Scholes keeps old school alive

NEWSPAPER instant-polls are becoming more knee-jerk than ever before, but I’d forgive the British broadsheet that asked its readers last week: “Is Paul Scholes the greatest-ever United player?”

Well no, of course he isn’t, you dolts — but one is nonetheless grateful that this much-loved local legend is finally beginning to get the gushing acclaim he has always deserved.

I have waxed lyrical about The Prince here many a time before but still: can you do it too often? Some of his 60-yard passes at Wembley and Old Trafford this past 10 days have been as good as any ever seen in Red for imagination and foresight, let alone accuracy. He’s 36-years-old. 36! A wheezy, old man prone to asthma attacks and terrible tackle-outbursts, and sorely afflicted by gingerness — yet no current Red is more venerated.

Of course, as with Hargreaves and Rio, his reputation has seemingly doubled amongst the general public this summer simply by virtue of his absence from the World Cup comedy show.

And his level-headed decision to knock back Capello’s bizarre 11th-hour solicitation only added to his capital with United fans, never happier than when seeing bumptious outsiders put in their place. I don’t know how long we have got still to come from Scholsey, and it’d be a wild optimist who put it at more than nine months, but cherish every minute he gives us.

Meanwhile, many Reds will continue grumpily to insist that it’ll also take several more months before they start giving Our Dimi the benefit of the doubt and allow him some cherishment too — but more fool them.

For some of us, these opening two matches have been the cause of much self-hugging and the flashing of smug ‘told-you-so’ eyebrows towards our more sceptical brethren.

One has to admit, though, that this has been as unexpected as, say, the signing of Bebe. I frankly believed Berb would be on his way if we could have found a buyer, and many at OT were talking in public about the lad’s supposedly crippling self-doubt. Yet not a trace of that was to be seen on Monday night or at Wembley. Suddenly the excited talk is of all the various permutations that appear genuinely to have opened for us up front, after a season in which, for various reasons, we felt we had almost no options.

Of course, if the so-called Rooney Slump develops any real legs, we’ll be singing a different tune soon enough, but for the moment the skies are clear (though non-City) blue and there’s a Judy Garland skip to the step.

Not that we are all being carried away by Monday night, which viewed dispassionately was a Groundhog Day in extremis. How many times have we seen matches like that these past few years? A visiting team who may be fit and full of effort but whose quality could never hope to count — not a single Toon player would get in our 25, let alone our first 11. United playing at 70% capacity, giving just enough to please moderately without ever threatening to provide a vintage memory; a crowd who are engaged enough, but rarely seeing its heartbeat rise above 80.

I suppose one could argue that most Reds would still take this scenario ahead of last season’s frequent alternative, which involved matches actually scampering away from us, and multiple teeth-skin escapes being required.

But I’d take ‘exciting mediocrity’ over ‘dull efficiency’ every time. As you’d expect from a Berbaphile.

And then there’s ‘dull mediocrity’, which has often been the hallmarks of sides run by our next opponent, Mark Hughes.

Yet not even his tactics can spoil the pleasing prospect of a balmy Sunday August afternoon on the Thames after a visit to that favourite of olden days’ away grounds.

Like I said, we’re in a good mood. I’ve even managed a column without once mentioning the Glazers... oh.