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