WHY I'M GLAD I'M NOT A RED

Clutching their precious eight packs of Stella Artois, the belching Stone Island clad overweight monstrosities lurch around the corner of Chester Road and Sir Matt Busby Way. They stuff themselves with congealed gristle posing as burgers, with chips of no more nutritious content than the polystyrene tray they sit in. A clutch of agitated youths pass around a Lambert and Butler cigarette, watching and waiting, on the periphery of the mob, currently numbering three hundred who after guzzling cheap lager since 11am are now entertaining the masses by torching an Argentina shirt. Cheers go up as anonymous heroes in the eye of the storm hurl bottles towards the traffic on Chester Road, the whooping almost drowning out the consequent shattering of glass across the bonnet of a passing Range Rover.

Stood on a wall just above this mass of writhing, spitting lizards is a scrawny, spotty, angry man, no more than 20, frantically waving a cardboard cut out red shirt crudely daubed with "TRAITOR 32" on the back in Tippex. A Blue Peter badge surely looms for this talented artist. The irony of how Tevez came to be at Old Trafford today in a blue jersey would be forever lost on this sorry figure.

Welcome to Old Trafford, everyone.

It's difficult for me to compile anything but a heavily subjective piece on this utterly unloveable club and its fans. After twenty five years watching football, my caustic views on United are scarcely likely to change any time soon. That, however, isn't a good enough reason to keep them to myself. Stray reds who have made it this far will already be putting their crayons down to tap out "34 YEARS" and other sleights of wit, no doubt other slurs on the sanity of Mark Hughes, City, their fans in general and the quality of the team.

Whatever they say, and they can even throw in their 18 leagues, 3 European Cups and so on, I couldn't spare the merest shred of love for Manchester United if my life depended on it. Some days I get out of bed an hour earlier just to detest them a little longer. And if United were playing an alien XI with the future of planet Earth depending on a reds victory, I'd still be in the away wearing a green scarf cheering for the martians.

The question is, do we really hate them, or do we pity them? Taking a saunter down Matt Busby Way, your gaze is met by the vacant eyes of tragic lost souls who have had their brains slowly sucked away through a red and white Nike straw. The one dimensionality embraces all age groups, genders and classes. The Doc's Red Army veterans still dreaming of clashes with the ICF in the 1970's, now approaching retirement age yet compelled to gather with purpose on street corners with their cans of Carling, dressed in their grandson's Lacoste and Rockport cast-offs. The head to toe Nike and AIG human billboards. The angry young men and women who actually invest considerable sums to have their red shirts printed with "18 TIMES AND THAT'S A FACT!" on the back.

Where do these people come from? It's staring me in the face - these basket cases actually DO exist.

These people can't choose their level of intellect or appearance in most cases. But they can choose their football club. So what kind of fayre do these unfortunates choose to entertain themselves with?

Sunday gave us the opportunity to examine the phenomenon at close quarters.

Let's assess the difference between United and City. United have won over twenty major trophies since the beginning of the Premier League, in the most successful spell in their history. Built on solid foundations of continuity with both management and playing personnel, as well as substantial funds when necessary, their rise to to the top has been a swift and prolonged one. This has resulted in the swelling of their support from gates well under 30,000 twenty years ago to 75,000+ today. City on the other hand, have lurched from crisis to disaster under a string of failed managerial appointments, instability at boardroom level and ineptitude on the field in that time.

Until now. The average tattooed knuckled red is still crowing at the events of Sunday. But find me a United fan of reasonable intellect (a tricky assignment, I know) and ask them are they genuinely happy with their teams performance at weekend? Alex Ferguson, who would have nimbly dodged the post match TV interview had Owen not scored, claims it could have been six or seven "zero". Pardon, Alex?


Aside of the two gifts (thanks Ben, thanks Rio) presented, did he miss Bellamy's first goal and the near misses by Wright Phillips and Tevez? Or is that just the kind of media that the non-thinking United fan demands and thrives on, and which the likes of Ferguson are only too happy to feed them on an intravenous drip?

We'll say no more about Owen's goal - whether the whistle should have gone before or not, City should have marked up, or better still, been at the other end to try and bag a winner themselves. United will claim the bragging rights and history reads that City lost but this was a warning shot across the United bow. Take away that injury time goal and United will look back on a very hollow error-strewn performance against a side missing Robinho and Adebayor, which would be heavily punished against the established sides, both at home and in Europe.

City, still a work in progress, will continue the upward spiral. The whiff of progress hangs in the air around the blues like the scent of a freshly mown lawn. It's the aroma of something far less savoury that pollutes the atmosphere at Old Trafford. Meanwhile, as we leave Planet Glazer behind once more, you realise why you'd just never be a Red. Picking our way through the ankle deep chip wrapper and trampled beer cans back to civilisation, you leave behind the tragic fashion victims as they lurch back to their supporters club coaches, struggling along with their Megastore bags brim full of overpriced tat. They head back home to provincial towns around the country, many of which have perfectly good football league clubs crying out for a little more local support. It sickens me that so many of these people are unable to resist their urge to attach themselves limpet-like to United and let their local club struggle.

However great their team may be, however all conquering and rich, United can't buy your affection or mine. Love of a good football club can't be bought at any price - and my soul isn't up for sale like the 73,000 rather sorry individuals who've committed themselves to worshipping at this unholy altar.

46,000 like minded fans supporting a club that's won nothing in over a generation, with such illustrious neighbours on the other side of the fence, can't all be wrong.



This article was written by Davejp1973 and was originally posted on BBC 6-0-6. It was removed without explanation in accordance with the BBC's policy of stifling independant opinion.