Another from the old Xanga days. It’s funny to read this actually to see that i once liked Tevez. That was before he tried to be bigger than our team. You can try to go against Fergie if you’re stupid enough Carlito, but don’t think for one second the fans will follow you down that road.

After watching my side struggle again today i remembered i haven’t told the tale of my visit to Old Trafford last weekend…the most surreal weekend i’ve had in my life.

I also must apologise to my future wife as i have probably already had the best day in my life.

So my day started off on the Friday, a half day at work to get out for an afternoon flight. Originally the game was on Saturday but the powers that be obviously decided they could make more money off us on the Sunday. So we had a few days to kill in sunny Wigan.

So out at the airport a little earlier than necessary i retire to the bar for a bit of pre-flight courage. You’d think i’d be used to flying by now.

Irish Girl at bar (loud enough so that the whole restaurant/bar stops their conversations and turns around to look): Ha! I can speak German…. Spaghetti Bolognaise….

Time to take a dip in the gene pool i think, you seem to be a little low…

Walking through security i had my headphones on and took them out to try to hear what the German Airport security chick was saying to the little child she was accosting.

Airport chick: Deutsch oder English?
Scared child’s father: ah English Definitely. (Some sort of Scandinavian…German was probably not yet amongst the 18 fucking languages that kid will know shortly)
Airport Chick: Are you a boy or a girl?

Now i know German’s are a bit direct at times but little Sven from Scandinavia probably didn’t appreciate that..

Now as i said i have flown a lot in recent years, and i’m now at the point where i’m not too nervous, except for when things happen that seem out of the ordinary. So i’m on my way back from the toilet onboard when there is this horrible thumping noise underneath our feet. Not good. Two big Manc lads behind be seem a bit perturbed also.

Mancs: Was that normal?
Steward Guy: Ahh i’ll just check with the captain – and goes back and makes a phonecall.
Steward on return: Yep everything’s ok. The captain will make an announcement shortly. So was that a tomato juice you wanted?
Mancs: ahh yep thanks.
Steward: Ice and Lemon?
Manc: Oh you’re spoling me now…
Steward: Could be your last…

…Fuck me!

So we made it to Manchester, very bumpily, and already i found myself using a lot more words than necessary when talking with people…just cause i could. My German is not what you would call conversational, rather functional.

Passing Bolton on the train i decide that is about as close as i want to go to it. I had not seen so many freaks since my jaunt through Swindon.

Jumping in a cab in Wigan, the lady at the hotel had told me it would be about £3. Of course i had left my printouts on my desk at work so was merely guessing the name of the pub – which to a cabbie is like bending over and telling him not to bother spitting…

Cabbie: So you up for the football then?
Me: ahh yep.
Cabbie: Tottenham fan are you?
Me: ahhh no.
Cabbie: Wigan fan then?
me: ahhh no.
Cabbie: ?
me (still having not got over my lessons from the past when declaring your football side in the UK): ahh United?
Cabbie: Cool so am i! Let’s just make it £7 then.

Mates rates is that? Cunt!

So i walk into the luxurious Wetherspoons lodge. Two big lads in front of me tell me to go grab a magazine off the desk when he’s not looking cause of a half price room voucher in there. Grand! Beers for you two!

Check-in guy: You up for the football then?
Me: ahh yep.
Check-in guy: Heskey is looking pretty dangerous at the moment.
Me: is he behind me? …..oooh he thinks i’m a Tottenham fan as well. Now i know my accent is pretty fucked up but i’ve never ever been confused with a North Londoner…no tip for you my good man.

So i make my way to the bar for a pint to wait for the others. Run into the two large lads and get in a round with them. Nice blokes but the sort who will interrupt their own conversation to unsubtly gawk at some passing ‘talent’. And my word, Wiagn seemed to have it’s fair share. I was later to see the most stunning girl i have ever seen in person…she knocked Kryptonite off top spot i think.

So my mate arrives and introduces me to all his mates. I am awful with introductions so play heavily on an Australian’s ability to use mate instead of real names for everybody. The drinks are flowing and i’m introduced to another person where above the background hum all i managed to here was “this is something something something father something something something”. So i figure it to be my mates dad, though i couldnt pick why he had an American accent.

Drinks continue, i mean £2.99 Magners, are you shitting me? I’m effing and blinding my way through conversations with all these people i’ve only just met…I’m Australian, it’s allowed. Turns out the aforementioned ‘father’ was actually a father..as in a priest. Christ, i’ve got to try to curtail my language in front of him. Prolly shouldn’t blaspheme whilst making a mental note either.

Random girl: I like coldplay
Me: Coldplay? Are you shitting me? To be honest i don’t think i’ve liked anything coming out of the UK in at least the last ten years. Wait, is Muse from the UK?
Random girl: My God I can’t believe you like Muse.
Me: Coldplay? Are you shitting me? I don’t think you can weigh into this bout…

So i retire to my room to watch the rest of some old movie i remember from when i was a kid starring Bette Midler, Danny DeVito and Judge Reinhold when Bette Midler gets kidnapped and Danny DeVito won’t pay the ransom. Seriously, what ever happened to Judge Reinhold? Make a mental note to write a punk song with Phil about Judge Reinhold, and ensure it goes for 1 minute and 47 seconds. What kind of a name is Judge? Are his brothers and sisters called President, Astronaut and Rockstar?

Go to sleep musing over this and trying to remember not to make jokes with religious conotations or swear in front of the priest.

Wake up and go to breakfast.

Lad: How you feeling today Matt?
me: Dry as a fucking nun’s nasty…

…shit….

So Saturday we spent the day visiting people and blessing things. Sadly never ran in to the new Kryptonite again…though currently i need about 3-6 weeks before i talk to someone so it would probably never have worked ;) The two heavy set guys tell me they have fallen in love 17 times tonight. Forgetting to eat dinner was not the best idea i’ve ever had so subsequently never remembered walking upstairs to my room, nor taking three quarters of a pint of cider with me to keep next to my bed.

This is my only photo of the night. I reckon it is a fair shout that with two and a half pints of cider in front of me i probably didn’t need the neat whiskey as well…Quadruple parking!

Sunday – Game day.

Wake up in an absolutely awful state. Miss check out time. Reception guy wishes me luck for the Tottenham match. Gone too far now, going to have to keep up this charade. Meet the others in the pub, they have started on the pints. It’s half 10. Fuck. Yesterday was a bad idea. So we hire an 8 seater van to take us all to Manchester early. At this point we still are short two tickets as the group has expanded. These two tickets are mine and my mates but i’m told not to worry. It was being taken care of. We find a pub to watch the Wigan Tottenham match. Dire. I’m glad i don’t actually have to support that team. With thirty minutes to go we head back towards the ground. We stop to buy some cans at an offlicence. 6 Lagers, 1 cider and Father was abstaining. So we head down the famed Sir Matt Busby Way and i can see the ground and it’s all sinking in…i’m back home. All of a sudden we’re whisked into a doorway and heading up some stairs – “Shut the door!”. I shut the door wondering what is going on. It is then whispered back down to me that we are in the office of the head of the Red Army – the Man United Hooligans. This fella had been banned from football for 5 years. One minute i’m drinking with a priest and the next with a skinhead rioter. What the hell is going on. So ‘business’ was taken care of, and we were soon on our way to the ground again, the troupe now down to three.

Then the call came and we had tickets. We just had to go and meet some guy. Walking past the Chelski dressing rooms to the tune of:

Viva John Terry! Viva John Terry!
Could have won the cup, but he fucked it up!
Viva John Terry!

So we’re told to wait while the lad goes and meets the guy for our tickets. He swiftly returns and gives us our tickets in an under the table fashion had we been seated at a table. “You might want to hold on to those tickets after the match…” Glancing down at the tickets to see they are in the name of one R.Ferdinand…we’re sitting in Fucking Rio Ferdninands seats!!

Rio’s seats! The lads to my right never spoke a word of English…i would take a stab at Serbian..it’s wuite possible these were the seats of our back four…

What on earth is going on today?? Could this day get any better?

Could it what!

3 fucking nil! And a demoralised Chelski squad making us look a lot better than we actually were. Evergreen Giggsy turning back the clock for a vintage display. Vidic making coffin nails look weak, and Didhefallover Drogba look somewhat pathetic. Rooney covering more ground and more positions than i have ever seen anyone do in my life. Kissing the emblem on the flag, one to remember. But the hairs on the back of the neck truly stood up, along with the other 79,000 people when Tevez came out to warm up, soluting the crowd’s reaction with his hand on his heart. The talk around was that their hasn’t been a reception like that for somoene warming up since Cantona. I hope Fergie was listening!

Are you watching Merseyside? I’m sure they can wheel a plastic tele into the psych ward where they keep Rafa.