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ManUtd 4-1 Westham: A Tale of Two Todgers

May 31, 2008

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Paul James

What is it about Australians? I was astonished went I first went there with all my prejudiced baggage to discover what a civilised and decent place it is and how good natured and polite they are to travellers and what good blokes the ones you get to know are. Love the place; can’t stop going back. So how do they select the footballers they send over here? There’s Bosnich and Cahill and Kewell and there’s Lucas Neill, and these are just for starters. Are we being used as a criminal colony?

Neill on Saturday might have added to the entertainment value of a pointless end of season fixture for West Ham but he was less than amusing in the context of our situation.

Saturday was the fifteenth anniversary of the day in 1993 when we played Blackburn and celebrated our first championship in 26 years. It was a pleasant enough Spring day and a big day of football issues up and down the country. The motorway was clogged with Bank Holiday travellers and football fans; Bournemouth fans on their way to Carlisle (that’s some long trip to watch your side relegated), Derby fans in superb fancy dress when we stopped for breakfast at Sandbach.

My mood of cautious optimism for United’s fate seemed shared at the start; the Old Trafford crowd, while nothing like as vociferous and inspiring as on Tuesday, was in decent voice. There were actually 76,014 of us by the end; the official announcement, one less, was wrong because our Tom turned up with about twenty minutes left.

Ferguson had picked the same side that got us to Moscow, Rooney and Vidic still injured. The first half, however, did not go half as smoothly as the post-match commentaries would have you believe. West Ham did not lie down at all. For thirty five minutes United did what needed to be done and attacked.

The rearranged West Ham defence could not take the strain and when Wes Brown’s long pass was touched on by Nani’s head and found Ronaldo on the right wing, Ronnie took it cleanly, left Neill on his backside, cut inside and let fly with a drive inside the near post which took a slight deflection off McCartney as the defender backed off. It was 3 minutes, 1-0 and we thought we could all breathe easily.
If only. Far from settling everybody down, the goal seemed to increase the nerves. West Ham’s fatal weakness was their defence but their midfield began to keep the ball and move it around and our defence looked incapable of dealing with Ashton and Zamora. Neither Brown nor Rio Ferdinand looked in total command of anything in the air and Edwin Van der Sar was having one of his flapping days.

Patrice Evra had to clear a Zamora header off the line, then Zamora got between the two centre backs and failed to realise his opportunity. Brown handled in the area, hand high above his head, but we got lucky. Referee Mike Riley ruled he had been shoved by Zamora; I certainly didn’t see it, not even on the television replay.

The solution was for United to attack; every time we did we looked dangerous. Tevez beat goalkeeper Green only to see Tomkins clear, then a period of sustained possession led to Hargreaves putting in a decent cross from the right. It sailed over the entire defence to Ronaldo, standing alone at the far post, and he nudged it in with his todger, or something very close to it; 23 minutes 2-0.

There was insufficient time to gauge the relief this afforded. Tevez got the ball in almost exactly the same spot as had Paul Scholes on Tuesday, only with defenders in close attendance, and let fly from the same place, twenty yards out. Tevez’ shot was every bit the screamer that Scholes’ had been and went in under the bar in the centre of goal; 25 minutes 3-0.

Then, as the ball came in from the left, Wes Brown headed it straight up in the air. Rio failed to get himself goalside of Ashton, Van der Sar stood and watched and as the ball fell to earth Ashton executed a perfect overhead kick; 27 minutes 3-1. Ashton got applause from the Stretford End as Tevez had from the West ham fans; it was not a mutual admiration society, just appreciation of two very good goals.

Ashton’s, though, got the jitters going again and Rio and Hargreaves between them had to head another effort off the line after a free kick. With ten minutes to go before half time, Nani was on his backside at the edge of their area when Neill, who was no part of the original challenge, leant down and gave him a little smack across the cheek and, as you do, a pinch on his todger.

Nani comes from a country where this is regarded as a sexual assault and gets up to face Neill. Neill stands with his arms out shrugging in Norman Hunter innocence and Nani gives him one of those pansy half-hearted Portuguese head butts. Neill falls to earth feigning near-death. Riley goes though the motions of consulting his linesman, presumably to ask how many red cards he should show.

Given that young lads don’t get red cards for being stupid I make it three; one for Neill, one for the butt and one for the most embarrassing moment witnessed on a football pitch when, a full two seconds after the butt, Nani clutched his face and collapsed. Riley gives Nani just the one red and Neill a yellow.

Nani walks off spraying himself with the contents of a water bottle and in a match which defines the season we are now down to ten men before half time. The team gets nervous, the crowd gets nervous, you can see West Ham players gesturing each other forward and we are in the ludicrous position of hanging shakily on to a 3-1 lead having just been about to hand out a thrashing. Some fans in the corner applaud Nani as he trudges down the tunnel to the touchline. I feel he could have put our entire season’s work in jeopardy.

My lack of charity turns out to be unnecessary. We survive until half time and whatever is said in the dressing room we come out in the second half looking like champions. Indeed, an early flurry apart, you would have no idea that is it we and not they who have ten men. We go forward at every opportunity, appear to have regained our senses in defence, and look like scoring again.

Carrick gets the ball, advances through the heart of the defence and, invited by the crowd, shoots from twenty yards. It ends up in the net courtesy of Neill, who is proving less adept at football than he is at penis massaging or acting; 58 minutes 4-1.

Now it is a romp in the sunshine again. Giggs and Fletcher come on for Scholes and Ronaldo. Ronnie looks a bit peeved at going off on his hattrick until he experiences the adulation. The Stretford End crowd are so relaxed that they are singing for players on the pitch to give them a wave and the players are so relaxed they oblige, one by one.

Ryan Giggs, who has looked off colour for a while, puts in a terrific performance as a substitute and delivers several great balls, one of which Fletcher drives against the foot of the post. “We’ve only got ten men” we all sing and the afternoon ends in a warm glow.

Nearly everybody stays behind after the whistle, the lads stay on the pitch and Fergie comes out for a few muted words and a walk-around lap of honour, appropriate for a team which has not won anything this year yet but just might be English and European Champions in three weeks’ time.

Our drive home is relaxed as we switch from the hypnotic tedium of the commentary on relegation matches and listen instead to Mozart, looking forward to our Saturday evening. The tension begins again on Monday when Chelsea beat Newcastle and we know that we are going to have to win at Wigan to claim the title. If we do it, we’ll be doing it without Nani. Que sera, sera.

Copyright © Paul James

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