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So Long, Farewell

Despite enjoying a close relationship with Sir Alexander Chapman Ferguson for the last 26 years, I only actually met him just the once. This was after the home derby at the close of the 1990/91 season (the game in which Ryan Giggs scored his first United goal, fact fans – though he clearly never got a touch) at one of those supporters’ club functions they used to have at OT. This was back in the days before the club took the decision to spare the players such ordeals, and thus there remains almost no opportunities for local fans and players to mix socially – unless you are fortunate enough to stumble upon one spewing up outside a casino at 6am.

Held in one of the exec lounges a couple of hours after the game, it was a bit of a grim affair to be honest – like a night at the Phoenix Club overseen by Keith Fane instead of Jerry St Clair. You got chicken and chips in a plastic basket, there was a pay bar that was happy to serve me without ID and that ‘I’m so Excited, it’s Man United’ Tracy bird did a PA. The star turn was the appearance of the players, who as a group possessed all the charm and charisma of prison inmates on death row. They spent the evening reluctantly signing autographs and forcing smiles for photographs – all whilst slowly getting shitfaced and leering at any women who crossed their line of sight.

Alex Ferguson by contrast, was an absolute star. Whilst the players could barely conceal their displeasure at being obliged to spend a couple of hours with the great unwashed, Fergie worked the room like a total pro and had time for everyone. He listened intently as people crapped on endlessly in the way football supporters do and even made a point of seeking out and sitting down with a couple of elderly dudes who weren’t mobile enough to jostle in the scrum constantly surrounding him. It was impressive to witness. I mean he can’t have genuinely wanted to be there, he must have wanted to disappear off home like everyone else there in a professional capacity – but you’d never have guessed that watching him.

That was the closest I got to spending time with the bloke at close quarters, not exactly revelatory I know – just another recollection to put alongside the thousands upon thousands of others on record (most of which you’ve heard repeated again over the last month or so.) Even as a 17 year old kid he just struck me as the real deal – genuine, statesmanlike… a leader of men and all that. I walked out of OT later that night thinking Clayton Blackmore and Lee Sharpe were a pair of dicks… but not Fergie, no. Fergie was a top boy, a boss.

That isn’t just my perception alone, it ties in with what many have said over the years. His compassion, his willingness to go that extra mile, his eye for the insignificant, smaller details that leave a lasting impression on people… all admirable traits that will continue to be repeated as people line up to eulogise the man. It’s doing him a disservice to simply pile platitude upon platitude, however – the relationship between Fergie and United fans was far more complex and multi-layered than to simply state he was a top bloke and everyone loved him unconditionally.

Like many patriarchal figures throughout history, Alex Ferguson was a complete pain in the arse at times. The endless, unfathomable tactical tinkering and rotation of line-ups; the brutal way in which ties with several legendary players were severed; the horse spunk episode; the u-turn in his attitude to the club’s sale; his treatment of anyone who dared to criticise or question his methods. It’s one thing possessing a stubborn streak, it’s kind-of a prerequisite for anyone hoping to thrive in a high-pressure managerial role. Fergie however – it’s not unfair to say – could be single-minded to the point of obnoxiousness.

I’m aware that by admitting to not being completely enamoured with every decision he ever made, I could be seen as guilty of gross insubordination in the eyes of many reds. Vast numbers of United fans were so in thrall to Ferguson that even his most irrational or (on face value) unhinged actions were accepted without question. That was in part due to his influence and power, yet also something of a genius trait he possesses – even if you don’t agree with him, time has shown that most people come round to his way of thinking eventually.

Amongst the tributes paid over the last few weeks, it speaks volumes that so many one-time adversaries had nothing but kind words to say about the man. Beckham, Ruud, Jaap Stam, Paul Ince – ex-players who left the club under something of a cloud armed with justified grounds to hold lifetime grudges against their former boss… all full of genuine admiration and praise. Content to have played a part in the story and knowing any personal grievances they once held are now mere footnotes in something that turned out to be much bigger than any individual playing career.

The respect is still there because all sportsmen recognise that in order to reach the top, its an implicit fact that sacrifices have to be made and there are inevitable casualties along the way. Manager-player relationships are fleeting, mutually undertaken, marriages of convenience – once either party grows restless or the bad times start to outweigh the good it’s usually a signal to part ways. For sanity purposes, it’s probably helps not to dwell too much on the past.

Ferguson was ruthless when faced with such decisions. Utterly unsentimental, business was business and once you’d served your purpose or stepped out of line one too many times you were out of the door. He claimed to have mellowed over the years but there’s little evidence to suggest that was the case in reality – you only needed to note his final, parting shot at Wayne Rooney for evidence that Fergie was still relishing the battle even during his final week in charge.

His standards never slipped, despite at times, appearances to the contrary. From 2005-2007 it looked for all the world that he’d well and truly lost the plot. The squad was in such a mess that The Mirror’s habit of printing the club badge with a big crack down the middle seemed justified for once. The signings were shit, old favourites had departed and the whole club seemed to be on the downward spiral many predicted post-takeover. Yeah right… within 18 months we’d won back-to-back league titles and were champions of Europe again. Only the very stupid or very brave would risk declaring him ‘finished’ again after that.

Fergie leaves us having remodelled the club and completed the next phase of Sir Matt’s original vision – not just champions of England or Europe, champions of the world twice. Those victories in Tokyo and Yokohama are viewed as little more than trinkets to most people in this country at present, though with the rapid globalisation of the game I’ll be stunned if they don’t hold increased value in future years. He understood this whereas successive Liverpool managers had dismissed the fixture as a glorified friendly. Never mind, eh?

More valuable than trophies or titles, the greatest thing he leaves us with is memories. Rotterdam, Blackburn at home in ’93, Turin ’99, Barca, Moscow… 5 of the greatest nights of my life. I’ve spent countless hours cursing him over the years but now it’s all over… well I can only conclude that it’s been an absolute pleasure to have been present throughout. There was always a method in his madness. There’s no question about that.

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Serenity Now

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Champions again. 11 months later than hoped for, title No. 20 is in the bag and we can finally look forward to a little respite on the “Aguerooooooooo….” front. I’m reasonably confident MOTD will remove the clip from their opening titles next season and one assumes that Sky might cease playing it every 15 minutes. Persuading every single City fan I know to change their ringtone might prove a tad ambitious, however.

Despite talk of trebles and doubles ultimately proving just that, we’re left with a more than satisfactory single to savour – one that all of us would have settled for before a ball was kicked. Of course winning the league is always something to cherish, but winning it back from ‘them’ after ‘that’? This title feels more cathartic than celebratory.

After the final day drama last season, history will no doubt show this years title was won at a canter – but I remained somewhat twitchy up to the point we went 3-0 up v’s Villa. The bookies paying out early happens every year now, but the fact pretty much the whole of the football world (with the exception of Brian Kidd) declared the title race over and done with weeks ago only increased my sense of agitation. Talksport were dismissively telling listeners, “United have nothing to play for” prior to the West Ham game – pretty much the same line they were trotting out on the night we lost at Wigan 12 months previously. “Nothing to play for”? – we still needed another 7 points for fuck’s sake.

So despite being ‘inevitable’ and a ‘procession’ it never felt entirely comfortable. The thrills and spills of the opening half of the season were replaced by a return of the defensively solid, wildly unspectacular football that’s become our trademark over the last 3-4 years. Whilst there were some fantastic moments with late winners and goonage aplenty, it’s difficult to recall many games where the team performed for 90 minutes – the manner of the crucial 3 away victories at Liverpool, Chelsea and City being especially indicative.

Liverpool dominated us for the best part of the game and we only began to get a foot in the game once they’d had a man sent off; the trip to Stamford Bridge saw us storm into the lead then go to pieces before Clattenburg intervened and handed us back the initiative; RVP’s free kick at City, surely THE moment of the season – came off the back of a 20 minute spell where we’d barely had a kick and were hanging on desperately for a point. 3 pivotal games, 3 slightly fortuitous yet insanely satisfying wins. Our luck couldn’t last.

If those 3 fixtures were representative of United pre-Christmas, the 3 games biggest games during the 2nd half of the season resulted in 3 disappointing defeats. Madrid sent us out of Europe by winning at OT, a fairly abject performance saw us lose to Chelsea in the cup replay and City were well worth their victory in the recent derby. Our form aside from these games was solid enough but it’s fair to say, very rarely set the pulse racing. Winning is great of course and makes even the most uninspiring football palatable, but Manchester United should be about more than just winning.

Nevertheless, perhaps it’s slightly churlish to be airing these gripes now and instead we should instead focus on some good, old fashioned ballooning in light of what the management and squad have achieved – and it is a huge achievement. It won’t be celebrated with quite the same gusto that we’ve greeted previous trophies with, but that’s just an unfortunate consequence of us having gorged on success over the last 20 years.

My 40th is fast approaching and it occurred to me the other day that most of my first 2 decades were spent longing to see United win the league. That finally happened just prior to my 20th, so since then I’ve seen it happen another 12 times. 12 titles in 20 years – after it had taken us over 100 seasons of playing league football to amass the previous 8. If you’d informed me in the summer of 1992 that was going to occur, I’d have most likely called you a lying bastard before politely enquiring where you’d got your drugs from.

Whilst we can look forward to a relaxing few weeks receiving begrudging guards of honour and watching the tombola XL, the Berts are quietly licking their wounds and steadfastly maintaining an FA Cup will represent progress. After the awful noise which followed their title win last May, they’re pleasingly silent at present – no doubt gathering their breath for another sustained period of self-aggrandising bullshit should they overcome Wigan at Wembley. I received a solitary text from an alright one after the Villa game offering congratulations, this having been inundated with gloating messages at the close of last season. I didn’t bother sending any nonsense out myself, just having the knowledge that they’re hurting is enough.

Talking of pain, the serene ending to the season at OT is in marked contrast to the misery currently being experienced by supporters of Liverpool FC. If the manner of our title win feels ever so slightly anticlimactic, then do console yourself with the fact it’s gone down like a cup of cold sick on Merseyside. I’ve managed to go the whole season without mentioning Brendan Rodgers, mainly due to the fact I’m not sure where to begin – the man is truly a gift that keeps on giving. One expects he’ll be given another season before the scousers tire of his bluster, which is a relief because in the meantime he’s doing a fantastic job of promising an awful lot whilst in reality, delivering very little.

Rodgers, let’s not forget, wasn’t even first choice when he came in last summer. Roberto Martinez sussed the job was going to be a nightmare given the financial constraints in place following Dalglish’s extended shopping spree so sensibly gave them the swerve. It was clear FSG needed a good communicator after the PR disaster overseen by ‘Kenny’ and they got one. A master exponent of kind of flattering, syrupy rhetoric the scousers lap up, Rodgers is very good at talking so they took to him immediately. They called him ‘Brendan’ whereas everyone else pissed themselves laughing and called him ‘a dickhead’.

In fairness to Rodgers, he’s on a hiding to nothing ultimately – despite his brief surely not extending much beyond ‘manage expectations’. Although welcomed as ‘one of us’ after speaking in hushed tones about ‘class’, ‘dignity’ and ‘the Liverpool way’, it’ll be a surprise if he’s still there at the end of next season. It must be soul destroying for them at present: United champions, yet another slow realisation their owners aren’t going to pour millions in, manager a national laughing stock and their best player finally proving beyond all reasonable doubt he’s the biggest cunt in football. 23 years since they won the league now, roll on 2016…

Before I sign off, one last thing that’s been bugging me. Not content with insisting everyone should stand up for the Busby Babes every 10 minutes, I hear certain denizens of Stretford End Tier 2 spent part of the recent derby waving their JD Sports Adidas above their heads whilst bellowing ‘shoes off for the Busby Babes’. Here’s an idea for anyone involved – why not take it a step further and do something truly original? How about removing your shoes and beating yourselves unconscious with them instead?

Enjoy the summer and see you next season.

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