Call out the instigators, because there’s something in the air. Chelsea are staggering about like a blinded Cyclops, fisted in the eye at the Emirates, city smacked Baston Villock 4-0 and, err, we let a fucking well-earned lead slip away at St. Andrews. Shit! What a league this is. When we beat Sunderland 2-0, Giggs was pure power. A grey tinged brute with the cheekbones of a musketeer. Berbatov can’t put a boot wrong and very nearly bagged another hat-trick or two, or three. Raphael has been well up for it, entangling himself all along the touchline and making life very difficult for the oppo’s. Unfortunately, Rooney is still finding his feet, which is odd ‘cos they’re right there at the ends of his legs, where they’ve been all his life. He keeps almost scoring a great goal, but somehow just misses it. His abilities of old keep coming in and out of focus. It’s the Rooney Uncertainty Principle: He either beats defenders but fails to shoot the ball into the right place, or else knows where the ball will go yet gets tackled by defenders he didn’t notice arriving. When I started out as a UWS writer, my articles were often full of quasi-scientific bollocks, but this time I can’t resist. I fancy a return to those annoying days for a moment. And if you don’t like that you might want to buy some very expensive clothes and go and pose where there’s a lot of people. I remember suggesting those who went off to FC were of a different character than those who stayed at OT. That those who stayed at OT represented “immune cells” that would fight the invaders. The invaders in this case are you-know-who. No, not the Glazers; I’m talking about him in the seat next to you. He is part of what is happening to football. It’s been proved that when a host accommodates a parasite for too long, that parasite may insinuate itself into the host’s DNA and become crucial to its survival. Like a chloroplast on a leaf, or a flagella on a protozoa. Sooner or later they really will become a vital component of this MUFC genome. It will happen if the new breed of football supporter continues to displace the old. They will eventually be the only ones who CAN afford a ticket, and any hope of any kind of atmosphere will die. We’re the biggest, so we attract the slimiest little cowards of all. Imagine it; United cheered on by the softest men alive. Oh, the irony.
When I was a kid I honestly believed the hardest man alive was a character known as The Cock of the Stretford End. It was an age when United supporters were so dementedly vicious they regularly leathered fuck out of each other, and the Cock of the Stretford End was “It”. As I grew older, I realise that this wasn’t completely true; hardest bloke alive was actually the Cock of the Scoreboard Paddock. But prehistoric intra-twattings are not important anymore. What is important is that we recognise the new enemy within. These slimebags have insinuated themselves deep among the natives of Planet Clunge, and the worst part is, they look and act just like you and me. What they actually are is a crooked, poncified group of savage white collar careerists. I say “crooked” ‘cos most of ‘em do dishonest work. Keyboard tapping two-faced bleeders. Short-back-and-premnecked Wilburs that used to stand out a forecourt mile in goon collars, black-rimmed specs and their granddad’s coat. Away from OT they were even bolder; riding queer bikes with convex crossbars and wheels with too many spokes, built-in satchels and big fuck off stainless lamps on the front. Grey tweed trousers and wristwatches, white shirts and sensible shoes. Sensible cunts. They’re here now, home and dry, in all sections of New Trafford. The Great Divide between us and them has dissolved. The stiffs have wandered through the gate and are talking the talk, bro. Fucking middle-class shitbags. I blame colleges, malls and marketers, but football is at least partly at fault. Once upon a time, working class kids were the ones that knew the score, wore the gear and used the slang. Outsiders had no access to our codes, but the internet and fanzines (like this one) changed all that. The information barriers came down and the lingo flowed until it found a new level. Now it’s possible for some lily-livered fanny hands to produce some reasonable facsimile of “the craic”. Like him sat next to you right now, if you’re at the match. Coming the oracle about “the bitters”, or singing “we hate Scousers”, when in fact he works in Liverpool as a computer hardware salesman, born and raised in Runcorn’s Divvy Quadrant. And you know what that means. It means he hates Scousers for a very different reason than you do, Twatlock. But you can’t say owt, cos those stewards be ownin’ your underachievin’ arse these days. It’s killing me. How about you? Fancy a revolution or what, arr kid? Slap the cunt. To death. Go on, just turn and launch his swede into orbit with the carbuncled palm of your northern hand. You can receive a guilt-free barring from Old Trafford and watch the match in the pub, or prison. Or start getting blind drunk at FC, if you can’t do cold turkey. FC is United’s methadone, a synthetic drug that takes you by the ankle and refuses to let go. The real poppy’s going extinct, though, so there’s no going back to revisit your lovely dying flower.
People are divided into many types, but we’re all just animal versions of Google search results, when you think about it. Some of us are genuine, while others are the Sponsored Ads, the robotic pay-per-click shite that appears at the top or down the side. The genuine results are wild and free; you never know what you’re getting into. By contrast, the Sponsored divs are a predictable variety of sound-bites and ready-made opinions. Just like that cock sat next to you. They vigilantly conform to Thought Police directives, so they evade capture. A lot of them are obviously southerners, but there’s plenty of slapheads riding their granddads’ velocipedes about the cobbled entries of Tatlockville. And they are growing bolder. And they pay lip service to the issues of ownership and how money’s killing football. And they’ve seen United play in 45 different countries. They were busy tightening the straps on their side-satchels full of extracurricular textbooks when we were dreaming of maybe a half-snide United shirt for Christmas off a market. While we booted a tennis ball round a frosty street they were feeding their iguana and watching Torville and Dean on the telly, before sinking into Mummy’s plush Ford Granada Ghia for a lift to Adventure Scouts. Bastards. Go on, slap that fucker. The revolution’s here, Tatlock. It’s a working class thing, a thing of pain that burns like scalding piss on a generations-old wound. Back when it was 80p to get in the Stretford and ₤1.20 in the United Road, where were these little noblemen? They were competing for the Duke of Edinburgh’s Award and taking elocution lessons in preparation for a life in clover. You, meanwhile, were living on the odd nicked Curly Wurly to chase that king size pain away. Or maybe not. Maybe you favoured Super Mousse or Amazin Raisin bars. It’s not important anymore, like the Cock of the Stretford End. These days you need permission to drape a flag on the Stretford End, never mind pummel some cunt half to death ‘cos you don’t like his shoes.
The gregarious schmegma that once accumulated where the great unwashed flocked is now spoiled. A foreign toxin has been dumped into it. The reaction caused strange molecules to precipitate and repel each other. The collective soul of a social animal has been emotionally bent out of shape, with the native elements doing the bending – and that ain’t fucking right. I use the word “toxin” because that’s what this new crowd is; slimy, devious bean-counters in the business of parting yer Auntie Hilda or yer nephew from their hard-earned beadage by any means necessary. Special offers, loyalty incentives, supplemental securities, all from behind cowardly internet walls and faux phone numbers. They pretend to be disgusted by Glazer and Sheikh Mansour bin Zayed bin Sultan Al Nahyan (please forgive any spelling mistakes here; I copied and pasted it from City’s Wikipedia page and I noticed several errors in the few seconds I was there). Which brings me back to the subject of revolution.
Peterloo and the Communist Manifesto was the Stone Age, this is the Information Age, right at our fingertips. It’s time to throw giant flaming stink bombs into gentlemen’s clubs, and spit big tumbling greenies on CEOs as they rush out into the street and are slapped to death. It’s an era to cop for and bum the daughters of Conservative politicians. Powerful people need burning, soiling, slapping and bumming to death and you’re the one to do it, Tatlock, ‘cos no fucker else is gunning on your behalf. If the Cock of the Stretford End was still alive he’d be watching your back, but he died of ball cancer ages ago. Someone must stop the little Lord Girlies; they’re on the plastic rampage with their Justin Bieber ‘dos and shrunken bellies, using words like “mither” and “summat” – words whose usage was once restricted to a very specific quadrant or two, but which has now been given the thumbs up by the Thought Police. They’ll be saying “wireless” instead of radio next and “what game on?” You watch. Where’s Paul Calf when you need him…Oh, right; he’s giving tash-growing lessons in Quadrant Two. Meanwhile in Trafford, the funereal office workers silence means Tarzan’s jungle yodel in yer belly is audible above the crowd, a result of the tenth reheating of the pie you ate. Call out the instigators, Tatlock. There’s something in the air. Unfortunately, last season’s “revolution” has petered out and all I can hear this year are very bad apple tarts. Not a bad season so far though, eh?
Tags: ian hough, man united, old trafford, perry boys, premier league, Salford, the rooney uncertainty principle