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