Four-midable week in Red as ‘clasico’ approaches

HERE’S a line you won’t often see inthese columns: thank you Chelsea.

Their demolition of the Blue Moonies on Saturday capped a marvellous day for Reds, during which United achieved a four-by-four centennial feat whilst breakaway FCUM produced one of their greatest-ever performances to go into their Unibond Division’s top two.

I haven’t mentioned FC for some time but they are not only still hanging in there but are thriving; so much for those who said a resurgent MUFC would finish them support-wise.

Speaking of premature obits, incidentally, I note you don’t hear quite so much slagging of Avram Grant anymore, do you?

As I wrote in his defence at the time of The Fall, too many hacks and fans seemed to have forgotten that the source of CFC’s power was always Roman’s roubles, not Jose’s supposed genius. Another case, of course, of classic blinkered short-termism, the subject of my rant last week. In fact, aside from a tawdry kiss and tell, I don’t think I have even read Mourinho’s name in print for a fortnight. Football moves on even faster than a relieved divorcee, it seems. The 6-0 at The Bridge comes as some relief to me, given that I suggested recently that an asteroid strike would be likelier than a City CL finish, although naturally one doesn’t welcome the thought that Chelsea might, after all, be back in the reckoning this season.

Not least as we were looking forward to boxing this campaign off as a straightforward “clasico”: us versus Arsenal, with the first summit meet due on Saturday.

You can forgive the duopolistic selfishness, surely, when you recall the past epic mano-a-mano marathons: 1998, 1999, 2002, 2003, 2004 — every one a twisting, turning thriller, most to the wire.

Indeed, it surprises some to realise that when it comes to real season-long battling, our history with the Gunners is much richer than the one we share with our main historical rivals Liverpool.

Certainly the prospect of Saturday has us all slavvering in a fashion that doesn’t quite apply to an Anfield clash. You don’t expect a good game with Liverpool. Whereas Saturday could, conceivably, be an unforgettable encounter, such has been the form and approach of the combattants this year. For once, the PL might just justify its endless nauseating hype.

Clearly a repetition of much of what we saw against Middlesborough would be most welcome at the Emirates, especially the goal quality and the interplay of the golden boys (Rooney, Tevez, Anderson, Nani) but obviously we can do without the comedy defending.

(Rio’s befuddled ballwatching for their goal is particularly not recommendable). A 2-2 draw would be fine, thanks.

Though Fergie will be demanding a lot more, such is his mood. Forget centennial — he was sounding positively millennial at the weekend, verging on the Third Reich with his declared intent to make us “the number one club in the country, Europe and the world”. (For a moment I wondered if, like a kid on an envelope, he was going to add “and the galaxy, the cosmos, the universe...”) But you can hardly blame him for the pan-annexing confidence. Two years ago this week, he was about to expel Roy Keane from a club in meltdown and was confiding in Bobby Robson that he might quit — as others predicted the sack, including a recent club director.

Now look at him: even facing a minor injury crisis, his boys can’t stop scoring; they go to a cauldron like Kiev and threaten a cricket score. Serendipity walks arm-in-arm with him; he is forced to play Anderson, who had one foot on a loan plane to Lisbon, and the boy’s an instant star.

You can substitute “fat new contract promise” for “loan” now, I suspect.

Who can stop Fergie, eh? Only himself. Unfortunately, he’s well capable of that.

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