We'll Be His Wingman Any Time

Opinions, eh?! *applies comedy slap to thigh* They're everywhere. Everyone's got them. In fact, you can barely move round here for opinions these days. Just when you think you've got away from the buggers, another one pops up and stuffs itself down your throat.

Take Ryan Giggs, for example. Last Thursday started out as a simple, heartfelt tribute to a man who has contributed more than most to the two and a bit decades since the birth of Premier League football, on his 40th birthday. 

There were photos, YouTube compilations, quotes, tributes, reminiscences, and lots and lots...and lots and lots...and lots and lots...and lots (ad Infinitum) of statistics, all lovingly produced by those that wished to show their appreciation for Ryan Giggs.

Now, for Manchester United supporters, this was fine. We could, and do, enjoy revelling in hour upon hour of a particular individual's finest and most memorable moments, happily re-living their careers in a cocoon of nostalgia, blissfully unaware of the outside world.

Yet, these days, it is dangerous to forget about the outside world, for not a moment goes by that they're not watching, like hungry tigers, poised to pounce upon their prey and poop the party in midflow.

And so it was on Thursday, as all the millions of non-United fans grew tired of our eulogising and embarked on a cruel and savage hate campaign whose sole purpose was to besmirch the reputation of one of our greatest players.

The brutes took to their task with great relish, digging up long-forgotten dirt from the birthday boy's distant past and slinging it into our aghast faces. 

Fortunately, we northerners are made of damned stern stuff. We're used to biting winds and unforgiving frosts. Our days begin with bare-footed trudges to our places of work, over perilous precipices and through rocky ravines. We can skin a rabbit with our feet, blindfolded, from the moment we exit our mother's womb. So a few nasty words, however spitefully slung, fall woefully short of disturbing our equilibrium.

Nevertheless, 'Lay off Giggsy!' we beseeched. 'What's he ever done to you?' we cried, the scalding lava of indignation coursing through our veins.

For, whatever Ryan Giggs' off-field misdemeanours, he is, to many of us, a hero.

He is not, never has been, and never will be, a role model, however vehemently some would argue otherwise. He's just a man. A human being. Like all the rest of us. Only he has been blessed with a gift galaxies beyond the reach of we that have watched in wonder since his emergence, over two decades ago, when he burst onto the scene and made Lee Sharpe, who had seemed a revelation up to that point, look like a club-footed buffoon that wouldn't know a football if it slept with his brother's wife.

It's not that we don't understand people's objections to our putting Giggs on a pedestal. After all, we too are human; we too recoiled upon reading about the wandering mojo of the modern age's greatest yogi. It's just that Ryan Giggs has been a such a big part of our lives for such a long time, bestowed so many memorable moments on us, and then shared in so much of our profound joy, that we are prepared to defend him to the bitter end and overlook his indiscretions, as we would a best friend, brother or son.

Many outsiders no doubt accuse us of burying our heads in the sand, of a shameless propensity to engage in wanton self-denial. Well, so what? Who can blame us for wishing to remember Giggs solely as the magnificent footballer he has been, rather than the...I forget what dastardly deeds he's accused of.

For many United fans, there have been few more exhilarating sights than Ryan Giggs in full flow. Our eyes still glaze over when we think of him in his pomp, gliding over the turf with the speed and grace of a champion ice skater, fleet of foot and floppy of hair, the ball an extension of himself, leaving opposition players spinning in dazzled confusion in his wake. 

It's not that we excuse Ryan Giggs for his mistakes. It's simply that, for us, the good that he has done outweighs any bad so heavily, as to make it barely a footnote on his glittering Wikipedia page.

Wayne, Wayne, Go Away

He's one of the greatest players ever to have graced the hallowed Old Trafford turf. A true Manchester United legend, his name, famous throughout the world, is synonymous with the club's illustrious history and proud traditions, whose loyalty to the United cause, not to mention his incredible achievements on the pitch, serves as an inspiration to players and fans alike.

But enough about Sir Bobby Charlton. It's the man who looks increasingly likely to usurp him as Manchester United's all-time leading goal-scorer, Wayne Rooney, that has been occupying my thoughts.

Having woken, on the Monday morning after the Arsenal match, with that warm glow that comes only from beating one of your rivals over the weekend, in a potentially season-defining match, it didn't take long for the seed of dissatisfaction, sown as I sat in the stands of Old Trafford, to germinate into something altogether more sinister.

I racked my brains and searched my soul. All the doubts and fears of a first season spent without the familiar presence of Sir Alex Ferguson at the helm bubbled to the surface. Yet, it wasn't that. We'd won. We'd beaten Arsenal; the league leaders; the pace setters. Okay, we didn't do it in style, but we still beat them.

So why did I still feel so hollow?

Then it struck me, as I read match report after match report and the name, Wayne Rooney, leapt from the page, again and again, and was thrust down my throat.

I was there. So I can understand why his performance was praised so highly. He was, after all, one of our star performers on the day, having put in a quintessentially Rooney-esque shift, more working class than world class; tracking back with admirable tenacity; running himself into the ground, without ever setting the world alight with a moment of brilliance like, say, a Ronaldo or a Messi would do. Still, I even found myself chanting his name at one point, caught up in the moment, transported, momentarily, to a different time, long ago, when he had seemed another potential hero to me. 

I was there on his debut, you see, when he tore apart the first European opposition he'd come across in his career with the nonchalant brutality and fearless arrogance of a Killer Whale toying with a helpless seal. I was one of the thousands that watched from the stands as the Old Trafford floodlights became his personal spotlight for the night, this footballer-that-looked-more-like-a-boxer from Croxteth, who had crossed the divide from Merseyside to Manchester, his eyes glinting with the cockiness of youth, the flag of his steam-rolling England performances during Euro 2004 waving proudly in his wake.

We all chanted his name that night. We took him to our hearts. Even the doubters, myself amongst them, who had thought him little other than a jumped-up scally, quickly realised that we were witnessing the dawn of something potentially very special; something raw, dangerous and exhilarating. There was a fire and a fury about the young Wayne Rooney that spoke to our collective soul. Here was someone, like Cantona and Keane before him, who could grip a game by the scruff of its neck and change its outcome through the sheer swashbuckling force of his will.

Yes, we chanted his name, even labelling him the 'White Pelé,' a comparison to one of football's true icons that seems a little silly all these years later. 

We forgave him his occasional bouts of bull-like, mindless aggression, putting them down to youthful exuberance and reminding ourselves of all the other United greats that had been prone to such moments of insanity over the years, excusing his every petulant kick and scything challenge, and closing ranks whenever such actions left him otherwise isolated on the national stage.

Then he betrayed us. 

Now, I'm a fully grown, thirty two year old man. I'm not labouring under the illusion that anyone who pulls on the sacrosanct red jersey of Manchester United should be willing, nay happy, to give their life, unquestioningly, to the cause, not just content, but privileged, to devote every moment of their career to this great club. 

Still, flirting with City is unforgivable. 

Nevertheless, while perhaps not forgiving Rooney, the majority of us, over time, opted to give him another chance, convincing ourselves he'd been badly advised by the posse of parasites that have attached themselves to him over the years, with Paul Stretford chief-leech among them.

Inevitably though, it has never been the same. The days of our revelling in his glory are gone. We have been putting up with him ever since Sir Alex's famous press conference, when he came as close as ever he would to lowering himself onto bended knee and tearfully begging a player to stay.

We remember that day, we fans, when we watched, mortified, as our leader whored himself and our football club out for the sake of one individual, who was holding us to ransom in order to improve his own personal circumstances, recoiling at the realisation that we needed him more than he needed us.

Still, as I said, we moved on. We got over it and, after a time, we began to believe that, with Sir Bobby's goal tally in his sights and the acquisition of a truly world class, ready made goal machine in Robin Van Persie for him to play alongside, Wayne would surely see that staying at United was the best thing he could have done.

Only, he didn't. Instead, he seemed to take the purchase of RVP as a personal attack on him which, in part at least, it probably was. After all, for years, Rooney had been United's go-to man for the big games, often carrying those around him. Now, he was being dropped or substituted on a regular basis, and had to suffer the indignity of Sir Alex publicly poking fun at his weight, seemingly revelling in his role being reversed from bullied to bully, and making it abundantly clear that he felt Wayne Rooney had now become eminently dispensable. 

Yet the new regime, with David Moyes at the helm, made keeping Rooney, this repeatedly disloyal, selfish, arrogant, self-serving, sulking, out of shape, self-styled-megastar, at the club their overriding priority over the summer, and they celebrated the achievement of it like they would the purchase of a new star signing, conveniently brushing over the fact that he was yet to actually sign a new contract and refusing to celebrate goals with his teammates, indicating that he was merely being held hostage.

I don't hate Wayne Rooney. He has given us some wonderful memories over the years. Likewise, I'm not so bitter that I can't appreciate when he puts in a genuinely world class performance, as he did last night, providing four assists in United's 5-0 demolition of Bayer Leverkusen. I just prefer it when someone else, like Shinji Kagawa, for example, takes the accolades, because then my joy isn't tainted by treachery.

I'm sick and tired of Wayne Rooney. I'm tired of his name. I'm tired of his face. I'm tired of his attitude. I'm just tired of him. 

As for Sir Bobby's record, the thought that we may see Wayne Rooney's name at the top of that list in the future would prove beyond doubt that there really isn't any justice in the world. I can only pray that David Moyes plans to offload the pretender to Sir Bobby's throne as soon as his 248th United goal hits the back of the net.

Marouane Testing the United Faithful

There was a Manchester United match, as the 2011/12 season drew towards its insane climax, that will live long in the memories of the Old Trafford faithful. It is a memory we dislike with almost as much intensity as that season's final, harrowing moments, for it was the slow, creeping gas that weakened our title campaign to the point of paralysis, and left it exposed to the ultimate, killer blow that was to follow on the final day.

Whereas Sergio Agüero's last-gasp winner against QPR provided the final, fatal strike that left United fans choking on their own blood and bile, it was the 4-4 draw, at home to Everton a few weeks before, that made the team so vulnerable to such an attack, and set the throes of death in motion.

That match was a desperately drawn out affair for the fans, the second half a form of torture, hope draining slowly from our hearts as we watched, helpless, the previous eight months' blood, sweat and tears evaporating before our eyes. We felt the colour draining from our collective face, as a seemingly unassailable, cruising 4-2 lead crumbled about our feet. It was so alien to us. These things didn't happen to Manchester United. Our players didn't succumb to the pressure of being pursued. 

Yet succumb we did and, though we were well aware that we could still, mathematically, be crowned champions, there was an undeniable sense of foreboding in the air as we trudged out of the stadium and back up Sir Matt Busby Way. The self belief was, if not gone completely, then at least mortally wounded.

It was a deeply troubling, unfamiliar feeling, the claws of our rivals puncturing our backs, their hot breath upon our necks. All the self assurance we'd come to know, and taken for granted, over the previous two decades, suddenly going up in smoke. In truth we knew, then and there, that it would take a miracle to recover from our capitulation that day.

There was one figure, in particular, that loomed large over the Old Trafford turf that afternoon, transforming the Theatre of Dreams into a Colosseum of Nightmares for the watching hordes. 

Marouane Fellaini, not for the first time, or the last, brutalised United's back four, bossed and exposed our midfield, and defended his team's goal with the valiance and determination of a great Homeric warrior, inspiring his comrades by his own example, particularly throughout the second half. 

He did it again, of course,  in the opening match of the following season, rendering Michael Carrick, deputising at centre back for the night, akin to a weedy teenager being pulverized by a gnarled and grizzled old pro.

It was understandable then, after two such towering performances (amongst many more against other teams), that stories of bigger clubs circling began to abound. Chelsea were sniffing around, scrapping with Arsenal over the Belgian's signature, with United, and many of their fans, also keen. After all, hadn't we been crying out for just such a bullying, bruising enforcer since Roy Keane's departure?

So why is it that Fellaini has struggled to find his feet at the club he tormented on these occasions? Why have United's supporters stuggled, thus far, to take him to their hearts? Why have some even begun to turn on him already, questioning his credentials to play for a club such as this?

Perhaps it's less to do with the player himself and more to do with the club's childlike meddlings in the transfer market over the summer. After all, we all knew, for months, that David Moyes had put Fellaini near the top of his list of definite targets, and that players need time to settle into a new club during pre-season; to meet their new team mates, familiarise themselves with their new surroundings and thus hit the ground running when the season kicks off. Poor Fellaini started the season still plying his trade for Everton, and was only parachuted into Old Trafford moments before the proverbial clock struck midnight, and his blacked-out Audi transformed into a pumpkin. 

Hardly ideal. It must be a dizzying experience, at the best of times, to make the transition from big fish in a small pond to minute plankton in a vast ocean, without the added stress of a high speed dash up the M62 in the dead of night, with your dreams potentially in tatters at the end of it.

Then there's Fellaini's price tag. Or rather the price United ended up paying for him, a cool £3.5m more than they needed to, had they not so arrogantly scoffed at his initial buyout clause. It makes him one of the club's most expensive acquisitions, a burden we've seen weigh heavily on the shoulders of many others over the years.

Perhaps some also feel that Marouane Fellaini, an obvious favourite of David Moyes, is also the on-pitch embodiment of the new boss, and they therefore direct any ire they feel towards the new manager onto the back of his most loyal henchman instead.

Or perhaps he just isn't Cesc Fàbregas, or Thiago Alcântara, or Ander Herrera. Or Roy Keane or Paul Scholes, for that matter.

It seems rather harsh, and premature, to write Fellaini off after just a handful of games in a United shirt, with all of the extenuating circumstances outlined above, none of which are his fault. 

Who's to say we won't see, over time, the marauding, monstrous Marouane Fellaini that regularly, whilst wearing Everton blue, struck fear into the hearts of opposition fans? Ourselves included.