again.
We’re the opposite of Chelsea for many reasons, most of which are about attitude. Chelsea play in a shed in swanky West London. They pretend it’s a place to be proud of. The Red Devils play on a glorified dockland croft on the edge of a smouldering city called Salford. We know it’s a place to be proud of. The goat and the flame are never far apart. The stench of human barbeque is ever-present, rarely quashed by the deep blue sea. It’s a heavenly thing when angels are passing that pill from man to man. But it’s a contest, and in May only one team will win. To be or not to be, that is the question. Will our lads be spewing champagne, courtesy of some over-stated nauseating sponsor whose branded ribbons hang from the premiership trophy like thick ropes of thoroughbred horse spunk? Or will we eventually, tragically, be barbecued at the stake like Florence Nightingale?
