Defending like champions as Fergie finally kicks into gear

THE call came into my news bunker one night last week.

“Redeye, there’s been a violent incident involving Fergie in London. Apparently it involves too much drink, some charity p*ss-up and lots of angry Scottish swearing about the Old Firm.”

I replaced the receiver with a sigh: “Oh, Sir Alex, not all that again.”

Obvious conclusion mistakenly to jump to, I’m sure you’d agree, and I even felt sorry for the old man when I heard that’d he’d been kicked in the same bit of anatomy up which Keano once invited McCarthy impossibly to “stick it”. Let us hope that when Fergie is next out and about against Chelsea on Sunday, he will be reverting to old form and dishing out all the groin-kicking rather than receiving. Metaphorically or literally; either will do. I’m easy.

The dropkick at least did Fergie’s brain no harm as he superbly summed up Goodison last Saturday thus: “Defending like that wins you titles. We’ll be all right when we get our forward players back.”

Which is roughly what I have been saying here for weeks: and although some of these games have been dire to watch, you should surely only admire our resilience. Indeed, we have been out-Chelseaing Chelsea, you could argue, particularly apt and useful practice given that we face them next.

Of course I’m not suggesting for a second we want eight more months of this but a little patience is still called for and also thoroughly deserved.

Meanwhile, you get to see such un-United sights as scoring from corners in successive games or Rio not cocking up twice a match in his own box. Sadly, there was also the more familiar and unwanted vision of Ryan Giggs being asked to prove for the umpteenth time that he is useless at centre-forward, and of Saha utterly failing to live up to the expectations as potential super-sub that he himself had inspired only weeks ago.

At least Louis managed not to break some limb for once, unlike poor Mickey, who is now out for the season. Yes, yes, I know what some of you swines are thinking guiltily: “no loss there...” — a judgement that I suppose could equally be applied to fellow crocks O’Shea, Fletcher and Park.

“At least being in hospital keeps ‘em out of our hair,” rumbled one hard-bitten mate on the subject. Tough old game, this, as I’m sure Man City will find out soon enough; the giddy muppets think they are going to the Champions League after another scabby win.

Yet to all right-minded outsiders, their presence as the only non-Big Four club in those slots is akin to seeing a turd in your ice cream; it looks bad, it smells wrong and you can’t even begin to imagine how it got there.

The real deal started last night, of course, and we are in Lisbon tonight where tannings of both sorts are hoped for by travelling Reds.

Twenty eight degrees and sunshine is promised to guarantee one; the other — a putative hammering of Sporting — is obviously the less likely, not least given our stuttering form. Nil-nil and no arrests/police beatings/tear gas would do me fine, not least as I have to get to Paris for Ireland-France straight afterwards before heading back to the Blessed City for the Sunday showdown.

Hard life, this sportswriting lark.

Lisbon, as Paddy Crerand was reminding us this week, played a key role in our history at this level: “United changed their approach to European football after that 1964 night,” he says of the hammering we took there in a European Cup quarter-final. Within four years, the education was triumphantly complete, with fellow Lisbonites, Benfica being key stage posts twice en route.

With United now replete with Iberian spirit at both management and playing levels, one trusts we will cope with whatever tricks they unfurl for us. If not, Sunday could be one hell of a bad hangover day, even if we were to lay off the Porto and Superbok for once.

By Richard Kurt, whose ‘Red Army Years’ is available via [e-mail]