No strings attached

NO matter how badly you feel, there’s always someone worse off than you.

It's an old consolation but one I clung to on Saturday. That morning, I'd stopped off at my local 'international' hotel, the Britannia Airport in Northenden, South Manchester. It was full of Irishmen over for the United match, faces gleaming with excitement.

A lot of those lads are guys who spend all their disposable income coming over every fortnight; others will have saved long and hard and pulled strings to get a ticket for their one match of the season. (Yes, we Mancs DO realise how much it costs to 'do United' from Ireland at a weekend.)

The lobby hummed with anticipation; the fellas no doubt expected to see something decent at Old Trafford that afternoon, given that the team had just come off a famous win up in Glasgow.

At five o'clock that evening, as I miserably contemplated the previous two hours which encompassed the worst domestic display by United at O.T. since the infamous QPR 4-1 defeat in January 1992 I thought back to those Irish lads that morning and felt very sorry indeed for them.

It was chucking down outside the ground, and freezing cold: but in 20 minutes, I'd be back home for the wife's tea.

Those lads, meanwhile, faced a long cold journey home, carrying wallets that would be very much the lighter. If any of them had muttered a few words of anger at Alex Ferguson's bizarre and negligent decision to 'rotate' half his team, I wouldn't have blamed them.

I doubt it would have been much of a consolation for them that Fergie himself, uniquely, actually admitted after the match that he'd got the selection wrong.

Although at least they could say they'd witnessed a bit of history a rare Diego Forlan goal. This, however, was a case of a broken clock still telling the correct time twice a day.

Forlan was criminally awful all afternoon and missed two utter sitters; he also managed to hit two supposed cross field passes so far up into the South Stand that I thought they would hit Fergie in the face. Which would have been justice of a sort, perhaps.

Fergie, as you know, had to sit in the stands because he's serving a touchline ban for his contretemps at Newcastle. He will at least have had a better view of the game than he normally gets from the dug-out and one hopes he would have noticed a few things more clearly than before.

Namely: we need another striker. (A good one, not a joke like Forlan.) Furthermore: we sorely lack the creativity that Beckham and Veron, for all their faults, did at least threaten to give the team from time to time. The sole remaining reliably creative talent in the squad, Paul Scholes, was inexplicably left to shiver on the bench until it was too late.

And finally: whoever he finally appoints to be his assistant had better be a defensive expert, since our back four too often continues to play as though they're are Manchester City's, not United's.

Luis Fernandez, incidentally, would fit the bill well here: he is a noted defensive specialist and understands the game as played at a top European level. In any event, I wish they'd hurry and make their mind up the last time we had to endure months without a proper coach, we ended the season trophy-less.

Most of the team that disgraced itself on Saturday will have turned out again last night at Leeds and you, dear reader, will now know whether they redeemed themselves or not.

The pessimists are already moaning that the Carling Cup is our best chance of a trophy this season and no Red ever likes to lose at Leeds no matter what the competition so if we have lost, I will not pretend that it doesn't matter.

Given what happened on Saturday, Reds are looking ahead with a touch of trepidation to Portsmouth's visit this weekend, given that they are precisely the type of 'minor' yet well-organised and well-motivated side we have had problems with when a European encounter is imminent Rangers visit us four days afterwards.

As Ryan Giggs admitted this weekend, the players cannot seem to get over the syndrome whereby they subconsciously approach the Euro games in a higher state of alertness than the routine domestic matches.

A couple of years ago, this was not so much of a problem when the depth of our squad could overpower all-comers.

Now we are in a different ball game: the old fantasy of winning the Premiership whilst mainly using half of your Reserves is no longer sustainable, as Fulham just proved in spades and as Bolton did last season at a similar juncture.

I suppose it should be admitted that we fans are just as guilty of failing to raise our game for the run-of-the-mill stuff. Saturday's atmosphere was dire, a stunning contrast to the bedlam produced by both sets of supporters at Ibrox, which was the loudest we've enjoyed since Madrid in April.

When both the game and the overall 'fan experience' are as unremittingly awful as Saturday's, you do tend to look at the 40-euro price tag on your ticket and wonder what you're doing, aged thirty-something, still investing such funds in such misery.

Well, for about three seconds, you do; then you quote Sir Alex to yourself 'Football, eh? bl**dy h*ll!' and then you buy your ticket for the next one without another second's hesitation.

Richard Kurt, dep ed Red Issue magazine.