Fun at Fulham shows we’re still hot in the hunt

IT’S all over, apparently. It’s fair to say the media has been a little patronising of late, like United were the dad and Liverpool the toddler: “ah, you wanna race me little fella? Okay. Look at you going full pelt, ooooh, you might just beat me” etc.

With our Fulham points in the bank and Villa refusing to roll over, chances are the joke was wearing a little thin. Time for us to remember our place.

So that’s that then. Before I start dispensing the razor blades and paracetamol, hear me out.

We may be running out of games but recent experiences shouldn’t be swept under Ferguson’s bulging spit-soaked carpet just yet.

Beaten by Liverpool and Fulham, taken to the brink by Villa.

Contrast that with our results in the equivalent games, then look at the fixture list.

We both face Hull away, Spurs and Arsenal at home. If we maintain a similar superiority in those games… (I apologise to the sub-editor who had to correct this, but you try typing with fistfuls of straw).

Whatever the lapdogs write there is no way they can kill our buzz from Saturday. Craven Cottage is often the scene of a swift premature exit, if only for transport convenience, not the setting for a bouncing party that shakes the makeshift stand to its core.

I’ve tempted fate far too much already but the last time we belted out Hava Nagila was for Ronny Rosenthal in the spring of 1990.

The loose translation is “let us rejoice” but a photograph of our end (and huge blocks of the other three sides) would serve equally well.

The great Liam Neeson was in the executive boxes, and on Sunday night television he was knocking seven bells out of James Nesbitt. Omens, omens everywhere.

Yossi had been in the doghouse after turning out for Israel with an injury. A cursory handshake from the manager as they (eventually) left the pitch may hint that all has not been entirely forgiven.

They say Rafa “lost it” after the goal went in, but there’s no confirmatory footage. He’d certainly regained full control by the final whistle. This troubles some, but I don’t see why.

This is no ordinary manager. He’d begun the week with some nautical nonsense about him (naturally) being the captain of the ship, invoking a troubling image of Rafa as Captain Bligh and presumably Parry as the treacherous Christian.

So Benayoun was lucky to escape with a limp grasp, he might well have been lashed on deck if the manager saw fit.

We again played some quality football and yet the finishing problem that seemingly had vanished returned with a vengeance. Torres still doesn’t seem quite right.

There were numerous pluses, like Lucas improving and we may finally have found a use for Dossena other than gratuitous Shrek jokes. Only the ultracynics will wonder why it’s taken this long to try him in his preferred position, but at least he got there in the end. If he can be redeemed, then all is possible.

It’s getting tense now, clearly. I’ve got at least six superstitions on the go. Of course I’m not going to tell you what they are, lest they stop working.

Embrace the madness. 22 players, thousands in the crowd, two managers going head to head — and we’re only winning because I…ah, nearly caught me out there.

We can’t be blasé about Macheda’s goal, it was a sickener. We can sneer at the ludicrously stage-managed camera kiss and mock Ferguson’s mythology (like he had any other option after suspensions and injuries) but it hurt, so why deny it? Who said it would be easy? And if it were, what would be the point? Processions are for wimps.

This all reminds me of Ali versus Frazier: pulsating drama and genuine loathing.

They would pound each other into dust, one hammer blow after another, and the opponent simply would not drop.

This time last season, I would begrudgingly go shopping when United played, or be dragged (by wild horses, obviously) to the pub.

This is so much better. Just like last year’s Champions League campaign, you can suspect it’s all a set-up for the nastiest practical joke in history. Some say they can deal with the disappointment; it’s the hope they can’t handle.

My advice? Man up for God’s sake.