We’re finishing the season at Old Trafford. Leaving the best ’til last.
And so, after nine months, 37 league games and a couple of knockout diversions, it comes down to ninety minutes watching the Villa with one eye and the telly/phone screen/dodgy stream on your laptop* with the other.
You couldn’t really hope for better opposition than the most woefully under-performing club in the country, fresh from a demoralising cup final defeat. Their players aren’t interested, the manager can count his future in hours, the supporters are revolting (nothing changes there) and the owners would be lynched if they sat with the common herd. It’s the sort of situation where the local paper has a mock-up of the club badge torn down the middle.
Yes, it’s the perfect time for a team with something to play for to roll up, turn on the style and really give the home crowd something to moan about. But there’s one problem – the ground’s Old Trafford and the opposition are Manchester Bastard Bloody United.
There could be an outbreak of cholera at the training ground, the team coach could be hijacked by Mancunian separatist guerillas, a tsunami could roll down the Ship Canal. We could be seven-nil up at half-time, they could be down to five Academy trainees and three kids from the under-sixteens, the best keeper in the world could have found a way to board up our goal and we’d still find a way of throwing it all away.
But not today. The bookies have got us odds-on and you can get 3/1 against them, which must be a first. Their team are reckoned to be the worst they’ve had for fifty years, they’re making 200 staff redundant and it’ll be 201 once their worst manager since the last one finishes his final team talk. We’ve got an almost-full squad to choose from, the Gods on our side and immortality beckoning once more. Let the headlines be made.
* Which is of course illegal and therefore nobody will be doing it.