Being a Manchester United fan has been relentlessly strange so far this season. It's fair to say it's been 'up and down.' Okay, mostly down, with one or two fleeting ups, notably at home to Arsenal and away to Leverkusen.
You see, we're not used to this. Not the sense that we might not be the best team, or have the best squad, in the country, as that has quite often been the case in recent years, but that, in spite of our obvious deficiencies, we might not win the league anyway.
To outsiders, this attitude has reeked of arrogance and entitlement. As well it might, given that our attitude has indeed been one of arrogance and entitlement. Still, what do you expect, given the unprecedented success our club has enjoyed over the last two decades?
Such unswerving confidence isn't instilled through relegation scraps or occasional promising League Cup runs. It stems from the relentless pursuit and regular attainment of silverware, with which we United supporters have been spoiled rotten over recent years.
It comes, too, from knocking your greatest rivals 'off their fucking perch,' as promised by your manager when such a feat had seemed an impossible dream.
Hence, after years of sneering smugly from the Premier League's summit at all of those below us, it is, inevitably, taking some time for us to get used to the unfamiliar sensations in our necks, from craning to gaze enviously at those that sit above us.
Thus far, the majority of us have consoled ourselves with gallows humour, finding some small degree of comfort in the novelty of self-deprecation. Yet, all the while, we have clung to the belief that things will surely come good; that the early stages of this season, without Sir Alex pulling the strings, were always bound to be difficult, but were certain to settle down.
Here we are, however, with Christmas looming large on the horizon, languishing in mid-table-anonymity, not so much hanging onto the coat-tails of our rivals as lying, drunk, face down in their muddy footprints, the feel of their coat-tails but a memory on our fingertips.
Just when we think we've turned a corner, be it with a last gasp victory at Sunderland, a hard fought win at home to Arsenal, or a slick, ruthless demolition of one of Germany's elite in their own back yard, we are subjected to abject displays in the following fixtures.
Nevertheless, with Sir Alex's parting words, urging us to show patience with his chosen successor, still ringing in our ears, the majority of us have resisted the urge to take up arms and join the 'Moyes out' brigade, laughing off such knee-jerkery with a withering wave of our hands.
Yet it would be lunacy on our part to blindly believe in the new man and refuse to ask uncomfortable and disquieting questions of his embryonic reign, simply because his predecessor told us to, given that, after fourteen Premier League games, we are slumped, like a weary boxer after a bruising fight, in the ignominious position of twelfth in the table.
Who among us, for example, didn't feel a pang of deep concern when Moyes instigated the wholesale clear-out of Sir Alex's back-room staff, with all their many years of combined, serial winning experience, over the summer? Yes, we could understand his desire to 'stamp his mark' on the club and bring some of his closest allies to stand shoulder to shoulder with him as he embarked on this new, daunting chapter of his career but, given that the club (not to mention the players) was already reeling from the upheaval of losing the formidable partnership of Ferguson and Gill, it seemed, even at the time, a frighteningly risky way to exert his authority.
Then there was the tragi-comic transfer window, during which Moyes and his sidekick, Penfold... sorry , Ed Woodward, made spectacles of themselves with promises emptier than Greece's coffers, embarrassing statements of shameless self-aggrandisement and attempt after failed attempt to lure some of Europe's finest players to the club.
Ultimately, of course, and with an air of depressing predictability, the world watched on as United did the equivalent of a last minute, panic-stricken, Christmas Eve dash to a petrol station, with Marouane Fellaini the party-sized box of Celebrations, a forlorn, hastily tied piece of ribbon wrapped around it, all that they returned with.
(Still, I suppose we should be thankful they convinced/forced Wayne Rooney to stay. Like a new signing, that).
Then there are Moyes' training methods, rumoured to be rather brutal. Now, the aforementioned Rooney appears to be thriving on them, having shed the excess pounds that so infuriated Fergie, enabling him to run around inconsequentially until his heart's content. Other players, however, seem less enamoured, chief among them Robin Van Persie. Fresh off the back of the two best, injury-free seasons of his career, the Dutchman has been sidelined with worrying regularity this term, forced onto the treatment table by mysteriously vague knocks and niggles.
Moyes' Everton were notoriously slow starters, often relying on a post- Christmas surge to rescue respectability from forgettable starts to their season. Are the travails of his new charges mere coincidence, or is it his training regime that's to blame?
Personally, I'm all for giving David Moyes time. He seems a nice chap, did a damned fine job with Everton, and was always bound to experience teething problems in his new post.
Still, legitimate questions need to be asked, without being immediately shot down with childish, finger-pointing accusations of disloyalty to Ferguson who, after all, cannot remain blameless for the club's current plight, given that the holes in United's midfield, having been plugged with players like Anderson and Tom Cleverley, the equivalent of rolled up toilet paper, for many years, are finally being brutally exposed.
Yes, it has been a strange season for we United fans so far. Perhaps the strangest thing of all is the new sense of fear that is gradually, like a creeping fog, enveloping us, and that was laid bare by another home defeat last night; not only must we accept that we almost certainly won't win the title this season, we may even struggle to make the top four.
