Rafa’s the best of a mad bunch
Sorry for not commenting on the Champions League draw. Like many Reds I suffer from narcoleptic attacks at the mere mention of the word Chelszzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
See what I mean? It became ridiculous years ago; we’ll need a new word for this. I await the next instalment with breath less than bated.
And of course I breezed past Rafa’s new contract with barely a nod in its direction. I’ve used the phrase “embrace the insanity” several times this season and have never followed my own advice until now.
The news was no doubt greeted with fireworks, street parties and royal proclamations.
The cynics will wonder what the reaction would have been had he announced it after Middlesbrough but gung-ho idolaters such as I gave up listening to them, oooooooh, days ago.
“We’ve come a long way since 2004”. We certainly have: a manager without a title has just been given increased powers and five more years in the job. Until someone invents time travel we can only guess what our pre-Benitez selves would make of such a conundrum.
Harsh? Of course it is, but I couldn’t help smiling when I heard claims like “time for some real stability” and “he’ll only have himself to blame now”.
Seriously? Well, have it your own way. We’ll see what happens with Parry’s replacement and this war chest he’s supposed to be getting in the summer.
It’s April and we are still in the hunt for two major trophies. It would take a heart of stone and a head full of potpourri to claim we haven’t progressed.
There are limits though. Apologist glee rankles, and with United back in range they’re behaving like Scrappy Doo on steroids.
With wiser counsel they’d be just like me, dreading a Ferguson re-enactment of the final scene in Cincinnati Kid.
“You’re good Rafa, but while I’m around you’re strictly second best”.
Look, I hate to poop at the premature party. It’s unsanitary for one thing, but I’ve seen Peter Schmeichel and co ship 11 goals in one week and the swine still pipped us to the post.
We need to be perfect and they need to slip up twice. If we falter it has to be 1-3; do it twice and it’s 2-4 whilst scrambling for a hotline to the Almighty.
Our detractors say we’re one Gerrard injury away from surrender. That may be so, but if Ferguson is in 1998 mode and leaving the reservation (Moyes and O’Neill better than Benitez, if you please) we’ve got a real chance.
I wonder if he also believes this Ronaldo nonsense is going to work?
If he genuinely thinks the English will shed tears once this winking waxwork departs these shores he’s got a big shock coming.
As for never, ever diving, God give me strength. Speaking of managerial madness the UK is witnessing Clough mania because of this new film.
Although we find this tasteless given which anniversary is fast approaching it has come at an opportune moment for those of us perceived somewhat obviously as Rafa baiters.
The book on which it is based is excellent, giving much insight into what the job can do to previously sane individuals.
The perennial battle of wills with directors and childish players, the constant kicking and screaming for more money, the yearly grind to satisfy supporters who idolised you when you first arrived but become so gorged on progress and success they stamp their stubby toes at the merest hint of its disappearance.
You see where I’m going with this don’t you? I’ve read a lot on Shankly of course, and whilst folklore makes some behaviour palatable, defining it as charming eccentricity, some of it is a stark reminder of what living an unreal obsessive existence does to a man.
Even the saintly Paisley had his moments of strangeness (the public spats with John Aldridge) and churlish pique (querying the 1988 side’s greatness) before illness overwhelmed him.
So for all of Rafa’s quirks a quick scan of The Damned United affirms that this sort of thing goes with the territory.
He may sound like Moyes when he prattles on about Ferguson’s e100m advantage and you may await that Craven Cottage team sheet with tic-riddled apprehension, but the die is cast and the contract is signed.
Who’s out there that’s better? That’s right, no one. Live with it.
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