Paul flynn
Red devil
SUNDAY night, and it looks like Chelsea’s title. They’ve done us and Arsenal away this season and it was no surprise to see them go to Hollyoaks and twat a flaccid Liverpool, whose players and fans seemed to be more interested in their own tawdry little side-show of schadenfreude than digging in and showing some fight. Not for us but for themselves.
Liverpool can talk all they like about Bill Shankly’s legacy but he’d have kicked their arses today. Not for the dozy back-pass or the timidity in front of goal, but for the body language of the players, Reina and Kuyt excepted. Chelsea sensed it and went for it.
United put in a good shift at Sunderland and, but for some laughable finishing from Berbatov, could have gone into the last week of the season with a real buzz on: defiant, buoyant even. But no ... the most reviled United number nine since Peter Davenport continued his internal dialogue with his inner slob and played like a fatalistic tart. Fergie should show him the door, but he’d probably miss it. A Manchester United centre forward? What must Denis Law think?
I know a few United lads who still fight Berbatov’s corner, citing the undisputed skill in his feet and his football intelligence. But come on, boys and girls, look at how he’s vibing the hell out of his team mates. With that nihilistic demeanour he’s already writing Sylvia Plath poems with his feet. He’s a Leonard Cohen song in red and white: impressive but somehow insidious. Unwholesome, I call it. Football without hunger is just wrong. An intellectual exercise ... footle-ball.
Enough. It’s time this willowy, cerebral slacker took his morbid side-show elsewhere. What United need now is a young and hungry street-fighter to lead the line; some precocious kid with a three quid haircut who wants to bitch-slap his way to the top. Karim Benzema, anybody?
It’s not over yet. Well, yes it is, so let’s be honest and admit that despite the brilliant contributions of Rooney, Evra and Darren Fletcher, the squad has stood still this season and Carrick and Ferdinand have actually regressed. Nani’s recent renaissance has bought him a reprieve and Valencia has done okay. And the homo-erotic component of United’s support can once again brandish their mental pom-poms in the direction of Owen Hargreaves and his lovely hair, so it’s not all doom and gloom.
We were unlucky with injuries, especially Rooney’s scragged ankle against Bayern Munich. But let’s be honest, this United XI isn’t good enough to have got much further. The Carling Cup doesn’t make our socks roll up and down, but you just know that Man City’s PR people were planning to parade it through Dubai with the whole lot of them on camels had they got past us in the semi-final. So that was nice.
No, the real highlight of season 2009-10 has been the emergence of the Green and Gold campaign. The Glazers won’t dare syphoning off another twenty million quid in ‘consultancy fees’. Maybe the penny will finally drop this summer and they’ll go back to rack-renting in New Jersey. Whatever. We will still be here. Enjoy your summer. Enjoy the World Cup. Come on, Wigan.
