Just a Game

Every now and then, the bubble in which the football world exists is burst by an event that, while rooted in football, transcends football completely, and reminds us that football is, after all, just a game.

Football was left feeling very much like just a game on Tuesday 26th April, when a jury, having spent two years in a makeshift courtroom in Warrington hearing evidence, both factual and fictional, much of it deeply harrowing, deeply upsetting, deeply disturbing, found that the ninety-six people that died at Hillsborough on 15th April 1989 had been unlawfully killed.

I suspect that I am not alone in having, over the years, grown weary, not of, but by, the Hillsborough story, succumbing to a kind of Hillsborough-fatigue, emotionally saturated by tales too grim to bear, the reflected pain of others too much to take, unable - or perhaps unwilling - to deal with the overwhelming sense of powerlessness it made me feel. Like anyone else, I had my own everyday stuff going on, my own problems and worries, my own life to live. 

Pathetic, I know. 

Thank goodness the families of the ninety-six never gave in to such fear. Thank goodness they never gave in to despair or took refuge in denial. Thank goodness they, the ones that survived to see that momentous day, were never broken by the huge weight pressing down on them and attempting, with all its might, to destroy them. Thank goodness they never gave up.

For, goodness knows, most would have done.

It was on a train journey to Manchester on that Tuesday when it all hit home for me, in all its shocking, unfathomable, frightening magnitude. As the news of the victims' families long-awaited victory - if we can really call it that - broke, so the wall I had subconsciously erected around myself for years, to shield myself from a story too bleak to comprehend, crumbled, and all the unbelievable horror finally sunk in.

There I sat, reading a long, horrifying, magnificent article by David Conn, who has spent two decades covering the Hillsborough story in all its tragic detail. And there, in a crowded carriage, I cried.

In truth, almost every word, every line, delivered a crushing blow, such was its bleak power. The part that struck me most profoundly, however, was the poignant tale of the father who, being crushed to death at a football match, was last heard saying "My son, my son."

Two such simple words, yet ferociously moving in their beautiful, heartbreaking, human simplicity. A man, knowing his own end was nigh, and suffering untold agony, sending up a desperate, pleading prayer, the survival of his son, whom he had brought into this world and loved and nurtured and cherished, his final and all-consuming wish, even as he, himself, was gasping his final, tortured breath, and hoping against hope that his boy would somehow escape with his life. 

His prayer, it turned out, went unanswered and his son, too, died, in the same hellish manner in which he, through no fault of his own, met his end.

Reading those words - "My son, my son" - on that train, it was impossible not to think of my own little boy and the times I've taken him to Old Trafford. Kissing goodbye to my wife - his mum - and my daughter - his sister - "Love you. See you later..." Much, I suppose, as those ninety-six poor souls would have done that day, never suspecting that those goodbyes would be their last.

You may ask what gives me, a Manchester United fan, the right to comment on any of this.

Yet, this is a story that goes way beyond football rivalry, that goes way beyond football. It should make every fan of every football club, and everyone beyond, seethe with rage against the machine that spent over a quarter of a century trying to grind those it perceived as weak and defenceless into submission. 

They had only the love in their hearts for those they had lost, and their desperate desire to see their coldly, calculatedly besmirched reputations restored, to give them strength. That, it turns out, was more powerful than the might of a whole establishment - from an entire police force, to the most powerful and influential newspaper in the land, and even the government itself - all of them seemingly hell-bent on burying the truth that they are meant to uphold, in a chillingly detached attempt to protect themselves.

I don't know that I could cope with opening my eyes each morning for twenty-seven years and, in that moment when sleep's forgetfulness flits away and is replaced by the reality of wakefulness, remember the all-too familiar heartache, the dawning of another day groping in the darkness for the justice that would have been theirs long ago were it not for the wretchedness and cowardice and profound, self-serving cruelty of the people at the head of a system that was meant to protect and serve, but instead trampled and betrayed.

Forget about football rivalry. Forget about club allegiance. Forget about trophies and titles and records. Forget about football. For all of that pales into insignificance in the face of tragedy such as that seen that day at Hillsborough, and the courage and dignity such as that seen since. 

Bill Shankly once said that football is more important than life and death. But we all know, just as Shankly did, that it really isn't. It's just a game.

Unusual Suspects

Football, as they say, is a funny old game, though none of the Premier League's traditional top-four will be feeling particularly amused this season.

It's hard to believe but it really does look like Leicester City are going to win the title. Not only that, but their fiercest challenger appears to be Tottenham Hotspur, while West Ham United are battling it out with a hapless Arsenal, a toothless Manchester City, and a dreary Manchester United for a Champions League spot. 

Leicester City! Tottenham Hotspur! West Ham United!

Remarkable stuff.

United had been toiling away in the Europa League spots prior to their back-to-back victories over City and Everton and, let's face it, in the Europa League spots they will probably remain, a fallen giant plummeting further and further into the abyss, struck down by a strange lethargy they cannot shake off.

And this lack of vim is a big part of the problem, not just with United but with their city rivals, who are also having a season to forget, a jaded and often embarrassingly half-hearted joke of a team.

Leicester, in contrast, are a cracking side, a joy to watch, and few would begrudge their likeable manager, Claudio Ranieri, a Premier League winner's medal come May. Yet, Leicester's position at the Premier League's summit should cause the league's usual heavyweights to take a long hard look at themselves.

Pound for pound, do Leicester have that many better players than City or United, or Arsenal or Chelsea for that matter? You could argue the case both ways - and the likes of Riyad Mahrez, N'Golo Kanté and Jamie Vardy have been revelations this term - but what is irrefutable is that Leicester's players, along with those of Spurs and West Ham, have simply wanted it more, been better organised and, crucially, played with the kind of energy and enthusiasm that should make their more illustrious, better paid rivals hang their heads in shame.

Energy! United fans must have forgotten what that looks like in a football team. A club famed for attacking, intense football now stutters and wheezes through games. Ferguson's best teams would attack in irresistible waves. Van Gaal's barely cause a ripple. So often this season United will break out of defence but, instead of streaming forward in numbers, check back and ponder the meaning of life while their opponents regroup. So often they will send crosses into a penalty box with one solitary United player in it, surrounded by grateful defenders.

City, for their part, have pretty much collapsed since Pep Guardiola was announced as their knight in shining armour. The theory goes that this is because they are being led, in Manuel Pellegrini, by a dead man walking, but their form has, in truth, been at best sketchy all season. Like United, they seem incapable of putting a decent run together and, like United, whenever they face opponents who are up for the fight, they fall apart, unable or unwilling to put in the kind of shift Leicester and Spurs' players do on a weekly basis.

Energy is, of course, not enough to land silverware on its own. Still, without it, you may as well not turn up and, when you do not have the resources and financial muscle of the big boys, you have to compensate somehow. It may sound terribly English but, it turns out, such simple but effective attributes as spirit, heart and good old-fashioned sweat can make a huge difference.

Leicester, Spurs and West Ham have strained sinews and burst lungs in order to fill the void left by United and City's ineptitude and Chelsea's implosion. No doubt Arsenal fans will scratch their heads for years to come, wondering why it wasn't them but, let's face it, the story of their season is like a scratched record, their perennial late-winter/early spring crises comically predictable.

No, the fact of the matter is that Leicester, Spurs and West Ham, this season, have been like a group of garishly dressed dancers that have burst into a house-party, their vitality and lust for life too much for the old boys to handle. Chelsea long since passed out in the toilets, Arsenal are experiencing their usual queasiness after it all went to their heads back in January, while the two Manchester clubs keep waking occasionally from their slumbers to laugh at each other, before realising that they themselves are in an equally sorry state.

It's probably safe to assume that, with Guardiola on his way to City, Jose Mourinho tipped to take over at United in the summer, and Antonio Conte going to Chelsea, an injection of energy is the least we can expect from the big-hitters next term.

For now, however, we should probably just sit back and continue to marvel at the boundless energy of these three upstarts and, if Leicester really do go on to win the title, joined next season by Spurs and West Ham in the Champions League, give ourselves a pinch and wonder at what a simple, beautiful, funny old game this is.

Manchester United - another season in tatters

Louis van Gaal limps on. His limp United side limp out of another competition. His pathetic excuses never washed and still don't. His insipid football inspires only disgust. His tired philosophy sucks the joy out of the beautiful game.

Comparisons with his pitiful predecessor, David Moyes, are now wholly just, if not a little unfair on the Scot. Worse still, there are parallels with Moyes' darkest days at Manchester United appearing around every corner, haunting him like ghosts of failures past. 

Moyes, too, experienced a humiliation on the road in Europe, when his United side lost to Olympiakos. The trouble is, Moyes' team turned things around, something Van Gaal's sorry bunch have failed to do - unless you count their victory in the second leg against FC Midtjylland in their previous Europa League round, which no one serious about football could. 

No. Van Gaal's United, having lost 2-0 to Liverpool at Anfield after a performance so spineless, so bereft of spirit or fight, that Sir Matt Busby must have turned in his grave, and could only muster a few minutes of mildly meaningful football in the return leg at a packed but subdued, and ultimately bereft, Old Trafford.

Moyes, too, experienced the nightmare of defeat against United's most bitter rivals within the walls of the Theatre of Dreams - albeit Van Gaal's was over two legs. He, too, failed to grasp the magnitude of the loss, as Van Gaal did on Thursday night. He, too, failed to understand why United's fans continued to sing, despite the humiliation. 

Under Moyes, United fans sang 'Twenty Times' relentlessly for almost half an hour, drowning out Liverpool's travelling support who, deep down, must have marvelled at the outpouring of their enemy's emotion, though they would never admit it. Under Van Gaal, it was less heartfelt, less rousing, more defeated. 

The song was different on this night, the mood too. The United Calypso was sung with a sense of weary acceptance of the new world order. Still, the United fans that sung did so for their proud history, for Busby and his Babes, for past glories and future hopes, for the famous, fearless football of Ferguson, and as a means of lamenting what they see before them now - a club whose soul is being ripped out, whose identity is going up in smoke, whom no one fears any longer but who everyone mocks.

Van Gaal is by no means the only one to blame for United's shocking decline, but he is to blame for the deep sense of listlessness that has enveloped the club of late. Minds have been thoroughly numbed by the wretched football on show each and every week, to the point where fans, while deeply troubled by what they see, are at a loss as to what to do about it. They stopped looking forward to matches long ago, the sense of escapism football used to offer a thing of the past.

The contrast between the two managers on Thursday could not have been more stark. Louis van Gaal, pen and pad in hand, rooted to his seat, while Jurgen Klopp kicked every ball and lived every moment, a bundle of energy on the touchline. Such enthusiasm, however much of it is for show, must filter through a team and spur players on to give that little bit more. What on earth happened to the Van Gaal that once did Kung-fu kicks on the sideline and, as recently as the World Cup in Brazil, celebrated and gesticulated with gusto? 

Moyes faced Manchester City shortly after his home defeat to Liverpool, and lost. Van Gaal faces them on Sunday. United fans have no confidence whatsoever that their team will this time prevail, despite City suffering their own slump. Such is the mood around Old Trafford.

Fans will be around long after these current players are gone, and long after Van Gaal is a distant memory. It is they who keep the traditions of the club alive, despite the likes of Van Gaal betraying them with his bland brand of football.

United's lame duck of a manager should have been given his marching orders long ago. Alas, as with Moyes, Van Gaal has been left to limp on, leaving the club's season in tatters, and the fans in a state of despair once more.

Well done, Wayne

In case you missed it, which you didn't, but in case you did, Wayne Rooney became England's all-time leading goal-scorer on Tuesday night. 

As he thundered home his fiftieth goal for his country from the penalty spot, in front of a Wembley crowd who no doubt would have preferred to witness history being made with a fifty-yard screamer, we finally got to see how our nation would react to such a long-standing, long-inevitably-falling record finally being broken.

Rooney himself was clearly overwhelmed. Red of face and teary-eyed, he took in the rapturous appreciation of the crowd, presumably suppressing the urge to bow to all four corners of the stadium and request a microphone be thrown from the bench so that he could make a speech - that came later, with Football Association TV, in quite the televisual coup, securing exclusive behind-the-scenes access to the England changing-room, where Rooney received a hero's welcome from his teammates.

Meanwhile, the weird and wonderful world of social media was erupting. The football community, from Gary Lineker to David Beckham, Alan Shearer to Michael Owen offered their heartfelt congratulations, with many ordinary fans following suit. Yet there was another section of society, a dark, ungrateful underbelly, who poured scorn on Rooney's achievement. They were quick to point out his relatively abysmal performances at World Cup finals, choosing to omit unnecessary information such as the fact he's had to be wheeled off the plane on a stretcher just to take part in those tournaments; they belittled his accomplishment by suggesting that his goal tally had been massaged by friendlies, apparently not noticing that the man he has replaced at the top of the goal-scoring charts scored far more friendly goals than him.

Still, though these people's unpalatable views were largely drowned out, they do perhaps represent a more widely held opinion - he's no Sir Bobby Charlton.

If only someone else had broken Charlton's record before him, Rooney's achievement may not have been received with so much resentment in so many quarters. Had Lineker, Shearer or Owen reached fifty first, perhaps we would more readily congratulate Rooney. As it is, he has knocked a true legend, not to mention a true gent, off his perch. And this makes many of us angry. Charlton represents our glorious past, Rooney our bloated, mollycoddled present. 

Poor Wayne. It's not his fault he was born in the eighties, rather than the thirties. But he was, and times have changed. Where Sir Bobby would ride to Old Trafford on the bus with the fans on a match day, his freshly-dubbined boots around his shoulders, a flat cap on his head, a pipe between his teeth and a loaf of Hovis under his arm, Wazza turns up in an expensive car with blacked-out windows and a personalised number-plate; where Sir Bobby's unruly, faintly ridiculous combover is endearing, Wayne's own fight for more fruitful follicles is a source of mockery and derision; while Rooney holidays in Las Vegas, Charlton probably shivered behind a windbreaker in Skegness; and where Charlton would celebrate a goal with an understated hop and a skip, Rooney tear-arses to the nearest camera and tells millions of people to "Fuck off." 

Think about it, though. If Rooney were to get on a bus today, he'd be at best mobbed, at worst outright assaulted. Had the answer to a better head of hair been available to the young Sir Bobby, do you think he would have struggled on with just a comb and a pot of Brylcreem? Probably not. And, had Charlton become a multi-millionaire as a teenager, his face plastered over billboards and on the backs of newspapers around the world, labelled England's saviour from sixteen, his every move and misdeed revealed and dissected by the press, flocks of paparazzi not allowing him and his family a moment's privacy, who knows whether it would have led to the occasional angry outburst, the pressure and weight of it all spilling out in rare moments of spontaneous, un-media-trained frustration.

Rooney may not be the loveable hero we all think we deserve, he may be the footballing embodiment of middle-age spread, huffing and puffing his way to a place in the history books, a pale imitation of his younger self, and he may not be Sir Bobby Charlton, but he has achieved something remarkable in an era with its own challenges, a time so far removed from that of Charlton's that it is barely worth attempting to work out which of the two men is better than the other.

Why not just put envy and nostalgia to one side for a moment, for this moment, and simply say "Well done, Wayne."

An Evening with Greg Dyke

Picture the scene: Greg Dyke is throwing a dinner-party for a few of his pals. They're onto the dessert and el vino has flowed. Naturally, Dyke being the main man at the FA, the conversation turns to the desperate state of English football. There is a good deal of wailing and even some gnashing of teeth as the group bemoan nearly fifty years of hurt. 

Out comes a delicious looking cheeseboard, its pungent aromas filling the room. A Brie de Meaux oozes and creeps, encroaching on the other cheeses like a bully. With watering mouths, the lads tuck in with good cheer, gobbling up the Gorgonzola and massacring the Manchego like men possessed. All that's left by the time they sit back in their chairs and loosen their belts is a forlorn-looking Cheddar that never stood a chance amidst such exotic company.

Dyke surveys this scene of devastation as he pours himself another glass of vintage port, the cheddar stirring something unexpected in his soul. Then, suddenly, 'Eureka!' He taps a stray spoon on his glass and springs to his feet like a man in the full flush of youth, which possibly has something to do with the port.

"By Jove," he cries, "I think I've got it!"

His guests are intrigued, if a little taken aback, by this sudden outburst. They puff on their cigars and await an explanation, which they feel sure will be good.

Dyke allows a pregnant pause for dramatic effect before excitedly exclaiming "Bloody foreigners, coming over, destroying English football!"

The dinner-guests, while somewhat confused, nod sagely. They respect Dyke and feel sure he's onto something, though what exactly he's onto remains far from clear. Unfortunately for them, their host fails to elaborate further and rushes out of the room. For the remainder of the evening, he can be found pacing the hallway, his glass of port in one hand and a dictaphone in the other. By the time the guests leave, he has hatched a cunning plan.

That plan was aired publicly this week. In case you missed it, it's similar to every other plan those at the FA have ever come up with. Essentially, blame the barren wasteland that is the English national team on foreigners. Not only that, but make it more difficult for the blighters to continue sabotaging our national sport by insisting that clubs must have more home-grown players on their books and making it trickier than ever to acquire a work-permit. He stopped short of demanding citizen-tests and ale-supping competitions for any foreigner who wants to play over here but that's probably next.

The problem with all this is that some of us quite like the foreign players we've seen infiltrating our game over the last couple of decades. Indeed, some of us believe that things have improved as a result. Okay, for every Eric Cantona you'll get an Eric Djemba Djemba but, still, Eric Cantona was pretty great and, what's more, he inspired and improved one of the finest crop of English players ever to emerge from the same club. The likes of David Beckham, Paul Scholes and Gary Neville all tell of Cantona's remarkable influence on them.

Quite why Dyke believes that forcing clubs to increase their quota of home-grown players will magically improve the England team is something of a mystery. Perhaps, again, it was the port making him all misty-eyed but, the fact is, England were hardly world-beaters prior to the foreign invasion. It could even be argued that the national side has, on the whole, improved since then - still rubbish but just that bit less rubbish. 

When you consider some of the players who have worn the three lions in recent times, they aren't all that bad. Beckham, Scholes and Neville were some of the best of their generation. Then there's the likes of Steven Gerrard, Alan Shearer, Michael Owen, Wayne Rooney and Rio Ferdinand, to name just a few who have somehow managed to rise above the rabble of imports and forge decent careers for themselves. 

Come to think of it, England probably should have done better in major tournaments than they have. But then, major tournaments are notoriously difficult to win. Bad management, bad decision-making by players on the day and bad luck all combine to thwart football teams, as well as simply losing to a slightly better side. 

Dyke's simplistic notion that foreigners are stunting the growth of potential England stars is predictable and deeply uninspiring. Great players inspire youngsters, wherever they hail from. Great players also improve slightly less-great players. Instead of increasing home-grown quotas, perhaps the FA should concentrate on improving facilities and coaching for kids, and pressing governments to stop ripping up playing-fields left, right and centre. You know, things that might actually bear some fruit in the long-run?

The cream will, more often than not, rise to the top. If an English player is good enough, he will be picked for his club. If he's not, that club should be free to find someone better, foreign or otherwise. Just like if you fancy something more adventurous on your cheeseboard than cheddar, you are free to go wild in the Waitrose cheese-aisle.

Fortunately, Dyke needs the Premier League to ratify his hair-brained scheme. I know what I'd say if I were them: "Go home, man. You're drunk."

 

The Black Dog

So, another famous person has died in tragic circumstances. This time, it's Robin Williams.

Like so many news stories, these days, I found out about Williams' death on Twitter. It's odd, but there's something about that medium that makes bad news even more bleak than it already is. Perhaps it's the unavoidable pithiness of it. After all, it's difficult to fit a lot of detail into one hundred and forty characters. Or perhaps it's because you're happily reading tweet after tweet about football's latest transfer sagas or hilarious gifs only to be knocked for six by the unexpected and shocking.

Back in the days before social media, we had familiar news-readers to soften the blow. We could tell when the information they were about to impart was going to be particularly harrowing by the sincerity and sadness of their facial expressions. They delivered such stories gently, sharing our grief, understanding our pain, their measured, sensitive words akin to a stroke of our hair or a heartfelt cuddle.

Not so with Twitter. There it is, sandwiched between a picture of a cat and a handbag that bears a striking similarity to Phil Jones' gurning face. There's no warning, no change in font to give you time to prepare yourself for what's to come. It's just there. In black and white. Stark and remorseless.

The news that Robin Williams had died, at the age of just sixty-three, sent a chill through my heart. It is always a shock when someone famous, who has been famous throughout your lifetime, dies. What was the far bigger shock, though, was the revelation that the Hollywood star had taken his own life due to a long battle with depression. I hadn't even been aware that he was depressed.

The reaction to this kind of news is all too predictable. How can a man with so much to live for, so much to be happy about, take his own life? How can he be depressed with all that fame and fortune? How can he choose to leave behind all the people that love him? How can he be so selfish?

Yet it is fair to assume that Robin Williams, just like all the millions of other people who take their own lives every year, far from seeing his own suicide as selfish, probably felt he was doing the world, including those that loved him most, a favour. 

Such is the mind-crippling power of this terrible affliction. It seeps into every sinew of your being, warping your thought-processes to such a degree that you become incapable of believing that anyone could possibly love you or that anyone would miss you if you were gone. Indeed, you feel that you have become such a burden on the rest of the world, particularly your loved ones, that your own death can seem like the only possible escape from the darkness that has surrounded you.

Winston Churchill, another sufferer of depression, referred to it as his 'Black Dog,' a description that resonates with many. The image of a black dog, stalking the sufferer from the shadows, is a powerful one. It is always there, even during periods of relative happiness, forever threatening to overpower you once again.

Depression does not care about people's background, nor their bank-balance. It can strike anybody at any time, often for no apparent reason, and is surrounded by so much stigma and misunderstanding that the victim often suffers in wretched silence. Then, when the courage to confide in someone you trust is finally plucked up, their reaction, born out of fear and misunderstanding, more often than malice or malevolence, can be overwhelmingly disheartening. They fidget uncomfortably in their seat, unsure of where to look or what to say. It's not their fault, of course. They cannot be expected to understand or comprehend the black hole of despondency that has consumed you.

Robin Williams' suicide is a grim reminder that depression can sink its claws into anyone, regardless of the life they lead or the life we who look in from the outside believe they should lead. Happiness can be sucked from any soul and trampled under the unforgiving feet of their own Black Dog. There will be little for those who loved Williams, be they those closest to him or the many millions who loved him from afar for the joy he brought to their lives over so many years, to take comfort in in light of such sad news.

It is to be hoped, however, as it is when any high-profile figure is revealed to be living anything but the fairytale we often assume they should be, that his death will not be in vain; that the mere fact we are all talking about it, whether from a position of ignorance or understanding, will be another step towards an acceptance that depression is a deeply debilitating illness, as well as being a remorseless and cold-blooded killer that will prey on anyone.

Home Truths

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.