De Gea answers the Potters potty-mouths

SO David de Gea has joined an elite club — people in the world who will one day have cause to be nostalgic about the ugly, wretched hovel that is the city of Stoke-on-Trent.

Surely, after his heroics against the side that gives all goalkeepers the shakes, it is time to cut the lad some slack? Mind you, I’m taking the risk of writing this before the Basel match, although you would surely hope that this is the kind of continental-style opposition with which he has always been comfortable in the past. In any event, after the hype on Saturday morning, when he was being portrayed as having less chance of escaping unscathed than Christians heading for the Colosseum, he has certainly shown that he has nerve and character. Erm, and skill, of course: the one thing he has never been given enough credit for is that he was already a proven shot-stopper long before he joined us. He just needed to get into his zone.

Saturday’s other exhibition of class was provided by Nani: otherwise, it was admittedly thin pickings, though we were all pleased with the point given the series of injury disruptions and the type of battering ram opposition that it was. Naturally, the absence of the Spud Faced Nipper was sorely felt. Incidentally, his omission from the lineup was supposed to be a closely guarded secret, all the better to flummox Tony Pulis when the Stoke boss eventually saw the teamsheets next day. Except that Coleen Rooney let the cat out of the bag late Friday night when she chirpily tweeted that she was sat at home with Wayne watching a DVD. Sigh. In the good old days of the 50s when Fergie grew up, you didn’t even let wives use the telephone without prior permission. And whilst we’re at it, back then you didn’t expect to have to listen to ungrateful ex-employees being truculently lippy in public.

Owen Hargreaves, fresh from three years draining millions of supporters’ money, decided to show his appreciation for our endless patience by not only breaking through the forbidden city wall but also mouthing off at us from the other side. Furious Reds might have wished that someone around town would break his legs — but then, why bother? He’ll doubtless be doing it to himself at some point. !

That doesn’t mean he might not have had a point, though, however classless the manner in which he expressed it. No-one has yet answered that most obvious and fundamental of questions: never mind the subsequent treatment — how on earth did United get conned into signing a player with that particular, career-derailing injury? If the medics weren’t to blame, who was? It’s not too obscure a subject area, this, given that we have already seen questions raised about the treatment of Hernandez and Rio this past year. The Mexican is alleged to have come to the club with some kind of pre-existing head problem that, according to Fergie, we weren’t aware of — and there were mutterings about Rio being foolishly made to travel on planes, thus exacerbating his back, last year. Rio, by the way, has been costing the club €300,000 per match played since August 2009: for that kind of appearance fee, we could have had Lady Gaga on the pitch. She’d have been a better pick than Gibson or Bebe, too.

Harmless bumpkins Norwich arrive on Saturday: just what the doctor ordered when you have a minor injury crisis — if that’s not too outrageously fate-tempting a phrase — and when, frankly, you’re already counting down to the Big One next time out...