Ole Gunnar always struck me as a lucky player at United. That ‘good luck charm’ quality seemed apt for his impish, otherwordly-creature demeanour, too. He’d come on for the final act at the Theatre of Dreams like some Shakespearean sprite and conjure up another improbable Midwinter’s Night winner, before exiting stage left and taking the next magic sleigh ride to Lapland. (Well, Kristiansund; near enough.)