TheNamelessThing.com

Jeepers, worra couple o' weeks we've 'ad 'ere, 'aven't we, eh? It's bin a right two an' eight. Ah'm bloody strugglin' ter gerrover it meself, like. First there was that mindblower, when we went toe-toe with Wooly Arsehole FC, and they very nearly took the P, and then it was the draw with the heathens from up Norf, and I don't mean Blackburn. And then there was the draw wiv the heathens from up norf, and I do mean Blackburn. And tomorrow, yes, tomorrow my little darlings, we go to Barthelona for a proper set-to on the cobbles with Mister Messy, Mr. Happy, Mr. Bump, and Mr. Tickle, but they're all just figments of Mr. Hargreaves' imagination, anyway, and hopefully he'll have the power to obliterate their threat with another of his cheeky digs. The one he sent through Wooly Arsehole was very cheeky, wannit, kids?

There's nowt better than a good set-piece man to pull yer out o' the shite when the chips are down, if you'll let me mix some rather distasteful metaphors there. And young Owen was just the chap to do the biz. Hmph! Anyway, in true United form we went to Blackburn t'other day and played like a really well composed Championship side, almost looking like we deserved a draw against a team who prize their ability to kick fuck out of peoples' legs above their football skills. And why not?

But anyway, it's all about Barcelona now, and how much alcohol and drugs the supporters can stuff down their cake-holes between now and midnight tomorrow night. Bloody terrible, methinks. And so we come to Chelsea.

Ginger-nut John Arne stares into the netting, which flowed like ambrosia down Chelsea gullets tonight

I have been saying for weeks that I really, really, want to play Liverpool in the CL final, because it would be so sweet to let them have both barrels before a world audience and at least buy United a couple of years' mockery in which to concentrate on closing the gap in the honours list. But when I saw that plastic show of You'll Never Walk Alone tonight, I was shocked; the Scousers, for so long their own boss, their own captain, reduced to performing for the gutless swines at the BBC or Sky, or whoever it was. Waving their scarves dead on cue right before the teams came down the tunnel. Pathetic. Even worse, it made Old Trafford look like a fucking morgue, never mind a funeral.

But mark my words, we will be electric tomorrow in the Camp Nou. We'll see the magic men, Super-Nani and Owen the Wonderhorse, Giggsy and Scholes the goat-boys, Anderson, son, son, giving us a little dance, while Tevez the terror cut through like a scorpion and stings when they least expect it from acute angles. If Rooney plays and is on-form, there will be no stopping us. There's another player, who I can't remember just now, who has been absolutely on fire this season, too. What the fuck was his name....?