Win at Anfield and I’m on board the bandwagon

LENT IS OFTEN a time for short tempers, as the faithful have to go without certain soothing things they have grown accustomed to and may thus react accordingly — and it’s certainly been a week when one is tempted to don the comedy Scouser wig before yabbering “Calm down! Calm down!”

Without even mentioning the Carling Cup final brawl, it’s quite a roll-call: in Lille we had Ronaldo booting bottles across the dugout, Neville ducking what Fergie chucklingly told hacks were “just bread rolls”, captain and boss in a touchline swearathon, Neville in a volley of four letter abuse towards a Sunday People journalist in the tunnel afterwards, Lille players throwing their toys out and, of course, the disgusting police behaviour.

Even CEO David Gill got in on the act, dishing out post-watershed language to a couple of United fans who dared ask him a question in the street outside.

Then on Saturday we had the ever-hysterical Chris Coleman behaving like what we Lancastrians call “a slapped arse” before and after the match, whilst the actual physical aggro was provided by United fans fighting amongst each other in the concourses as political arguments about the ticket price protest spilled out of hand.

I suspect there will be further reports of some argy-bargy at last night’s match too, given we have developed a bit of ‘previous’ with the local small-time loudmouths there, and I haven’t even mentioned the biggest potential war-zone of them all looming on Saturday — Anfield.

Sorry Father, but I think we’d be better off reaching for those forbidden fags and beer after all.

Bloodied noses have been the fitting visual theme of the week and I daresay many a red will have had a naughty snigger to themselves seeing the likes of Crouch and Terry with pranged probisci. Of course, we won’t have found it so funny if Reading have given us our own bloody nose last night. I doubt anyone will be able to draw any footballing conclusions from the Cup replay given the nature of the competition and the likely rotations: but it’s equally hard looking at Lille and Fulham in order to project forward, too. Yet most newspapers seem convinced that playing poorly and still winning offers almost proof positive that this is our year. I must say I was alarmed by how many pundits were claiming Ronaldo’s wonder-strike was this year’s equivalent of the 1993 Brucey header vs Sheff Wednesday. I was glad to see Fergie specifically rejected that suggestion himself, when invited to draw comparisons.

After all, one could pessimistically argue that these two games might represent the potential first stages of a cataclysmic form stumble, in which case the correct analogies should be drawn from 1992.

Whatever: the media handing over the title to us now, before we’ve negotiated Anfield is clearly madness. If we beat Liverpool, I will be back here to join in the proclamation next week, mind. But what I see on Saturday is a gigantic hurdle, to beat a team clearly full of confidence and form after their Nou Camp sensation and sticking four past the Blades on Saturday.

In normal circumstances, you would be happy to take a draw. But on this knife-edge, with Chelsea showing every sign of post-blip resurgence, anything less than a win opens a door to them that we simply mustn’t let ajar.

I trust Mr Kelly and his chums will undoubtedly be on top hostile form too: but at least they won’t be Gallically chucking bread rolls at us. Far too valuable an eat-treat on Murkeydive, is bread...

Richard Kurt is author of The Red Army Years