Has this been done? From the Independent...
Home are the heroes, back from the eastern front, exhausted by their epic march and last stand at the gates of Moscow
But they have survived and they have returned in triumph. And boy, are they shouting it from the rooftops. There is only one Red Army, and they have the replica jerseys to prove it.
The other Red Army, the one that stood firm at Stalingrad in the winter of '42, the one that lived through famine and slaughter and the terror of the Third Reich did less talking about it than the hordes of United supporters who celebrated their victory on Wednesday night as though Europe itself had been liberated.
As Churchill didn't say, never in the field of human endeavour was so little done by so many who bragged so much.
In what is undoubtedly the largest case of arrested development in the history of humanity, grown men the world over went out in their AIG jerseys on Wednesday night, and Thursday and Friday too, and proclaimed their undying loyalty to the Manchester United master race. And you thought the cult of Scientology was bad?
But let's be fair here: it's not every man who has the courage to nail his colours to the mast. It's not every man who will risk the heartbreak and trauma, the shattered hopes and dreams that will inevitably come your way when you enlist in the richest football club in the world.
Ask yourself this question, all you cynics out there: would you be prepared to risk everything by signing up to a club that has won a mere 20 major trophies in the last 18 years?
These stats would suggest that if you join the Church of Manchester United you have a chance of enjoying at least one big triumph every year. But there are no guarantees in life and one can only admire the reckless disregard for their own safety with which United's disciples hurl themselves at the barricades every season. Verily, the boys who went over the top at the Somme could have learned a lesson or two in valour from the men who walk the world with Sir Alex as their leader.
These Man United men are martyrs. Known in shorthand as Mannies, their enemies have tried to smear them by calling them Moonies. But they are above the petty envies and provocations of the non-believers, the infidels who will do them down. They have read their Kipling. They have met with triumph and disaster and made their minds up: yes, disaster is an impostor. But triumph?
Like Gordon Gekko in Wall Street they have decided that winning is good. Winning is right. Winning works. Why bother with the agony and the ecstasy when you can have the ecstasy and the ecstasy?
And the great thing is, you have to do so little to feel this good. There are no initiation rituals, no secret handshakes, no trials by fire before they let you in. René Descartes said "I think, therefore I am". The bloke in the boozer says "I'm a Man United man so I am." And, hey presto, he is so he is. It's that simple.
And with one leap our hero is free. He can walk into said boozer feeling a foot taller just because he has the famous red jersey on him. He can slag all the lads who didn't have the level of self-sacrifice it takes to be a Man United man. He mightn't have achieved a lot in life. Indeed, he mightn't have a pot to piss in, he mightn't even work to keep himself warm, but the vicarious glow of Man United does wonders for the old self-esteem.
And of course, he doesn't even have to be from Manchester to be a Manchester United fan. In fact, he runs the risk of not being a United fan if he is from Manchester. Better by far to be from Calcutta or Shanghai or Bohola. And better still, he doesn't even have to have ever seen a United player in the flesh, not even once in his life.
Muslims are supposed to tip off to Mecca once in their lifetimes, Jews will want to visit the Holy Land, Catholics try to check out the Vatican at some stage, but the world's Man United faithful have somehow found a way to worship a team they have never seen live, based in a city that they wouldn't know from a hole in the ground.
It is truly a miracle.
If you are small-minded enough, you might suggest that if you are from Calcutta you
should support Calcutta Gaels, or if you are from Bohola you should support Bohola Leverkusen But these are merely
the ties that bind. When you support Man U you can float above all these earthbound considerations. You are free.
They can call you a gloryhunter, a bandwagoneer, a supporter as synthetic as the jersey you are wearing. But you know better. You have suffered for the cause. You have agonised through the good times, you have endured the great times.
And you have paid the price. Your new shirt with the special Champions League Final "embroidery" cost you over 60 quid.
And you have followed them all over the world, from the Nou Camp in '99 to Moscow last week to Old Trafford hundreds of times. Of course, you never had to leave your bar stool in all that time but you were there with them all the way -- a Man United man.
the.couch@hotmail.com
Home are the heroes, back from the eastern front, exhausted by their epic march and last stand at the gates of Moscow
But they have survived and they have returned in triumph. And boy, are they shouting it from the rooftops. There is only one Red Army, and they have the replica jerseys to prove it.
The other Red Army, the one that stood firm at Stalingrad in the winter of '42, the one that lived through famine and slaughter and the terror of the Third Reich did less talking about it than the hordes of United supporters who celebrated their victory on Wednesday night as though Europe itself had been liberated.
As Churchill didn't say, never in the field of human endeavour was so little done by so many who bragged so much.
In what is undoubtedly the largest case of arrested development in the history of humanity, grown men the world over went out in their AIG jerseys on Wednesday night, and Thursday and Friday too, and proclaimed their undying loyalty to the Manchester United master race. And you thought the cult of Scientology was bad?
But let's be fair here: it's not every man who has the courage to nail his colours to the mast. It's not every man who will risk the heartbreak and trauma, the shattered hopes and dreams that will inevitably come your way when you enlist in the richest football club in the world.
Ask yourself this question, all you cynics out there: would you be prepared to risk everything by signing up to a club that has won a mere 20 major trophies in the last 18 years?
These stats would suggest that if you join the Church of Manchester United you have a chance of enjoying at least one big triumph every year. But there are no guarantees in life and one can only admire the reckless disregard for their own safety with which United's disciples hurl themselves at the barricades every season. Verily, the boys who went over the top at the Somme could have learned a lesson or two in valour from the men who walk the world with Sir Alex as their leader.
These Man United men are martyrs. Known in shorthand as Mannies, their enemies have tried to smear them by calling them Moonies. But they are above the petty envies and provocations of the non-believers, the infidels who will do them down. They have read their Kipling. They have met with triumph and disaster and made their minds up: yes, disaster is an impostor. But triumph?
Like Gordon Gekko in Wall Street they have decided that winning is good. Winning is right. Winning works. Why bother with the agony and the ecstasy when you can have the ecstasy and the ecstasy?
And the great thing is, you have to do so little to feel this good. There are no initiation rituals, no secret handshakes, no trials by fire before they let you in. René Descartes said "I think, therefore I am". The bloke in the boozer says "I'm a Man United man so I am." And, hey presto, he is so he is. It's that simple.
And with one leap our hero is free. He can walk into said boozer feeling a foot taller just because he has the famous red jersey on him. He can slag all the lads who didn't have the level of self-sacrifice it takes to be a Man United man. He mightn't have achieved a lot in life. Indeed, he mightn't have a pot to piss in, he mightn't even work to keep himself warm, but the vicarious glow of Man United does wonders for the old self-esteem.
And of course, he doesn't even have to be from Manchester to be a Manchester United fan. In fact, he runs the risk of not being a United fan if he is from Manchester. Better by far to be from Calcutta or Shanghai or Bohola. And better still, he doesn't even have to have ever seen a United player in the flesh, not even once in his life.
Muslims are supposed to tip off to Mecca once in their lifetimes, Jews will want to visit the Holy Land, Catholics try to check out the Vatican at some stage, but the world's Man United faithful have somehow found a way to worship a team they have never seen live, based in a city that they wouldn't know from a hole in the ground.
It is truly a miracle.
If you are small-minded enough, you might suggest that if you are from Calcutta you
should support Calcutta Gaels, or if you are from Bohola you should support Bohola Leverkusen But these are merely
the ties that bind. When you support Man U you can float above all these earthbound considerations. You are free.
They can call you a gloryhunter, a bandwagoneer, a supporter as synthetic as the jersey you are wearing. But you know better. You have suffered for the cause. You have agonised through the good times, you have endured the great times.
And you have paid the price. Your new shirt with the special Champions League Final "embroidery" cost you over 60 quid.
And you have followed them all over the world, from the Nou Camp in '99 to Moscow last week to Old Trafford hundreds of times. Of course, you never had to leave your bar stool in all that time but you were there with them all the way -- a Man United man.
the.couch@hotmail.com
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