Viva Ronaldo!
Just in the nick of time, the Stretford End has found its voice and the season has found its anthem. Over the last couple of years, the United songbook has gone stale to say the least. True last year we revelled in ‘Mourinho are you listening?’, but since then, nothing of any note has been added to the repertoire. Or nothing of positive note anyway.
What we have seen are two songs that serve to illuminate the absolute poverty of wit and imagination that defines too much of the United support these days. Exhibit A; The dirge-like serenading of the magnificent Anderson to the ‘tune’ of Liverpool/Murderers. Everytime this gets an airing I’m compelled to hang my head in shame. This isn’t the nadir though. The pinnacle of idiocy was attained through the moronic, racist chant about Adebayor that has been doing the rounds in recent months.
The dark stain of racism at Old Trafford is something that is rarely discussed these days, but anyone over thirty will attest to the fact that racism flowed thick and fast from the Stretford End in the dark days of the early 80’s. But if we hoped we’d seen the back of such fuckwittery we reckoned without some of the simpletons that have latched onto United in recent years. While I don’t expect all United fans to subscribe to the Guardian, I do expect them to behave with a little bit of class, and the Adebayor song needs dumping quick.
Thankfully, Anderson is the recipient of a more welcome song in the shape of that Agadoo tune that is doing the rounds. Now, for fans that have used the template of ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’ and ‘This Is How It Feels’ for tunes in the past, to be ripping off Black Lace feels slightly wrong, but there’s no disguising the fact that this song is worlds apart from the lobotomised repetition of ‘Anderson, Anderson…’
As for ‘Viva Ronaldo’, the class of this one shows in the way its quickly made the transition from away support to home, even supplying the United Review with its coverline last week, and already being picked up on by the ever alert Daniel Taylor in the Guardian. Now if only the lad himself can do in Rome what Fabregas did in Milan and define himself by his deeds on the biggest of stages…
Revel Yell
As I write the airwaves of 5Live are thick with United fans lamenting our exit from the FA Cup. They are, understandably, incensed with the dismal standard of refereeing; they will probably, whining ingrates that 606 botherers tend to be, lambast Ronaldo or Rooney for failing to turn all that possession into a single measly goal. But their hunt for a scapegoat is unlikely to lead them to the real culprit, the real reason why we won't need to find the fare to Wembley this season; me.
Let me explain. I've seen United lose three times this season (seen as in been there, not watched on the box). Bolton, city and now Portsmouth. Until this afternoon, most people thought that the common factor in those defeats was the absence of Rooney. Today disproved that theory. No, the common factor in all three defeats was in what was absent from my own coat pocket; a packet of Revels.
As football fans we all have our own strange rituals that we cling to. I have dubbed I don't know how many pairs of socks and boxer shorts 'lucky' in my time, in the face of all the scientific evidence which showed my chances of pulling never improved a jot when i was wearing them, nor Uniteds chances of winning. This doesn't stop me rooting through the underwear drawer anxiously every matchday looking for my lucky red pants.
I'm at a loss to explain how a humble bag of Revels came to acquire mystical properties, but somewhere over the last two seasons it managed to. No visit to watch United was complete without me popping into a shop - usually the Aleef's at the top of Oxford Road - and getting my Revels fix.
Only for the three games mentioned circumstances conspired to keep me out of a shop. Today it was the fault of enterprising thieves who swiped the copper wiring from the trainlines just outside Farnworth, meaning that i was running massively late to the game and had no option but to jump on the last OT bound train from Oxford Road to make kick-off. Up-shot? No Revels.
Was I worried about this? Not at first anyway, as it appeared to be just a matter of when not if for United. Then Tevez had the shot cleared off the line, and I was starting to feel a little nervously in the pocket where I keep the charmed confectionary. When it became clear that some kind of force-field was in operation that would prevent the ball from crossing the line into the Portsmouth net, I was ready to leg it up Warwick Road to grab a bag of Revels there and then.
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So sorry everybody. At least we can revel in the fact that it's a couple of hundred quid saved towards the cost of that touted ticket for Moscow. And we can revel further in the fact that Chelsea won't be there either. (Though the only downside here will be the inevitable crowing from the FA that the hordes of Barnsley bandwagon hoopers clamouring for tickets vindicates their decision to hold the semis at Wembley.)
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As for me, copper piping thefts notwithstanding, I can assure you that my bag of Revels will definitely be in place for the visit of Liverpool in a fortnight.
