I’ve been pissed for a week solid and you know the reason why; we’re trailing a goal behind the Wal-Mart wallahs and they’re getting all giddy, and I mean really giddy. I’m talking a level of excitement akin to that an ugly ape presented with the chance to shag Rosie Webster might experience. There’s nothing remotely good about any of it. I just want it to go away and soon. And tonight it will, for it is finally the second leg.
But there are more serious distractions, more important issues afoot than our tiny little neighbour with the megaphone; it is here, the time for action and it’s no secret affair. The final push against Malcolm Glazer and his chinless brood. And what is the battle-plan? Tennis balls on the pitch? Gobstoppers at the directors’ box? Golf balls at the Megastore? Beach balls in the penalty area? No, the alleged plan of action is, “let’s all buy gold and green scarves – once we’ve made our minds up between bar scarves and “student style” lengthways-running stripes – and we’ll all wear ‘em to the match and Glazer will fucking shit himself and give the club away right there on the spot!”
Hmmm, gold and green scarves. Sounds like a pile of horse-drawn steam engine excrement, doesn’t it? But it looks like the media are noticing it, and the centurions are not allowed to throw people out for wearing gold and green. Will it reverse the trend and return us to the swaying envelope that football once was? Not quite, because the trend is unstoppable. The world is being sanitised, not just British football; ever since they pedestrianised Market Street and other cities back in the olden days, when they took the lead out of petrol and removed the junkies from Times Square, when hordes of council knobheads hit Orlando, when Turkey became popular and package tours to the pyramids commonplace. And you, yes you, started going to all those Euro away nights like you were some woe-merchant latter-day Tony Christie but with decent weed and clothes. In the avenues and alleyways around OT these days there are blokes selling green and gold scarves and laughing at what a lot of harlequin shitehawks everyone looks. But it’s green and gold till they die or fold, according to the word on the street, or on the web forums. It seemed to make sense in the beginning and it’s got to be worth a try if it raises the profile and earns attention.
And then there’s this sudden backlash against Lord Ferguson. The man has gone from King to King Cunt overnight. The Horse Spunk Dossier has finally been pinpointed as the beginning, and our stale squad (of losers, goons, puppets, queers, ogres, dog-eaters, catastrophic foodies, Scouse Dwarves, duck-faced-drug-test-dodgers, plastic Ronnies, be-‘tached scruffy twats from Bury, identical twinglet merchants, lazy Draculas, Rastafarians, Redhead Kingpins, goat-boys, lesbians, Amazonian wildmen and ethnic cleansers) identified as the final straw in a disgraceful run that has seen us go three consecutive seasons playing worse than Chelsea but somehow nicking it every time. Christ, if we’d made it 3-2 in the dying seconds in Rome we’d have had a mutiny on our hands before now. And that’s why I love United; even when we’re winning cups we fucking hate it if the way we win ‘em is wrong. There’s a lot of bollocks talked these days by the Thought Police, that you’re a “spoilt brat” if you ever say anything negative about the team. United fans want to win, but when we shade it undeservingly, or certain players (and I’m talking CERTAIN players here) put in a poor performance, we have every right to an opinion. Beautiful attacking football, creative spontaneous moves, heart and soul, etc. They are the qualities we want to see in our teams. An array of honours is just numbers. We need flesh and blood and snot and skill. So if I want to moan because the peoples’ choice misses too many chances I will.
But back to the Glazers. Lord Ferguson must have a real opinion on this. He’s spent the past couple of decades building something here. That something will amount to a castle built on sand and not an ongoing dynasty if these buccaneers drag us down. Maybe Ferg wants it all to go to shit. After all, it will make him look better in the long run. But if the fans turn on him now he might be forced to reconsider his silence. I’d soil myself if he came out for the next game with half his face painted yellow and the other half green, wouldn’t you? Especially if he gave a press conference afterwards (at someone else’s ground, while their pissed wet through team had to wait in the cold until he’d finished, to get past him into their OWN dressing room) and said something like, “If you don’t like the Glazers you can fuck right off! I’m on a million pound commission for every five million I add to a player’s worth between buying and selling. We paid 12.24 million for Cristiano and got 81 back for him. I made almost 14 million on that little beauty. Nearly as good as the horses!”
Ferg and Glazer and Gill and the rest of them up at the top are candid fearless men in their own ways. They wouldn’t be gobbling in the executive trough with giant balls strapped on if they weren’t. Words have been exchanged across the banquet table Queerbeast, you know that. Don’t tell me there hasn’t been at least some good-natured banter about how the Horse Spunk Dossier opened the door for the Buccaneer. That’s how these pirates work. They don’t float aimlessly in the seaweed like a bunch of factory workers from Ashton. They offload the equine barbs, let fly with belittlement of Tampa’s NFL record. Gotta have a thick skin if you’re gonna sup with the pterodactyls. Cut and thrust, thrust and cut. Going places, knowhatImean, Tatlock? Fergie lost his horses, so he needed a new plaything to spur him on. Hence a commission on his works-in-progress, be it Keiran Richardson or some other flip-job hounded out of Old Trafford by the Thought Police and their baying hordes.
And don’t look at me; I have no idea whose side I’m on. What’s more, there’s more than two sides to this issue of how to fight the Glazers. There’s millions of sides…well, maybe not millions but fucking loads. There’s the “what took you so long, we’ve been at it since ‘05” mob (self-congratulatory cunts that appear to be glad the club is foundering). Then there’s the “Kill Glazer” psychos, people who obviously lack the ability to empathise with the Glazer siblings, who, since they were kids always wanted to own the biggest football club in the world. That they actually settled for United should elicit our pity. Then again, Real Madrid isn’t owned by “The People” who think that “Republic of Mancunia” banners can keep the wolf from the door. There’s also annoying bastards like me who live thousands of miles away but think we have a right to an opinion about everything; from whether the Ambassador Bingo hall at the top of Langworthy Road should’ve been demolished, to the quality of the black olives in a Sedgley Park deli, to the fact that, despite all the fluffing and strutting and eeh by gummin’, we haven’t had more than three real world-class players simultaneously at Old Trafford since, well, 1999. There. I’ve said it. Can you honestly imagine how much money and what an assemblage of top-notch players we’d have in the stable now if not for the debt? Or is that just another myth? You can point at Ronaldo and Rooney as two of the last big (successful) signings prior to mid-2005, but Evra and Vidic were brought in on the other side of the balance to cancel them out. And smack in the middle of the whole takeover is Van der Sar, who came to OT in June ’05. VDS cost a reputed 2 million though, hardly a fortune. And since then we have seen Ronaldo go and 80 million quid evaporate like city’s firm on Derby Day.
Which brings me to the next order of business; this second leg against the Bittermen. It’s happening right now and I am on pins, watching on telly, live. We’ve just had sixty eight corners in the first four minutes but not a goal to show for it. Then we scored and scored again and then that little determined Argie managed a snide weird one. All square. And then moonhead Roonhead steamed in and butted the ball through the back of the net and laughed his bollocks off on global satellite. The losers are still losers. Sad bitter cunts are destined to win nothing ever again, I swear. But back to the fight against the Glazers.
Green and yellow tennis balls are the answer, I have concluded, after discussions with people online: Continual bombardment throughout the game until it has to be stopped. If everyone can smuggle 10 to 20 balls each in, we’ve cracked it. The game will be abandoned, then the banners come out and the media get what they want. Were the “splitters” of 2005 the canary in the coal mine, or did it have to get this bad before real numbers began the revolt? You know the answer to that; the acid test is in this January transfer window. I’m looking through it and I’m seeing no activity apart from some bloke called Smalling – not exactly the surprise acquisition designed to sooth the savage goat, as many predicted…Even if we win a few things this season, if that 80 million doesn’t materialise it’s time we went to town, Manchester-style. And you know what that means: Evict the bastards. Before they finally remove the word “Manchester” from the club crest altogether and replace it with “Tickets” or [sponsored by] or “Soccer”. It’s the time for action. The time to be seen. In gold and in green…
