It may have fooled you, but of course I saw all this coming.
It was very obvious to me that, while succumbing to a desperately poor Middlesbrough side, we were just playing possum.
We might have laid it on a bit thick, St John’s Ambulance men being tempted to rush onto the pitch at times to resuscitate apparently lifeless players, but it worked: United put aside their steely ambition, opened up the picnic basket marked ‘complacency’, and gorged themselves on their own invincibility.
Now was the time for Rafa’s master plan.
Away went the straightjacket, the draft selections and the bits of paper carrying the life and times of Alex Ferguson.
Out came the mortar board, the first team and carefully-crafted dossiers on how to humble the alleged best teams in England and Europe.
A gentle warm-up against Sunderland, just to loosen the limbs and get into our stride.
And then the hounds were unleashed, led by Gerrard and Torres, to lay waste to opponents paralysed by fear and eventually slaughtered by ruthless execution. Obvious really.
It must be said we have been aided, according to certain sections of the press, by outrageous fortune. Real Madrid, despite coming off a domestic run of 10 wins in 11 games, were derided as the worst Real team in living memory. A worthless 4-0 victory then.
Next come Manchester United – champions of England, champions of Europe – their fans keep telling us, and on course for a quintuple of trophies according to the papers (every day).
But we catch them on a ‘bad day at the office’, several of their players who are apparently candidates for Footballer of the Year mysteriously suffering a catastrophic loss of form.
A 4-1 mauling this time. On then to Aston Villa, admittedly struggling for form but still with as many away wins as anybody in the league. They too are very poor, and so five more goals go in. It should be about now that even the dimmest journalist starts to spot a pattern emerging here.
Could it be that these teams perform badly because, perish the thought, they are being made to look poor?
Maybe Benitez is not cracking up after all; maybe this is a decent side, when key players are fit and rested? Nope, because that would spoil the easiest story to write on a quiet day. And if he was to sign a new contract.
Rafa could be forgiven a wry smile or two after the events of the last two weeks. Widely doubted and ridiculed, he’s emerged from his most trying period with his hand as strong as ever, his reputation as a master tactician enhanced and the apparent source of much of his ire, Rick Parry, vanquished.
Houdini-like, he’s wriggled free from his restraints and smuggled them onto Old Red Nose, who has now taken to issuing delusional statements from a secret bunker in Hogwarts: celebrating 4-1 defeats, claiming Wayne Rooney is a calm young man anxious to see free-kicks taken quickly, and setting his staff ludicrous tasks researching meaningless transfer information.
He’ll be talking to the TV broadcasters through a dummy next. Still, no doubt he’ll re-emerge when his team start winning again, proclaiming them as the greatest of all time, despite their petulant and childish reactions when they don’t get their own way, despite their lack of humility, despite their lack of graciousness in defeat.
But maybe, just maybe, they’ll be celebrating only two second-rate trophies at the end of the season, and the real double will be heading towards the Reds from Anfield. Obvious all along.
It was very obvious to me that, while succumbing to a desperately poor Middlesbrough side, we were just playing possum.
We might have laid it on a bit thick, St John’s Ambulance men being tempted to rush onto the pitch at times to resuscitate apparently lifeless players, but it worked: United put aside their steely ambition, opened up the picnic basket marked ‘complacency’, and gorged themselves on their own invincibility.
Now was the time for Rafa’s master plan.
Away went the straightjacket, the draft selections and the bits of paper carrying the life and times of Alex Ferguson.
Out came the mortar board, the first team and carefully-crafted dossiers on how to humble the alleged best teams in England and Europe.
A gentle warm-up against Sunderland, just to loosen the limbs and get into our stride.
And then the hounds were unleashed, led by Gerrard and Torres, to lay waste to opponents paralysed by fear and eventually slaughtered by ruthless execution. Obvious really.
It must be said we have been aided, according to certain sections of the press, by outrageous fortune. Real Madrid, despite coming off a domestic run of 10 wins in 11 games, were derided as the worst Real team in living memory. A worthless 4-0 victory then.
Next come Manchester United – champions of England, champions of Europe – their fans keep telling us, and on course for a quintuple of trophies according to the papers (every day).
But we catch them on a ‘bad day at the office’, several of their players who are apparently candidates for Footballer of the Year mysteriously suffering a catastrophic loss of form.
A 4-1 mauling this time. On then to Aston Villa, admittedly struggling for form but still with as many away wins as anybody in the league. They too are very poor, and so five more goals go in. It should be about now that even the dimmest journalist starts to spot a pattern emerging here.
Could it be that these teams perform badly because, perish the thought, they are being made to look poor?
Maybe Benitez is not cracking up after all; maybe this is a decent side, when key players are fit and rested? Nope, because that would spoil the easiest story to write on a quiet day. And if he was to sign a new contract.
Rafa could be forgiven a wry smile or two after the events of the last two weeks. Widely doubted and ridiculed, he’s emerged from his most trying period with his hand as strong as ever, his reputation as a master tactician enhanced and the apparent source of much of his ire, Rick Parry, vanquished.
Houdini-like, he’s wriggled free from his restraints and smuggled them onto Old Red Nose, who has now taken to issuing delusional statements from a secret bunker in Hogwarts: celebrating 4-1 defeats, claiming Wayne Rooney is a calm young man anxious to see free-kicks taken quickly, and setting his staff ludicrous tasks researching meaningless transfer information.
He’ll be talking to the TV broadcasters through a dummy next. Still, no doubt he’ll re-emerge when his team start winning again, proclaiming them as the greatest of all time, despite their petulant and childish reactions when they don’t get their own way, despite their lack of humility, despite their lack of graciousness in defeat.
But maybe, just maybe, they’ll be celebrating only two second-rate trophies at the end of the season, and the real double will be heading towards the Reds from Anfield. Obvious all along.
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