We live in a changing world. Life, by its very nature, dictates this; everything is constantly being replaced by something else, be it waste products generated from what was there before, or the simple evolutionary mechanism by which an organism or environment is rearranged. These rearrangements are not all beneficial, as modern football supporters unceasingly remind us. The moaning about all-seater stadia and the so-called prawn sandwich brigade occupy our every day personal headlines, but we are becoming jaded even to this, because the world demands we adjust the focus of our woe and get with the programme. Time catches up with you, and in time that fact is subject to a compounded acceleration. The fact is the actual changing is itself changing at an ever-greater rate. Various random and non-random factors have conspired throughout the history of the world to bring about all kinds of catastrophic and beneficial events, many of which occurred long before humankind was a twinkle in a prehistoric monkey’s ball-bag.
The extinct football terraces, those megalithic structures so deeply lamented by today’s older footy crowd, existed for about 100 years, before certain irresistible forces came into the equation and consigned them to history’s dustbin. But 100 years isn’t a bad innings, given the exponential rate at which things are being replaced and updated in this dynamic living world of ours. In fact, those terraces were based on a design already millennia old. Once upon a time, it was commonplace for things to remain the same for thousands of times longer than a mere century. Take the dinosaurs. Those giant lizards ruled the world for 160 million years. Imagine that, 160 million years without change, just the same old scaly bastards roaming about, eating the same old mammals, smaller dinosaurs, plants, etc, the whole drama enacted on a primeval stage frozen in geologic time. And then something wiped them off the map overnight; it was time for a new cast of characters.
Humans have been subject to the same monotonous grind, and I’m not just talking about the cavemen, who pissed and arsed about hunting and gathering for two million years of our bipedal Homo lineage, till they stumbled on the secret of agriculture. The earliest civilisations endured millennia without even changing the style of their hats. When the two kingdoms of Egypt were unified around 3000BC, their two forms of respective royal headgear were juxtaposed into each other as a symbol of this union. It was the biggest news for thousands of years. So next time you think about how much you miss the old red and white bobble-hats, and what a load of cunts the jesters in their jingle-bells and asses ears look, spare a thought to those who had to make do with fifty generations of the same old shit, even if it did look good.
Subsequent civilisations, such as the Greeks and the Romans, enjoyed a similarly static form of unchanging existence during the times they shone on this earth, until the world caught up with them. Their amphitheatres coined a style that was to prevail well into the future due to its impeccable geometric approach to the business of attending a public spectacle. By the time the British Empire emerged, the entire world was reasonably capable of applying the latest technology to their designs for domination, which is what makes the British Empire so extraordinarily admirable; we weren’t humans in a world of lagging apes, we had our work cut out, but we still managed to travel in a fair-sized crew and dish it out to the locals, be they Maori, Kalahari, or Wampanoag, while the Spanish, French, and Portuguese variously challenged our iron grip on the situation. And still the architecture of a stadium retained all of that Ancient Greek quality.
Industrialisation, which was born properly in Manchester and copied by every cunt else, meant that Britain suddenly exploded as a global force to be reckoned with, and we proceeded to pummel this innocent green orb with our poisonous grey arsenal until it pretty much threw the towel in and waved the white flag simultaneously. The printing press and gaslight inevitably gave way to other, more rapid, forms of communication and enlightenment, and before long humankind had embarked on a mad race to broadcast and illuminate its twisted findings across the world in what came to be called Real Time. Football stadiums were fitted with amazingly powerful floodlights, which enabled people to watch games during the hours of darkness, and cameras were mounted in special compartments high above the crowd from which the match could be transmitted instantaneously to an audience millions strong.
But technology’s assault on our once innocent habitat has meant that these changes come with ever-greater frequency, including changes to our recreational venues. In the 1950s (just over half a century ago) it was common for doting couples to indulge in a day out at the pictures in town, followed by the match at Old Trafford, followed by a great night out in some frothing Salford dancehall. But wood and tarpaper was always gonna be rendered extinct by the chemical tsunami rolling across the Western World, specifically aluminium and stainless steel. Once that monumental cantilever was assembled along United Road for the 1966 World Cup, and then the extension of that across the Scoreboard End in the early 70s, an alien technology had been wrought upon the simpleman’s matchday, forever transforming British expectations of what a Saturday afternoon’s footy should look, sound, and feel like. But this realisation wasn’t necessarily universal; many grounds at this point had already attained a standard and form that would remain largely stagnant, reflecting Time’s tendency to do balls all unless prompted and prodded by the evolutionary spikiness of Necessary Change.
“Improvements” were made (and let’s face it, encouraged) to football grounds throughout the 70s, most of which concentrated on expansion rather than true improvement, and a new generation of hugely terraced death-bowls was inflicted upon the working classes, in those cities that could afford it. Britain’s youth lapped this up, and football hooliganism emerged as a very real phenomenon, magnetised and distilled, around the random crush-barriers and tunnels describing those curved terraced gradients which became hooliganism’s tailor-made spawning grounds. Heysel and Hillsborough put an end to all that, and the clever monkey was suddenly forced to rethink how he spent his spare time, as the energy contained in football crowds had finally proved a lethal uncoiling tangent capable of generating death and injury on a vast scale.
In truth, both the Heysel and Hillsborough disasters had been caused by ageing or inept stadiums; the wall that crumbled at Heysel was massively sub-par for a European Cup Final (or any other game which might attract in excess of two thousand fans) and the basic design of the entrance tunnel at Hillsborough’s Leppings Lane End was far too voluminous for the small pens it fed bodies into. Anyone with half a brain could see that the stadiums, or more correctly those responsible for declaring them fit for use, were the real culprits. That Liverpool Football Club was involved in both incidents seemed to indicate some form of mystic significance, a protracted karma played out by uncontrollable forces, but which was really just a horrible coincidence. Either of the two disasters could have happened to any English club. But the fact is, change was due, and those crush barriers and terraces were over-ripe enough to fall from the tree of progress, disappearing forever in numerous weigh-ins at scrapyards up and down the country and metabolised into other forms for the benefit of lower worlds, like rotting fruit falling from a great oak and being taken up by resident soil bacteria and small animals. We can only hope the lads working the demolitions copped for a decent earner, under the watchful eyes of their millionaire employers, the robber football barons.
An entire culture was razed and re-entered into the ecological mix of England’s material kaleidoscope, while new forms emerged; plastic seats, new stands, megastores, and a radically altered schedule, dictated by technology – in this case television. As the class of support slyly “improved” along with the grounds themselves, matchday took on an unfamiliar Americanised commerciality, while people speculated about a “European Super League”. This European Super League slowly enlarged, and many English fans came to restrict their football-watching to Euro-aways, while UEFA suits battled to control its growth. The seamless transition from European Cup to European Champions’ League occurred in lock-step with the greater march of economic and technological evolution, and the Super League was a reality before many realised it, even those who actually attended matches.
The domestic league enjoyed a massive cash injection from the middle-class all- seater prices now being charged by clubs. The game remained the same, the dimensions of pitches went unchanged, and the English Premier League began to ooze a new kind of football, one that completely utilised the park, and saw world-class athletes knocking the ball about magnificently. Manchester United just happens to be the one club that has dominated the Premiership. It could have been Arsenal, but not quite. Today, in 2007, Arsenal have a brand-new stadium, one whose capacity (60,000) is a significant 17,000 lower than that of Old Trafford. This constitutes over 25% more seats at Old Trafford, all of which are filled, week in and week out. Nowhere as much as in Manchester has the switch up to world-class soccer been exploited and mastered. United proved to be an unstoppable powerhouse through the 90s and into the millennium, one that went from strength to strength, both on and off the pitch, and the possibilities seemed limitless. The fact that United appeared to embody a form of mythic socialistic utopia in that its own fans were in financial control of its affairs, served to enchant and foster a sense of righteousness in beholders.
The wealthiest football club in the world, one of the most successful business models in existence, sat up there at the top of the tree like a red toffee apple, difficult to believe but nonetheless true. The “Peoples’ Republik of Mancunia” banners hanging from the upper tiers of their vast stadium glowed with a unique pride in the club and the city which had provided so much in the way of silverware and satisfaction. But in the eat-or-be-eaten world of high-finance and aggressive takeovers, this apple appeared unguarded, innocent, and ripe for the picking. All that was required was for the aggressor to acquire the minimum percentage of shares in the club necessary for an obligatory takeover, and among the swirling wheels and deals of United’s higher echelons, this became a possibility. Like a script from The Sopranos, United’s Godfather, Sir Alex Ferguson claimed to have been given a 50% share in a stud horse by Irish racehorse owner John Magnier, the major shareholder at Old Trafford at the time. Magnier denied Ferguson’s claim, and an internal war escalated that saw United’s business practices and Ferguson’s personal life come under a harsh spotlight beam delivered by the Irish camp from Coolmore stud farm, many of whom believed to be a notch above Ferguson in the Big Boys’ League. The feud came at a time when large scale rebuilding of the squad was necessary, and the monster that was Manchester United began to wobble a bit.
The idea of a self-owned club, one of such magnitude as United, is a very pleasant one indeed, but in retrospect it was a naïve and somewhat daft expectation that failed to see the sharks coming around the curve. Malcolm Glazer was one such predator, one used to doing battle with monsters, even if he didn’t always win. Aside from making numerous failed takeover bids for companies as different as Harley Davidson and the kitchen giant Formica, Glazer had specialised in a diverse array of successful ventures, including food processing, marine supplies, and energy exploration. Fittingly, he managed to combine all of these when he bought the troubled Zapata oil and gas company, and diversified into fish protein. Hydrocarbons, protein, food, fish, and oil, are all really just words to describe the raw components of life, and Glazer had his finger on the pulse. He knew Manchester United was the prize in world football, and he wanted nothing less than to own the monster outright. Was the food processing mogul aiming to make mincemeat out of Britain’s biggest club? There was resistance to his scheme, but in time the American’s dorsal fin was the only point of reference on the horizon, and it was heading our way.
And so Glazer battled another monster, confident in the knowledge he was taking on a behemoth and not a leviathan. The Leviathan was a scaly nightmare, a Biblical sea-monster with giant teeth that sits in a dark cave at the bottom of our collective unconscious, and you do not fuck with it. It was created on the Fifth Day (three days before Manchester) and it immediately presented a serious problem for the future well-being of the Earth. According to those who believe in such things, even God wouldn’t go near it unless he’d had a skinful, as he’d already killed its mate in order to prevent the vicious beasts from procreating, and Leviathan was proper ill about that. As myth has it, the Hebrew God eventually slew the thing, and made a great canopy from its beautiful skin, which served as a tent in which the righteous enjoyed a sumptuous feast.
The Behemoth, on the other hand, was a somewhat harmless and peaceful terrestrial creature, despite its immense size and strength. It liked to amble about, munching grass, and generally sighing contentedly. Perhaps it even owned a banner, one that said something like, “Welcome to Behemothland. I am the King of the Castle”. Either way, it was slow and trusting and fortunately (for the Behemoth) it could only be killed by its creator, the Hebrew God Eli, or Yahweh, or something. This contented primal hippo in many ways represents the proud lads and lasses who basked in the great bowl of Trafford prior to the monster-slayer’s arrival. Glazer reared up from the spangling surf of opportunity and soon had a Behemoth hoof in his buccaneering mouth, which quickly became two, and finally three. The placid beast had been wandering far too close to the danger zone for too long, and it was only a matter of time before one of Glazer’s species made a bid on that vicious beach, and pulled Behemoth down into the depths of debt. By coincidence, Glazer’s a Hebrew (but I’m not sure if he’s a God) and he went to work on the herbivorous Behemoth, and consequently, with the help of John Magnier, came to own it.
There are people who actually blame Alex Ferguson for the Glazer takeover, citing the racehorse conflict with Magnier and his business partner JP McManus as the reason the so-called Coolmore Mafia unloaded their shares onto Glazer’s wagon train. What these people fail to realise is that without Ferguson at the helm the previous decade or two prior to this little argument, United may well have sunk deeper into the maelstrom of mediocrity they were destined for before he arrived at Old Trafford. We might have been competing with the unremarkable likes of pre-Abramovic Chelsea for honours supremacy, while Arsenal chased Liverpool’s lead, which by now would be utterly insurmountable for United. Everybody remembers Sir Alex’s statement that “knocking Liverpool off their fucking perch!” was his greatest triumph, and for this reason alone it is an insult to hold the man responsible for what was a vulnerable financial set-up all along.
It’s common knowledge that Magnier isn’t much of a football supporter, much less of one than Glazer’s own sons, and all these factors contributed to the privatisation of the United family. The truth is, Manchester United’s on the pitch activities weren’t in the least affected by the affair, and Glazer’s second season in charge saw a vast improvement in United’s performances. The predator hadn’t mangled his quarry, but had rather acquired it. Like the mother crocodile handling her eggs in those awesome jaws, Glazer intended to protect his little investment, not destroy it. Of course, it’s not about the footballing pedigree nor the sporting culture or country of origin of those who took us over. It’s about the debt. Glazer could have been born and raised in the heart of Manchester, supported United all his life, yet still been a cold-hearted businessman. This personality type is not confined to Americans or non-Mancunians, it is everywhere there is a market for anything that isn’t nailed down – and when you’ve got the know-how nothing is nailed down. Money is the root of all evil, and the Devil and the deep blue sea on the Manchester United crest of arms was never as appropriate as it is today. The shark from Tampa Bay had pulled us under, and the light was fading fast. In disgust and hope, FC United of Manchester was formed, and a few thousand lads peeled off from the sinking ship they loved and chose instead to frolic in their little home-made lifeboat. That lifeboat bounced and careered up through the lower divisions, like a miniscule behemoth sperm seeking the egg of fate with which it might fuse and create something of note. Many followers of FC rediscovered a Saturday that once more exuded freedom and fun, something which had been missing from English football since long before Glazer arrived on the scene. That sought-after egg may yet turn out to be the same one the mother croc is protecting in its own twisted fashion, should the two worlds of football ever collide somewhere down the road. After all, the egg of most species is many orders of magnitude larger than the sperm, and there are numerous plants which engage in self-fertilisation via an alternation of generations between an egg-and-bollocks-based gametophyte and a free-floating much larger sporophyte generation. This fusion remains the prayer of those partying in the lifeboat, the crazed, optimistic spirits who almost want to leave United behind completely but know they never can. Instead, they dance, drink, smoke, and make merry, on real football terraces, mobbing the boozers and tiny train stations of northwest villages and towns, drinking away that which haunts their cloven hearts.
We are from up north, and as such we do not like to be in debt. Much less so than other people. But being in debt is fast becoming the way to be, and in the new way of thinking the scale of the debt reflects the size of one’s town halls. Taking risks is part of the American mindset; it goes all the way back to those religious freaks, the Pilgrims, who went in search of the New Jerusalem and the dosh contained therein. Exploitation is at the back of it. Whether you’re pulling the land from the under the Indians (and building their reservations on disused uranium mines then forcing them to live there), or chopping down every tree in ten million acres, exploitation is the way to go if you’re a Yank. If you can sing, or paint, or write, or dance, or count, or run, or jump, or cook – whatever it is – you should exploit that, too. Exploit the environment, the people in it, and exploit yourself. That’s the American way. Discretion and responsibility are the traits of faggots in hardline America. Worrying about the future is for women, not men. Common-sense is measured by how much money you’ve got, not by whether you know how to fiddle an electric meter, fake an iron scorch on a dress for the insurance, or jib a train. They are different from us, and ne’er the twain shall meet. They are spoilt, and we are fucking destitute by comparison, however many portable tellies and microwaves our kids’ bedrooms might contain. With the exception of bears (used for baiting and betting) we killed all the large mammals in Europe a thousand years ago, and chopped down all the trees soon after. Some stuck-up Lord or what-have-you owns every square foot of earth here, and we pay ground rent to that effect. America’s huge forests, mountains, and deserts still swarm with large beasts, and there’s places where acres cost next to nothing, ‘cos it’s way out there, away from water and provisions. Some people claim that the frontier was officially closed a century ago, but a new frontier has opened up; the Plastic Frontier. Plastic is a byword for “false” and for “credit card”, and this is most appropriate. For the truth is, the frontier did close a century ago, and the resources dried up, but the stupid fucking yanks failed to notice. Being spoilt is about more than just owning trivial electronic devices, and common-sense is about more than how much beadage you’ve got. It’s about much bigger things than that. It’s about mass migration, ecological chemistry, and evolution.
We English were the recipients of thousands of years of development, and this migration of knowledge passed through us like an invisible wave, before moving westward, taking our contribution with it, to America. In a way, we have reached middle-age as a culture, as Mediterranean cultures reached it before us. What they must suffer in the form of drunken English jibbers and electric meter-fiddlers (sussed to fuck, aren’t we?), we must suffer in the form of spoilt yanks who can afford to literally buy United and use it as an entertaining side-bar, while United (whoever that is these days) foots the bill. When a youthful culture coincides with a supposed superabundance of natural resources, that’s a recipe for spoilt brattism. A very wise man in India once said “only change is constant”, and he was right. For in time, the children of Mamucium will grow jaded and the plight of the Behemoth will be irrelevant. The tide will turn as Great Satan moves back across the world like a vast plastic wall of filthy water, a child of millennia delivering the ultimate slap in the face to the parents who bore and raised him, the collective Western World. Don’t blame it on Fergie. Don’t blame it on the moonlight. Blame it on Behemoth, and hope that, when all that shite has washed away, a little lifeboat has fused to its target, a great lesson was learned, and a new beast is born. Until then…