TERRACE TALK: Man United - Fate in our own hands; how did that happen?

An amusing story surfaced in The Sun last week, revealing that Louis Van Gaal had ordered huge ‘anti-spy’ screens to be erected at Carrington training ground.

‘Typically perverse,’ I mused, ‘shutting out just about the only people in the world who actually want to watch this United side at the moment.’

The tale emerged after a fortnight that had seen swathes of empty seats at Old Trafford. Season ticket renewals have been dribbling along at record low levels, and my OT snout amid the beancounters reports new sales to be virtually negligible.

United’s advertising still claims the club are maintaining a season ticket waiting list, to keep up the supposed scarcity value. But if you phone them up, they’ll be desperately offering you one within 30 seconds.

Many Reds seeking to offload tickets to a recent home game found they literally could not give them away.

Not that this state of affairs matters as much to The Suits as it once did.

When Martin Edwards sacked Deadly Dave Sexton in 1981 for “being boring”, he was not being flippant. Boredom equalled poor sales equalled plunging profits, in an era when gate money was king of the balance sheet.

Not any longer. Television rules the roost now, and United are looking forward to their imminent lion’s share of the biggest telly rights deal ever done. In short, they can afford to live with the odd half-empty stand as long as the TV cash keeps rolling in.

Even shorter: That might mean Louis gets to keep his job. Because “being boring” is no longer a sackable offence; not finishing in the top four is.

Such considerations spring to mind for obvious reasons after the weekend’s unexpected events. United being embarrassingly tedious, and fortunate to win, at Carrow Road was wholly expected, of course.

No, the surprises came at Wastelands and Upton Park, whereby a combination of upsets suddenly allowed that most delightful of sentences to spring from our slack-jaw lips: “It’s in our own hands!”

The nation can scarcely believe it, and frankly neither can we. When one of the ex-player pundits on Match of the Day wailed that he “couldn’t understand” how United were still in with a chance of the Champions League, despite being so awful for most of the season, most Reds at home would have been grinning guiltily in recognition. Yet there we were, labouring dismally for over an hour to get a shot on target against doomed trundlers, and somehow that ended up as a three-point goal, with potential first-class ticket to Europe attached.

If I were you, opposition fans, I’d hate us too.

Pausing only to slap Depay and Rooney in the face, and De Gea on the back, let us move forward to this week’s events, and what promises to be one of the outstanding evenings of the year. No, not Saturday’s Eurovision Song Contest — although, trust me, I have my feather boa and sequins ready to roll — but tomorrow in east London.

To us has fallen the honour/curse of closing the show at Upton Park, a venue that has seen much blood spilled down the years between Reds and Hammers — both figurative and literal, both on and off the pitch. Few of us would’ve seen the set-up coming, though. Namely that instead of this being some sort of ceremonial nostalgiafest, it is going to be a potentially hellish toe-to-toe with a side who want our Champions League spot.

Three matches to go, then, and three to save the season, Reds’ pride, and perhaps Louis’ job to boot.

And tinkling happily away in the Mancunian Red’s background?

The daily mental note-to-self that City will not be winning the European Cup this season after all. The secret to contentment is right there, my friend: Never lose sight of how much worse things could be...