MANCHESTER UNITED 1 BRIGHTON 2
Where do you start? Let’s get the easy bit out of the way - first victory at Old Trafford, ever. That should have been enough for me to stop typing but it hardly seems to do the day justice.
Those of us travelling by train had long got used to the complete absence of discounted fares, and others telling us that the 08:10 and 08:20 were long since sold out and unavailable.
Imagine my renewed disgust when the 08:20 was cancelled. The 08:10 resembled an overcrowded cattle truck - packed enough for some of the sensible amongst us to instead grab a Liverpool-bound train and change at Stafford. During our relaxing, spacious and seated journey, we saw multiple images of those on the 08:10 - overheated, standing, and with a bar car that was closed due to overcrowding. The Dunkirk spirit saw water, beer and Red Bull pooled and shared by those passengers.
On changing at Stafford we received the surprising news that the trains being cancelled to any/all destinations other than Birmingham was a response to the Commonwealth (Colonisation) games.
We simply can’t have tourists and dignitaries inconvenienced, so any other trains could be affected to keep New Street and Moor Street busy. The thought of ‘dignitaries’ travelling by train…yeah, right.
Arriving in Manchester there was only time for a swift one at the Piccadilly Tap, before heading for Old Trafford - the absence of tickets being delivered in time meant that we had to go to the stadium for reprints… from the arse-end of the car park at the diagonal opposite end to our stand.
The biggest surprise of the day was buying a beer inside the stadium - £3. Bottled shite, granted… but still only £3. Today really was a day for substance abuse, even if the main three substances were alcohol, meat and cheese.
Anticipation was gathering and songs were already being sung (as ever) as the first game of the season saw the same old faces nodding at the same old familiar faces, as always - faces that we often see, names that we never know, and conversations that we never have. Football really is a community.
Why Old Trafford doesn’t have safe standing for the away fans is a mystery to me, particularly when (if you’re over 5’6”) sitting is virtually impossible when the seat in front of you starts at your mid-thigh. A truly shit stadium - a mish-mash of mis-matched stands – but clearly the Glazers need to each take £11m from the club, every year, and not update the rotting, rusting corpse that Old Trafford currently resembles.
The home fans were in fine voice until Leo nearly poached a goal in the opening 15 seconds and from then they struggled. We were in fine voice, as always, and while this is supposed to be a review of the game, I’m not going to give you much but a few personal observations.
If you don’t know the score or how the game went… then I’m not sure why you’re reading this in the hope of finding out.
My highlights include seeing one of the finest movies of the 80s acted out, live, on the pitch. As Pascal Groß chased after a ball, pursued by Luke Shaw, it was pure ‘Chariots of Fire’ - slow motion translated into real life; a man who runs like he’s pushing a wheelbarrow, chased by a man whose take-aways get delivered in a wheelbarrow.
Robert Sanchez continued to prove that he has no future as a boxer. He can make amazing saves, he can pass, and he can catch, but when he aims a punch at anything, he misses… regularly and reliably. Maybe two-handed punching could save his future.
Adam Lallana and Danny Welbeck found their teenage legs and hassled and pursued everything and everybody. Had our Pascal not scored twice then surely MotM belonged to one of them, or Caicedo, or Veltman, or Dunky.
‘Our Pascal’ finally got a song, and clearly loved it - cupping his hands to his ears and gesturing for us to continue singing (while we awaited the restart after his second goal). I’m correct in thinking that Olé is a Spanish word, right?
And while on the subject, I’m absolutely delighted that the idiot Albion fans who started singing about two of manure’s players being ‘sex offenders’ gained no traction. Neither was there a singalong when they started on about Sancho and Rashford letting their country down. We should be better than that - and I know most of us are. Let’s leave the abuse and discrimination to others, like the manure fans who allowed me to easily generate a ‘hate crime’ report with the Greater Manchester Police (“fuck me, look at the state of that, typical Brighton fan, it’s like being in a fucking gay bar”).
The trains back were fucked and so I have little left to report, bar the highlight of the day. As we disembarked at Euston, the adjacent platform had a train heading to Manchester, with hordes of ‘citeh’ fans heading home after beating WHU. The ‘Surrey reds’ took their abuse in good nature (heads down), and soon found they were the only ones in the station not chanting “Seagu-ulls!”. Thank you, Manc-blues. The title is yours, unless you fail to put us away.
We can but dream.
JBD (he/him/wanker)
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