Fear adds to fans’ excitement

I CAN’T remember who exactly first came up with the name “Theatre Of Dreams” for Old Trafford but one has to assume it was some kind of silly tabloid hack or cretinous PR git.

I have always loathed it, not least because a theatre is the last thing a vibrant stadium should be (although sadly, as I have tired of complaining, it does indeed resemble a hushed Old Vic too often these days).

Moreover, what kind of saddo dreams about football? I tell you this, until such time as a naked Catherine Deneuve in her mid-1960s incarnation turns up in the penalty box, it certainly won’t bear any similarity to my dreams.

All that said, you had to pinch yourself at the end of that first half hour on Saturday. Theatre of Dreams indeed, for once: goals by both our non-scoring midfielders and a comprehensive tactical victory by Auld Rednose over the so-called Professor O’Neill.

Worries about Rooney´s goal drought aside, it was as satisfying as one could expect, and to see a full-strength lineup go for the throat from the off was something we have been demanding for an eternity, as you will have read here many a time. The price you pay, of course, is a tedious second half after the game has been effectively won at half time but we never complained about that when it was a weekly occurrence back in 1994-7, and we ain’t gonna start now.

We are obviously going to see nothing like that on Sunday when we play what we expect to be our second-toughest game of the season (barring any high-level Euro encounters) and, as has been pointed out by many a hack over the weekend, we could really do with Rooney springing back to life at the Emirates. Any genuine fan should already be drooling over the prospects of this one: I can’t recall both of our teams ever being in such simultaneous good form going into one of these clashes.

Contrast that to the wretched sight Anfield will be facing at the weekend, as two increasingly miserable managers face each other amidst the usual bad blood those two outfits engender. The footballing feast will be at Emirates — the Scousers and their guests will be eating leftover rats in their Liverpool slums.

If United lose on Sunday and Chelsea win, we Reds have to face the mathematical reality that — on the Mourinho Abacus at least, which posits Chelsea assuming they will beat us in April — our lead will have disappeared in a trice. Old doubts about our squad strength will resurface; the pressure to shatter the transfer window will increase immensely; once again we will fret about getting to May without injuries.

Today, Wednesday, we are overflowing with good vibes and confidence — yet 90 minutes could wreak havoc with all that.

Surely, then, this must be the biggest Arse-United clash since the 2005 Cup Final? Arguably bigger than that, even, given the devaluation of the Cup, so perhaps the biggest since that Highbury night in 2003 when Fergie’s fists arose as if to floor the challengers? Gary Neville said last week that United players “never fear any game”: well, fans like me love just a little bit of fear. And the potential cost of a defeat on Sunday is half of what makes me so excited.

Calm down Kurt, you soft sod. End on a note of cynicism as your readers would expect. So here it is: amidst all this hoopla, keep a jaundiced eye on the activities of the agent of our lodestar Ronaldo.

Jorge Mendes is preparing, say some of my sources, the biggest summer tectonic plate-shift of the decade: Mourinho, Lampard and Ronaldo all to be offered to one destination club. Can you guess which? Yawn.

Enjoy this summit whilst it lasts, lads . . .

Richard Kurt is author of “The Red Army Years”.