So the crane fly and the Jack Russell have gone. We all knew it was coming, but the sense of vulnerability is physical now it’s happened. Can’t we sign Shay Given and Joey Barton while we regroup? Take them on loan? My head is whirling here on the plastic prairie. We’ve been on a six-hour tornado warning tonight. Several twisters touched down less than ten minutes away. Hospitals are packed with trauma victims (makes a change from gunshot, I suppose). A cowboy caravan will roll into town in the morning, offering expert construction advice. But fuck that. VDS and the Ginger Prince have fucking fucked off. Two gaping holes remain, like punctures inflicted by some alien drilling machine in the Madcunian crust, or a giant vampiric beast called Time. It’s draining the lifeblood out of the squad, and all we have to replenish it are vague rumours of continental wunderkinds and shit declarations of “pride” in how we got our legs slapped in the CL final. Bunch of dozy knobheads. Wake up and smell the bell cheese. The terminals need a scrub, the verdegris is rampant. The spark is fucking GONE. Didn’t yer dad always tell yer to wash behind it? Alien drillers or vampiric beasts, something is TAKING resources away from this great club and GIVING nothing back in return. There’s too much schmeg in the system. And now the summer is upon us the rot will only get worse.
John Hemming’s unmasking of Bryan Giggs days ahead of the Messicre didn’t help. An attention-seeking shithouse ignorant of social media, believing he was telling the nation something sensational: Mister Wales has been shagging Missus Wales. Catherine Zeta Jones might have summat to say about that, like, but she’s mental, so it’s a one-horse race, really. Having said that, mental birds are good fun, especially the Welsh ones. Missed yer chance there, Bryan. Fucked it all up at the final hurdle. Christ, can’t footballers fulfil our dreams anymore? Oh, forgot about you, Scholesy, sorry. And Edwin. Yep, you two have been gigantic. Not gigantic enough to beat city and Barcelona at Wembley but pretty decent anyway. Pair of fucking slackers. Only joking lads. Fucking CUNTS. Oops, Jesus, what am I saying? – I’m a bit pissed and writing daft things. It’s alcohol-induced Tourette’s, honestly. I’m just feeling vulnerable and lashing out at easy targets. Do one more year each, you sad twa- alright, I’ll let it go.
The one silver lining in the Giggs saga was telling my wife that the player she admires most for his skill and humility – comparing him to me as an example of a “good man” – has been boning some minx behind his wife’s back. Her shattered illusion of Giggs’ perfectness means I can drink even more and if she says anything I can wag my drunken finger at her and say, “A few scoops is nothin’…Giggs…look what he did….”
Silver linings, aye. Speaking of which, outside this window there’s an amber sky below an opaque black cloudline whose deathly tendrils keep threatening to become twisters. Constant media warnings; tornadoes ten minutes away in Springfield. At least four dead already. The weather’s crazy this year. My hypothesis is that we’re in the midst of an Epoch transition. Gonna be a lot of things going extinct, maybe even us, and what doesn’t will be forced to evolve into something else. It might not be human-caused either, so don’t be getting all ashamed, or proud, or whatever.
Which brings me to the “pride” issue. All those who hammered on about how well United played against Barca at Wembley. I assume they were watching a different match than me, because I saw nothing to be proud of. I’m not saying I was ashamed either, but proud? You’ve gotta be midnight tokin’ pal. Living away from Manchester for 17 and a half years makes you see how biased you lot back in the Old Country are. I watched a United game live on telly with my dad once. After about two minutes of totally objective commentary, he jumped up, saying, “Ah’m not listenin’ ter this! Bleedin’ hate us, they do!” and proceeded to mute the TV while listening to a Manchester radio commentary instead. From the radio issued the voices of an ex-United player and a known United fan. Rattling on about the dirty tactics and inferiority of the opposition compared to the noble reds. My dad turned and said, “Now, this is a lot more honest.” It was an eye-opener; I’d actually found the television commentary to be slightly in our favour if anything. So when all the “pride” talk erupted in the wake of our second drubbing by the Catalans, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Top reds and all that.
My wife is seven months pregnant. She’s out now having her napper done at “Hairdresser on Fire”. True story, take note Morrissey. She phoned earlier to warn me of the tornadoes, but decided to press on with the mission. The nesting instinct has kicked in. It’s a dog’s life. Building fences, chopping trees down, painting bedrooms, you name it. I’m knackered. It only seems like yesterday when I was writing these same things. That was two years ago. Our daughter is already a beast. History repeats. Time is round and space is curved. Things grow, in size and ferocity, until something happens to tame them. You start with an Eden but people come and vandalise wantonly. Then someone lays the law down and we start again. No matter how idyllic your picnic, the animals are always gonna find the party. The Hells Angels were attracted to San Francisco in the late 60s like football lads drawn to raves in the late 80s. Hillsborough was football’s Altamont. A cleansing made from pain and death. Layers of red tape and sanitation brought in to quell the panic and deflect the blame. Each time the kiddies go too far they cop for a blast of cultural Domestos. It’s up to us to provide a resistance to that and push back. Prolong the party. In 1999 we went all the way and no-one could stop us. This year we fell twice at Wembley, with the soul of the world against us. Everyone wanted city to win the semi. Nobody expected us to beat Barca, including ourselves. Two years ago we won our third title on the bounce. I was waiting for our first child to appear while fretting over Planet X and the New World Order. Nothing’s changed in that department. Something mysterious and irresistible waits in our future; an answer that casts an immense shadow on the present. The universe is constantly morphing from a simpler to a more complex state, and this thing is both complex and simple. It’s a transcendent bridge between epochs, an evolutionary punctuation. But I’m rambling here, so I’ll stop.
Or will I? Sir Alex isn’t gonna be around forever. The successor must soon be chosen. Recent developments on the Iberian Peninsula have brought a certain Special One’s pedigree into doubt. Typical of football’s fickleness. What Real did to Spurs, Barca did to Real. According to popular imagination, Spesh spent the second leg curled up in a ball in his hotel room, having publicly melted down in the days prior. When I phoned my dad a week or so back, he said, “We should go for that Pep Guardiola. He’s good ‘im…” No trace of irony, nothing. He thinks Pep will leave Barcelona to live in Manchester. He’s probably still listening to “honest” radio commentary while watching United on telly, an’ all. Actually, I think he’s boycotted Sky, so maybe not.
Back to this tornado-blighted side of the pond. For several weeks United tickets have topped all others, including NHL and NBA playoff tickets. Just shows you how popular we are here. The yanks are getting proper giddy at the return of their heroes. The only puzzle for me is why the MLS All-Star Game is being played in the tiny Red Bull Arena. Maybe there’s an agreement that United will help pay for America’s first purpose-built soccer stadium. With a tiny 25,000 capacity it won’t be the same as last year’s finale in Houston, that’s for sure. The game at Gillette Stadium is tempting, but the realisation that Scholes won’t be playing ever again hits me like a punch in the gut. He’s gone. The Ginger Prince has left the building. I watch the Youtube of his greatest passes for the umpteenth time and take a swig of something lively. And what of Giggs? First in and last out of the Class of ’92. Scholes has taken a training job at United, but when Giggs retires I foresee him disappearing into the valleys. Skiing Snowdonian slopes in the dead of winter night, dressed in black. Scything to a halt outside isolated stone cottages before plunging inside and shagging their luscious inhabitants to within an inch of their lives. Mister Wales, the black and silver Super Goat. Might wanna consider that aspect of him when marketing to the yanks, Mr. Gill. It has legs. Goat legs. If yer reading this, get in touch and I’ll send you the artwork. Makes the Silver Surfer look like John Terry in Moscow.
The Premier League season ended amid the FIFA fiasco, as certain managers came and went, but Mr. Blatter endured. The usual suspects played musical benches and realigned themselves with new clubs. It’s embarrassing; a clique of blokes just taking turns at doing a shit job. Like Australian telly actors. Every role has the same few cunts popping up. Hughes has left Fulham. Villa fans are still rueing the shame of Houllier kissing the Kop’s ringpiece when they played there. Rumours of Rafa coming to fill his boots sent them into frenzy; if Houllier saluted the mickeys what would fucking Rafa do? What would Jesus do? What would you do, dear Scholesy? I know, you’d kick their fucking balls in and that’s why there’s a black hole to fill in midfield. I can’t imagine who’ll manage it. See y’all next year, top reds.