The Joy Of Six

It seems the voodoo curse Foul Play unleashed upon Manchester United in August (by tipping them to beat City to the title) is already working a charm. For a veteran of several million derby humiliations stretching back to the early ‘80s, it’s impossible to overstate how ridiculously, magnificently, deliriously joyful an occasion the massacre was, karmic payback for all those occasions as a kid when one was almost relieved to be relegated because at least it spared the prospect of two ritual disembowellings a year at the hands of United and subsequent medieval-pillory-style torment from their mercilessly cruel army of child supporters.

In fact, the entire afternoon unfolded as if it had been scripted by an eight-year-old version of myself: 6-1, at Trafford of all places, with much of the damage inflicted by a clearly insane striker who’d spent the previous evening playing with fireworks in his bathroom, resulting in a major fire which required him to be evacuated from the premises. I have just about resisted the (admittedly intense) temptation to spend the entire week lording it over my Red acquaintances with maximum arrogance, opting instead for the calm, aloof tone, fully aware that these fuckers have a habit of coming out on top in the long run. Nonetheless, I’m now privately convinced that the reign of Red terror is drawing to a close, at least until such time as they splash out on a first-rate creative midfielder. And many of their fans seem to sense the same thing, their nervousness becoming increasingly visible.
Fergie obviously has achieved more in football than anyone else ever will, and has long since earned the right to claim that he knows the true worth of his players better than we do. Still, it’s impossible to escape the feeling that he has placed a little too much trust in the skill (Michael Carrick), character (Anderson) and savvy (Jonny Evans) of certain players, as was also the case during their prolonged mid-Noughties slump, when it appeared as if Chelsea had more or less permanently overthrown them. This turned out to be far from the case, the Blues shooting themselves in the head with the senseless firing of Jose Mourinho, while a fresh generation of United talent emerged to restore the natural order.
But the simple truth is that City’s bazillionaire owners now have deeper pockets than Roman Abramovich ever did, and will undoubtedly be in a position to shop till they drop this January, by which time they may well have raced into an insurmountable lead. At the time of writing, City are still just about available at odds-against for the title: this is unlikely to last for much longer. If you’re thinking of climbing on board, now is most definitely the time to do so.
For the moment, it has the ring of a two-horse race, though a few more slip-ups from United this side of Christmas could see said ‘race’ effectively turned into a straightforward procession. Chelsea and Arsenal are going at one another hammer and tongs as I type, in a preposterously exciting contest which nonetheless serves to confirm that neither team will be coming within an ass’s roar of the title, cursed as they both are with a propensity towards catastrophic defensive howlers at key moments. Liverpool seem only marginally advanced from last year, if at all, while gravity (or injuries, or the loss of half their midfield in the January window if they keep on playing this well) is bound to eventually drag Newcastle down to the middle. Realistically, only Tottenham have shown glimpses of the fluency and imagination required to mount a genuine challenge, and they don’t have anything resembling the defensive solidity to sustain one: they too were dismembered 5-1 by City on their own turf, not long after a 3-0 thumping at United.
Spurs have yet to lose a match since, and they possess a mighty impressive front six, but it takes a large leap of the imagination to envisage them avenging those two setbacks.
So, two months into the fray, it doesn’t seem presumptuous to conclude that the title will be on its way to Manchester. And right now, United not only need to step up their own efforts considerably, they are also relying to a very significant extent on the increasingly distant prospect of City’s majestic progress being undermined from within, whether through loss of form, an outbreak of in-fighting, or a gradual Kevin Keegan-style meltdown on Roberto Mancini’s behalf.
Not every observer is yet convinced that the dapper Italian is completely qualified for a job of this magnitude. Tactical caution verging on cowardice was a frequent feature of his first two terms in charge, and the Carlos Tevez incident did little to allay suspicions that Mancini’s approach to man-management perhaps errs on the side of provoking conflict rather than avoiding it. But week after week, the doubters’ objections are being shattered into shards with a succession of blood-curdling attacking displays. The array of options in the forward line is frightening; the defence rock-steady if not quite infallible; and in David Silva, they have a player whose brilliance is beginning to bear favourable comparison to anyone on the planet, with the obvious exception of Lionel Messi.
I wouldn’t want to get carried away, of course, and the last thing on earth City need at this stage is for Foul Play to fuck it all up by tipping them for the title. So, United it is then. But you know I don’t believe it, and neither do you. The revolution is almost complete. Long live the kings.