As you all know, it's much harder being a fan of Manchester United than it is a fan of whichever tinpot team you support from whichever backwards shithole you're from. Not only have we officially lost local bragging rights to our city rivals, who are managed by the handsome, baldy, Osti-clad Greatest Manager Ever*, but our perma-grumpy manager keeps flirting with PSG while still living in the Lowry hotel, like a weirder, more petty Alan Partridge. Last night, while watching us plod to a routine victory over one of those irrelevant South Coast teams whose players you can't recognise, except for Jermaine Defoe, I started feeling very miserable indeed. Was it the football? The weird, scapegoating of Romelu Lukaku, who, it seems, is being singled out because the fans are furious they can no longer sing about his penis? Or was it because I hadn't waxed my Fjallraven anorak, meaning the sleet had soaked me to my freezing bones? Who knows. All I knew is that I needed cheering up. So here is my list of OFFICAL CHEERING UP PARTNERS of MANCHESTER UNITED FC tm.
1. "Big" Duncan Castles. Arguably Jose Mourinho's most important signing. A press-based dog of war, chewing up and spitting out his rivals on Twitter and in hard-hitting columns in local papers in India, Hong Kong and South Africa. He's like Paddy Crerand with an extra pair of red-tinted specs on.
2. The United Pie. Chilli, cheese and steak. It's meant to represent the red, white and black of United, but that doesn't really work as cheese isn't really white, is it? Regardless, it's dead dead good.
3. The girl who works the door of the Bishops Blaize. The BB is the Wetherspoons near Old Trafford. It is fucking terrible. Full of idiots in replica shirts, standing on tables singing WE'RE MAN UNITED WE DO WHAT WE WANT before meekly acquiescing to the requests of the door staff to get off the fucking table. They serve cans of warm Stella, warm Guinness, and warm Strongbow for £2.50 and if you're doubly unlucky, Pete fucking Boyle will serenade you with a chorus of one of his latest shite songs. However, I had to pop in last night to meet a lad who was going to his first ever match, and the girl who works the door is a regular in my pub, meaning at least I didn't have to suffer the indignity of having to queue to get in the fucking place.
4. Juan Mata. He's just fucking gorgeous, isn't he? All silky touches, clever movement and endearing blog posts. Going to be gutted when he leaves this summer. His old man owns Tapeo on Deansgate, which serves the best mineral water I've ever had in my life. Serious. It's silky smooth. Like drinking wet velvet. And despite my previous hardline stance on Tapas I'm now a devotee. Best in town, lads and lasses? Well for me, Geoff, it's Evuna on Thomas Street or El Gato Negro on King Street.
5. Marcos Rojo. We're all in agreement that violence is bad, hmmm? That fighting is something we definitely don't want to see. A return to football's dark days when post-match buffets would be hurled in tunnels and dressing room doors would be kicked down by angry defenders looking to partake in a bout of fisticuffs and/or handbags. BUT! But but but, people! If it were to happen, and the charge was led by a mad as fuck Argentinian (HE HAS TATTOOS ON HIS KNEES! WHO EVEN HAS TATTOOS ON THEIR KNEES?), with his shirt off, well, you'd love it wouldn't you? Make him fucking captain, imho. My mate was late for work because he missed telling his colleague the turning they needed to take as he was looking at Rojo Argentina shirts on eBay instead of at Google Maps. Justified.
Please add your reasons to be cheerful. Or don't. I'm not arsed either way tbh.
*He's not
Pete fucking Boyle stole my 'Duff Will Tear You Apart' from Ewood Park 2001/2 and made it even worse. Plagiarist
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