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A Christmas Carol

Celia Arnold dropped two Alka-Seltzer into her morning G&T and sighed heavily, it was the day before Christmas yet there was still so much to do. Edward and Annabel Woodward were expected for dinner the next day – but there was still no tree up in the Arnolds’ stylish £1.5M mid-Cheshire townhouse. Presents were still to be bought and despite repeated assurances that everything was in hand, her husband still hadn’t arrived home with the turkey he claimed to have ordered weeks previously.

Upstairs, Richard Arnold finished his morning shave and locked eyes with his reflection in the bathroom mirror. “You’re a tiger”, he growled to himself… just as he did every morning without fail. This, ever since his university days, had been Richard’s personal slogan. He even had the words etched into his bathroom mirror as a constant reminder. 2013 had been a great year for Richard Arnold, a year of unprecedented professional and personal success. Today was Christmas Eve, but before he could switch off and spend time with his family (or ‘domestic colleagues’ as he’d often refer to them) – just like every other day, there were deals to be done and strategic alliances to form.

Richard bounded down the stairs as the family assembled in the kitchen for breakfast, although he preferred to think of this time as a ‘pre-9am meet-think’. “Morning team!”, he boomed. “What are we hoping to achieve today?” Celia busied herself preparing son Julian’s packed lunch as the small boy concentrated on finishing his Cornflakes. Richard was momentarily stunned. “Julian, what are you eating there?”

“Cornflakes, dad”, said the child.

“Hold it right there, son. Are you or are you not aware that we’ve recently agreed a deal with Nestle to be our official breakfast cereals partner? This amounts to a serious breach of contract.”

“But I don’t like Shreddies, dad”, replied Julian, glumly.

“We’ve been through this countless times…” began his father, “which breakfast cereal provider best demonstrated a commitment to our shared family objectives of health, growth and minimum nutritional value at affordable prices?”

“Errrr… Nestle, dad?”

“Exactly. So I do not expect to see Kelloggs’ products on display in this kitchen in future. Understood?”

Julian sighed and finished his breakfast in silence, as his father sat next to him drinking a quadruple espresso and talking to both his accountant and life coach on separate Bluetooth headsets – all whilst simultaneously watching Bloomberg for news of the day’s global financial markets. Surveying this familiar scene, Celia turned up the kitchen radio to mask the sound of her own sobbing.

Richard upped and left for work with just a few tasks to complete that day. After a short stint in his spacious office situated in Old Trafford’s North Stand, he intended to pick up a Christmas tree and collect the turkey he’d ordered from his local butchers on the way home. Firstly though, Richard strode into Edward Woodward’s plush workspace to collect Julian’s new PS4 – the consoles were in great demand but Edward had a contact based in Barcelona who he was certain would deliver on time. “Eddie baby!”, Richard roared.

“Dickie, my good man! Wasssuuuuup?!”

The two friends collapsed into fits of giggles before greeting each other warmly with their customary ‘high-five’. “So Eddie, this PS4 deal you were working on…”

Woodward’s face dropped and he suddenly looked very despondent – this was an expression Richard had come to know well in recent months. “Ah, slight problem there, Dickie… the Spanish trail has gone cold. I went in with an offer that I was certain would secure the deal, but unfortunately it looks like I’ve slightly misjudged things and they no longer want to sell.”

“Oh no!”, exclaimed Richard. “What am I going to do? Julian will be crushed.”

“Don’t worry”, Edward quickly re-assured him, his lips forming a thin smile. “I also have a contact in Liverpool, a man named Kenwright who was willing to do business – he couriered one over to me this morning!”

“Fantastic!”, grinned Richard. “I’ll write you a cheque – how much was it? £400?”

“Errr, unfortunately I had to pay a small premium, Dickie… you know the situation, supply and demand and all that.”

“Not a problem, buddy”, Richard chuckled. “What’s the damage?”

“Erm… it was 3 grand”, replied Edward.

Richard handed over the cheque and departed Woodward’s office feeling on top of the world. His dear and trusted friend had come up trumps once again and Julian would receive his prized PS4 in the morning. Sure, Ed had paid a little more than he’d anticipated – but it was a sellers’ market and he could certainly afford it. Job done.

For the rest of the morning Richard busied himself concluding a deal he’d been working on intensively over the preceding month. Before he left the office, an official press release appeared on the club’s website detailing his latest coup. “Manchester United are delighted to announce a new strategic alliance with Festitat Enterprises – the club’s official bauble and tinsel partners in North-West Luxembourg.” Richard was cock-a-hoop with excitement. ‘Just wait until the club’s 350 billion-strong fanbase get a load of this news!’, he thought to himself.

Richard waved goodbye to his colleagues before wedging himself into his club-supplied 2013 63 plate Chevrolet Captiva LTZ 2.2 for the short drive back to Cheshire. It was time to find a tree and pick up a turkey for the next day’s festivities! After negotiating the busy M60 and A34, Richard was soon patrolling the streets of Wilmslow ready to conclude his two final deals of the year.

Four hours later, the normally upbeat Richard was feeling somewhat disheartened. He’d managed to get his hands on a tree, but negotiations hadn’t gone well at all. The salesman had looked completely bemused at his offer of ‘territorial exclusivity for plants and foliage’ and instead, the pathetic looking specimen he’d secured had cost him £80. Still, it would have to do. Quite furious with this temporary loss of business acumen, Richard left himself an angry, expletive-filled voice message on his carphone whilst he drove to his local butcher.

Richard arrived at the butchers just after 5pm and to his horror, found that the shop had already closed for business. He hammered repeatedly on the door for several minutes until a light was switched on and a man peered out of an upstairs window. “Yes, can I help you?”

“I’ve come to collect my turkey!”, barked the profusely-sweating Richard.

“I’m sorry, Mr Arnold… you were too late”, replied the figure at the window. “I received a special request from my best customer just prior to closing time – he’s paid a premium price for all my uncollected orders. I’m afraid I’ve got nothing left to sell you.”

Richard sank to his knees and his face turned a deep shade of pink. “NO!”, he screamed up at the man. “I AM RICHARD ARNOLD… AND RICHARD ARNOLD ALWAYS BRINGS HOME THE BACON!”

“Bacon you say? Hang on a minute”, replied the butcher. “I might have a solution – it’s not ideal but it’s the best I can do at short notice.”

5 minutes later, Richard arrived back home bearing the fruits of his day’s labours. The tree stood in his hallway, the PS4 was placed underneath and the 16 stone, best-of-breed Tamworth pig he’d acquired took a massive shit in the kitchen. Celia fled the room in order to vomit, whilst an amazed Julian jumped up onto his father’s knee and hugged him tightly. “Oh dad, thank you!”, said the boy. “This is the best Christmas ever! Can we keep him? I’m going to call him Anderson!”

Richard leapt out of his chair as his mind suddenly went into overdrive. “That’s it! You’re a genius, son!”, he chimed. He reached for his mobile phone and dialled a number he’d not dialled for several months at Celia’s insistence.

“Anderson! It’s Richard Arnold here, I need a plump bird.”

“Sure man, I can sort that out. BUNGA BUNGA TIIIIIIIME!!!”

“No, not that type of bird”, whispered Richard – conscious that his young son was in the room. “I desperately need a turkey.”

“No problem, my man!!!”, wheezed the portly Brazilian. “I’ve just picked up a dozen from the butchers this afternoon. Come round to mine and help yourself, my friend.”

“A dozen?!”, gasped Richard. “Are you having a party?”

“No. Just a snack”, replied the nonplussed, former athlete.

“Awesome. See you in a while.”

Richard placed his mobile back in his pocket, let out a contented sigh and drank in the sights and sounds of Christmas that surrounded him. Today had turned from potential disaster into a tale of personal triumph he would recall fondly for years to come. The happy scene of domestic bliss was only disturbed by Celia’s screams of terror as the pig attempted to join her in the downstairs toilet. “No Ando! Leave mummy alone!”, Julian scolded the inquisitive porker.

“Utterly hilarious! Merry Christmas, everybody!”, Richard laughed heartily as he ruffled his son’s hair.

THE END

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Into The Valley

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Football commentators should be heard but not seen, I’ve decided. Think of the ones that really piss you off, Alan Green or Jonathan Pearce for example – you’d be able to recognise them in the street, right? Of course you would. Now consider the ones that you generally have no feelings towards, names like Mike Ingham, John Murray and Ian Dennis – these blokes are just voices, doing the job they’re paid to do without resorting to hyperbole or moralising. You wouldn’t be able to recognise them because they’ve never had a camera pointed at them – even their own families might struggle to pick them out in a crowd.

Like referees, being a commentator is a very weird occupation when you consider it. Some try to proclaim it as a ‘dream job’, getting paid to watch football – but it just strikes me as an utterly soul-destroying career choice. All those hours driving up and down motorways, waiting around at airports, nights in shitty hotels, listening to Niall Quinn drone on as he evaluates Knutsford Services’ range of Ginsters’ pasties for the 47th time – it must be horrendous.

Anyway, as soon as these blokes cross that line where the camera is turned on them, they seem to undergo a change where they cease being mere broadcasters and instead feel the need to develop a personality. They hire agents, start earning bigger money and suddenly they’re described as ‘legendary’, ‘outspoken’ and ‘respected’. At this point, the fundamental purpose of their job – to describe the action at football matches – gets lost completely. Instead, you’re left with unhinged, Maude Flanders-type figures, serving up indignation and outrage at the expense of reason and perspective.

The reason for this little rant – as you might have guessed – was the performance of Martin Tyler during United’s game at Cardiff the other week. Tyler was just a normal, faceless-type commentator once upon a time, back in the days when he was ITV’s No.2 behind Brian Moore. He had the foresight to jump on the Sky bandwagon back when satellite telly was in its infancy, a decision that proved to be a very astute one. Alongside Keys and Gray, he became one of the faces of Sky’s all-conquering coverage during the 90’s – and he’s still going strong now aged 68, having survived the culling of his former colleagues.

Tyler is horrendous to listen to these days. Pious and condescending, a self-appointed ‘guardian of the game’ who constantly uses his exalted position to try and provoke witch-hunts and stir up controversy. My terminal distaste for the bloke started last season when he was still hell-bent on pursuing his ‘De Gea is shit’ agenda, even when the rest of the population had woken up to the fact he was the best young goalkeeper in the country. Tyler still wasn’t convinced though, “Hmmm, United’s young keeper under pressure there…we know how much he struggles with the physical side of the game – don’t we, Gary?”

So Rooney gets into a tangle with Daffyd Williams or whoever and boots him. It’s probably a red card but since it’s really early in the game, he gets away with a yellow. It’s the kind of thing you see 50+ times a season, not in the slightest bit controversial in truth. Tyler however, is left utterly bereft at the great injustice that has befallen the plucky underdogs and proceeds to whinge about the decision throughout the entire game. Rooney scores: “well, Cardiff can feel aggrieved at the fact Wayne Rooney is still on the pitch!” Rooney sets a goal up: “Well this is just pouring salt on the wound!” Cardiff player gets booked: “It almost seems unfair that a yellow card is the same punishment Rooney received for what appeared a much more serious offence.” On and on and on and on, he whined – it was absolutely pathetic.

I’m not really sure where I’m going with this other than to state: Martin Tyler, what a complete dick.

I read the other day that an anagram of Marouane Fellaini is ‘a lone, failure man’. This pleased me immensely so I duly checked and sadly, it turns out that it isn’t strictly true and instead it’s ‘a lone, failure main’ – but for the purposes of this we’ll go with ‘a lone failure man’. Yes, I’m sorry to confirm that our new, midfield lynchpin looks a complete dud at present. Slow, no physical presence, immobile, shit passer – the guy looks lost – just as many doom-laden sages predicted he would.

In every decent game I saw him play for Everton (invariably against United), he played much further forward but Moyes has so far tried to integrate him into the side as a deep-lying defensive midfielder. The problem is that Michael Carrick has made that position his own in recent seasons – it’s the one area of the midfield where there hasn’t been an issue. With Carrick injured at present, the hope was that Fellaini would be able to thrive in his absence. However, when presented with a starting role at Sociedad and Cardiff he looked lethargic and out-of-sorts as United regularly surrendered possession. Playing Phil ‘Wreck-It Ralph’ Jones has proven a much more successful alternative – as witnessed in the games vs Arsenal at home and Leverkuson away.

Despite a less-than-impressive start, it’s too early to write him off just yet, especially considering he’s playing with a busted arm – although yes, I know that never stopped Eric. Worryingly, Moyes has suggested that part of the underlying problem is that he’s been played so deep – hinting that in future he might be utilised further forward. Evertonians would no doubt smirk at this suggestion, as it became common knowledge at Goodison that Fellaini moving up front signalled ‘last-throw-of-the dice’ tactics that usually failed. He’s not an attacking midfielder, he just he played there a few times with limited success – more often than not against United.

Overall, the team look to be building up a nice bit of momentum as we approach the (cliché incoming) ‘busy, festive period’. After a ropey start we’ve clocked 11 games unbeaten – although please bear in mind, I’m writing this before the Spurs away game where things will inevitably come crashing down. We’re reasonably well-placed then, and although I don’t expect we’ll win the title this season – remaining in contention and a comfortable top four finish will be enough to prove most doubters wrong. For now.

Just as David Moyes is starting to get his head around the job, I’m starting to get my head around him too – it’s all been a bit like being introduced to an eager-to-please, new stepdad so far. He still has a fair bit to learn about us, however. Just as that element of trust is being established he comes out with a statement like “I would have taken the result before the game”, following the disappointing draw in South Wales.

Listen David, with all due respect, this isn’t Everton. We’re Man United – we don’t take draws at places like Cardiff, we suffer them.

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Opportunities (Let’s Make Lots of Money)

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After a start to the season that proved every bit as testing as the fixture list suggested it would be, United have lurched into what might tentatively be described as ‘a run of form’. The Stoke game demonstrated the extent to which peoples’ expectations have been tempered over the last couple of months – you only had to witness Hernandez’s winner being celebrated like we’d won the European Cup.

The general consensus appears to suggest that Moyes has had a terrible start to his United career, but in reality the team isn’t playing any worse than we did for much of last season. The difference is that last year – through a combination of strength of will and extreme good fortune – we were getting away with it week after week. This season however, we’re being picked off and punished. It’s a simplistic appraisal, I know – but that’s the reality.

United haven’t suddenly become a worse side and only an idiot would claim that our present predicament is down to the change of management. In brutal terms, the limitations of the squad are now common knowledge and teams have sussed we are beatable. It’s not the end of the world, it’s just going to take a while to sort out.

Fortunately for Moyes, most people at OT seem reasonably sanguine about the prospect of a fallow period whilst he gets himself acquainted with the job. Rightly so, too. If a certain amount of goodwill still exists for a pair of clowns like Nani and Anderson after 6 seasons of consistent underperformance, then surely the manager deserves at least a couple of years grace before people start to get on his back?

Nani of course, was the recipient of some grief from the OT crowd following his stinker of a performance and substitution in the aforementioned Stoke game. A few have suggested the reaction in the stands was indicative of the changing make-up of United’s support – the inference being that wigged up muppets have no patience and such wilful insubordination would never have happened in the good old days… which is total bollocks, of course.

Although incidents of individuals being booed aren’t common, they’re not exactly without precedent either. Forlan, Richardson, O’Shea, Fletcher and Carrick (off the top of my head) have all been singled out in recent years – the treatment of Nani has just proven more newsworthy as it’s occurred in a period where the spotlight has intensified due to Moyes coming in and the team looking decidedly out-of-sorts. If Nani wants to guard against similar abuse in future, he simply has to stop playing like he’s missing a brain (tricky, I know) and if substituted, understand that sauntering off pitch in a Neil Webb-style strop is completely unacceptable.

Moyes’ ongoing travails have been a mere sideshow this month, as the real story has been the anything but low key release of his predecessor’s book, the timing of which caused Barney Ronay in The Guardian to amusingly describe Fergie as “the managerial equivalent of the father-in-law from hell”, undermining Moyes with “his continued and undiluted power to fascinate and control.” Moyes of course, would no doubt dismiss such a notion out of hand and launch into an impassioned defence of his mentor. What else could he say? He’s hardly going to admit, “yeah, could do without all this at present.”

It didn’t occur to me to join the scramble for Fergie’s first solo gig at The Lowry but I ended up going down as a good mate of mine was quick on the draw for tickets and managed to grab a pair. I’m fully aware that paying £40 to listen to a bloke being interviewed is fairly unhinged – but once I was offered the chance to go, I didn’t feel I could turn it down. In my defence, it appeared some lunatics were paying £300 a pair on eBay – so despite being a bit of a crank, at least I wasn’t as big a crank as them.

Any thoughts the event would attract a crowd of thesps and pseuds were immediately banished upon entering the bar – it was packed with so many faces from the match, it was more reminiscent of a United away than a night at the theatre. Denis Law and Albert Kitman were mooching about in the foyer and getting mithered for photos, whilst plenty of CES Security goons were on hand – the fact (gasp!) football fans were in attendance presented an increased security risk, one has to assume.

As well as Albert and Denis, numerous other United luminaries turned out. Moyes himself, Sir Bobby, Capable Hands, Martin Buchan, Mike Phelan… no Woodward strangely – rumours he got confused and spent the night wandering round the Lowry Hotel knocking on random doors are as yet unconfirmed.

In my head I tried to convince myself this might be a proper Q&A, taking the Question Time format where everyone gets to submit a question and a few are selected with a view to stimulating debate and perhaps tease out some new material from the Ferguson archives. Dan Walker even hinted that we might expect rich pickings during his introductory spiel, this was to be Sir Alex ‘up close and personal’ – no cameras, no mics, no press in attendance. Not a chance, sadly.

Instead, to no one’s great surprise, we got an hour of Fergie giving the kind of on-rails interview we’ve seen him do a 100 times before. It was okay and there were a few little bits and pieces to be gleaned, it’s just a shame there was no way he was ever going to deviate from the well-worn script. He wasn’t facing a baying mob of anti-Glazer protestors ready to trip him up or drive him out of his comfort zone, he was sat with a crowd of respectful MUFC loyalists – the very people who’ve hung on his every word for the last quarter century.

As it was, we got a quick run through his career in football with only a few little nuggets that could be considered anything like ‘new’. His favourite non-United player was always Zola; in 27 years he only fell out with 6 players (pardon?!); Liverpool’s record is the yardstick United will always be measured against; and he came up with a great little line that neatly encapsulates the magic of King Eric, “Cantona always made a simple pass look great.” He certainly did.

After an hour, to the strains of The Stone Roses’ ‘Waterfall’ and an inevitable standing ovation, Fergie nearly provided a spectacular end to proceedings by almost walking into a wall attempting a stage left exit. We all received a signed copy of the book to go with the sense of anticlimax whilst the star of the show, presumably, was straight onto a tour bus heading north for the next night’s hometown gig up in Glasgow.

The book itself is anticlimactic too. Anyone hoping it complements the excellent Hugh McIlvanney-penned volume published in the aftermath of the treble season is in for a disappointment. In comparison, Paul Hayward’s effort appears rush-released and thrown together. Whilst it’s all very readable and of interest to any United fan, I found myself flicking back on numerous occasions to check I hadn’t missed a page out due to chapters suddenly veering off-topic or the appearance of an entirely unconnected anecdote. It’s almost stream of consciousness at times – as if Hayward has transcribed the interviews they’ve done and then copy and pasted the most interesting passages. The number of factual errors is also quite unbelievable for such a high-profile work.

Nevertheless, if you haven’t read it yourself yet, it’s almost certain you’ll be getting a copy off Father Christmas in a few weeks’ time. It’s sold thousands upon thousands already and will no doubt continue to do so. Ker-ching! Truth is, it wasn’t even the best autobiography by a legendary, cantankerous dictator released last month. That award, if you weren’t already aware, went to Morrissey.