Reprinted from Red News
The Oliver Holt column in the Mirror
'WHEN we got back to the Farmers' Arms in Wilmslow late on Saturda afternoon, the place was cock-a-hoop.
I didn't really know it was a City pub but we'd been sitting down for a couple of minutes when a lad put his head round the door.
"Gary Neville is a blue, is a blue," he yelled at us happily, "Gary Neville is a blue, he hates Munichs." Then he lurched off towards the toilets.
On Sunday morning, City's self-appointed unofficial poet, Steve Marshall, sent me a text message that started with the line: "Derby Day, the scores were level, then the Goat was fed by Neville."
Newspapers as different as the Sunday People and The Guardian devoted their reports of the match to the exploits of Gary and his brother Phil. The People called them the Chuckle Brothers.
A disillusioned United fan observed rather tartly it was the most gruesome performance by two brothers since the Krays took their act on to the streets of the East End.
And by Monday, the sharpest street-hawkers were already selling "Gary Neville is a Blue" T-shirts outside Kendal's department store on Deansgate in Manchester city centre.
I don't blame any of them. Gary's mistake against the club that loves to hate him was funny, freakish football melodrama at its theatrical best.
His gift of a goal to Shaun Goater brought a deserved City victory a step nearer and ensured the elder Neville will forever have an unwanted place in Blue folklore. It was every City fan's wet dream.
Beyond the gallows humour of the situation, though, others tried to take the criticism a step further and identify the Neville brothers as a symptom of the malaise currently bringing United to its knees.
And you know what I thought when I read that and heard them bleating those opinions on the phone-ins?
That's how we shall know them. That's how we can identify the prawn sandwich merchants and the neophytes and the know-nothings who have colonised our game.
Because, believe me, even if they didn't exactly distinguish themselves at Maine Road, the Nevilles aren't the villains of this or any other Manchester United story. They're the heroes.
In fact, they're more than that. As the club heads South in the echelons of English football quicker than many of you may imagine, the Neville brothers represent United's last hope.
They embody a spirit that is fast dying out in our game for the depressingly simple reason that they love the club they play for.
Because they still care whether they win or lose. Because they feel ashamed when they let their side down.
If you want to know, Gary Neville went straight home after the game on Saturday afternoon and didn't leave his house until Monday morning.
He didn't read a newspaper. He didn't turn on his television set. He felt angry about the way he and the rest of the United team had played. When he did finally reach for the remote control, it was only to pore over a re-run of the horror that had been visited upon him at Maine Road so he might at least learn from it.
I'm not saying any of that necessarily makes him a good player. It doesn't. But it's a start. And it sets him apart from a raft of his team-mates.
As for Phil, well, he's used to being a scapegoat anyway, isn't he? Remember when his family got death threats after Euro 2000? Remember when his grandparents were abused in the street.
I went round to his house once on the outskirts of a mill town north of Manchester and he showed me where some morons had tried to set his gates on fire. They'd yelled foul abuse through his intercom.
And this is a lad who's played practically his entire career at Old Trafford out of position. Doing a job for the team wherever he's been asked to. And never, ever complaining about it.
Never planted a story in the press to suggest he might be unhappy. Never wanted to leave the club he loves.
A man who is one of the last remaining players in the Premiership happy to do more than just pay lip-service to sacrificing himself for the team. Never rocked the boat even when eminent rival managers like Kenny Dalglish made it known they would sign him like a shot.
A man devoid of ego. A man who keeps jumping up off the canvas.
He might wince when the brickbats fly his way, but while others take the limelight, Phil Neville chooses secret honour.
All of this means Gary and Phil Neville feel responsible for what is happening at Old Trafford in these difficult days when decline is at the team's shoulder.
And with that responsibility comes a desperate desire to put things right. Do you think Juan Sebastian Veron feels that desire? Or Laurent Blanc? Or Fabien Barthez? No, I thought not.
Those last three are helping to turn United into a team that resembles the Chelsea side of a few years back.
Who could get themselves up for a big game in the Champions League when they were playing against some of their old buddies from Serie A. But couldn't hack it when Darren Huckerby was running at them on a cold Saturday afternoon at Highfield Road.
This United team doesn't like its bread and butter any more. It chokes on it. And asks for another slice of cake.
So ask me whether I'd rather have Phil Neville or Laurent Blanc in my Manchester United team now when their backs are against the wall and I'd have Phil Neville 100 times out of 100. Ask me to choose between Gary Neville and Veron or Barthez and I'd choose Gary. One hundred times out of 100.
If you want to put someone in the stocks for Saturday don't go for the soft target. Don't be lazy. Think about it. Go for Barthez first. He should have saved all three of City's goals.
Go for Veron, too. For jumping out of the tackle that led to City's
clinching third goal and providing all his detractors with a neat symbol of why United should cut their losses and sell him at Christmas. If they can.
Go for Blanc, who managed to turn Rio Ferdinand into a nervous wreck ripped apart by Nicolas Anelka.
Go for Ruud van Nistelrooy, who dived his way to oblivion.
Go for Sir Alex Ferguson who has allowed his squad to become so depleted that United's bench on Saturday was noticeably weaker than City's.
Go for the United board who mishandled Ferguson's departure so catastrophically last season and are now labouring in limbo.
Go for any of them you want but while you're doing it pray you don't lose the Neville brothers in the conflagration that's coming.
Because the day that happens, a club that has already lost its supremacy will lose what's left of its soul as well.'
The Oliver Holt column in the Mirror
'WHEN we got back to the Farmers' Arms in Wilmslow late on Saturda afternoon, the place was cock-a-hoop.
I didn't really know it was a City pub but we'd been sitting down for a couple of minutes when a lad put his head round the door.
"Gary Neville is a blue, is a blue," he yelled at us happily, "Gary Neville is a blue, he hates Munichs." Then he lurched off towards the toilets.
On Sunday morning, City's self-appointed unofficial poet, Steve Marshall, sent me a text message that started with the line: "Derby Day, the scores were level, then the Goat was fed by Neville."
Newspapers as different as the Sunday People and The Guardian devoted their reports of the match to the exploits of Gary and his brother Phil. The People called them the Chuckle Brothers.
A disillusioned United fan observed rather tartly it was the most gruesome performance by two brothers since the Krays took their act on to the streets of the East End.
And by Monday, the sharpest street-hawkers were already selling "Gary Neville is a Blue" T-shirts outside Kendal's department store on Deansgate in Manchester city centre.
I don't blame any of them. Gary's mistake against the club that loves to hate him was funny, freakish football melodrama at its theatrical best.
His gift of a goal to Shaun Goater brought a deserved City victory a step nearer and ensured the elder Neville will forever have an unwanted place in Blue folklore. It was every City fan's wet dream.
Beyond the gallows humour of the situation, though, others tried to take the criticism a step further and identify the Neville brothers as a symptom of the malaise currently bringing United to its knees.
And you know what I thought when I read that and heard them bleating those opinions on the phone-ins?
That's how we shall know them. That's how we can identify the prawn sandwich merchants and the neophytes and the know-nothings who have colonised our game.
Because, believe me, even if they didn't exactly distinguish themselves at Maine Road, the Nevilles aren't the villains of this or any other Manchester United story. They're the heroes.
In fact, they're more than that. As the club heads South in the echelons of English football quicker than many of you may imagine, the Neville brothers represent United's last hope.
They embody a spirit that is fast dying out in our game for the depressingly simple reason that they love the club they play for.
Because they still care whether they win or lose. Because they feel ashamed when they let their side down.
If you want to know, Gary Neville went straight home after the game on Saturday afternoon and didn't leave his house until Monday morning.
He didn't read a newspaper. He didn't turn on his television set. He felt angry about the way he and the rest of the United team had played. When he did finally reach for the remote control, it was only to pore over a re-run of the horror that had been visited upon him at Maine Road so he might at least learn from it.
I'm not saying any of that necessarily makes him a good player. It doesn't. But it's a start. And it sets him apart from a raft of his team-mates.
As for Phil, well, he's used to being a scapegoat anyway, isn't he? Remember when his family got death threats after Euro 2000? Remember when his grandparents were abused in the street.
I went round to his house once on the outskirts of a mill town north of Manchester and he showed me where some morons had tried to set his gates on fire. They'd yelled foul abuse through his intercom.
And this is a lad who's played practically his entire career at Old Trafford out of position. Doing a job for the team wherever he's been asked to. And never, ever complaining about it.
Never planted a story in the press to suggest he might be unhappy. Never wanted to leave the club he loves.
A man who is one of the last remaining players in the Premiership happy to do more than just pay lip-service to sacrificing himself for the team. Never rocked the boat even when eminent rival managers like Kenny Dalglish made it known they would sign him like a shot.
A man devoid of ego. A man who keeps jumping up off the canvas.
He might wince when the brickbats fly his way, but while others take the limelight, Phil Neville chooses secret honour.
All of this means Gary and Phil Neville feel responsible for what is happening at Old Trafford in these difficult days when decline is at the team's shoulder.
And with that responsibility comes a desperate desire to put things right. Do you think Juan Sebastian Veron feels that desire? Or Laurent Blanc? Or Fabien Barthez? No, I thought not.
Those last three are helping to turn United into a team that resembles the Chelsea side of a few years back.
Who could get themselves up for a big game in the Champions League when they were playing against some of their old buddies from Serie A. But couldn't hack it when Darren Huckerby was running at them on a cold Saturday afternoon at Highfield Road.
This United team doesn't like its bread and butter any more. It chokes on it. And asks for another slice of cake.
So ask me whether I'd rather have Phil Neville or Laurent Blanc in my Manchester United team now when their backs are against the wall and I'd have Phil Neville 100 times out of 100. Ask me to choose between Gary Neville and Veron or Barthez and I'd choose Gary. One hundred times out of 100.
If you want to put someone in the stocks for Saturday don't go for the soft target. Don't be lazy. Think about it. Go for Barthez first. He should have saved all three of City's goals.
Go for Veron, too. For jumping out of the tackle that led to City's
clinching third goal and providing all his detractors with a neat symbol of why United should cut their losses and sell him at Christmas. If they can.
Go for Blanc, who managed to turn Rio Ferdinand into a nervous wreck ripped apart by Nicolas Anelka.
Go for Ruud van Nistelrooy, who dived his way to oblivion.
Go for Sir Alex Ferguson who has allowed his squad to become so depleted that United's bench on Saturday was noticeably weaker than City's.
Go for the United board who mishandled Ferguson's departure so catastrophically last season and are now labouring in limbo.
Go for any of them you want but while you're doing it pray you don't lose the Neville brothers in the conflagration that's coming.
Because the day that happens, a club that has already lost its supremacy will lose what's left of its soul as well.'