It seems absolutely remarkable to me that last week I wrote on this very blog that personalising criticism of those who work in the football industry was wrong and unnecessary. And yet I sit here now, post the quite frankly putrid, passionless, clueless, straight-up surrender to a Liverpool side who may now go on to win the title, feeling something approaching pure hatred for the man who has f*****g single-handedly destroyed my football club.
He is the amiable dipsh*t bloke your sister has been dating for months who, because he’s thick as pig-t*rd, is hurting her more and more deeply through his thoughtlessness by the day. He can’t see what he’s doing or acknowledge that it’s a problem that can only be rectified by changing or accepting that it might be best for them to part ways. At first you watch and counsel your sister, hoping he’ll change. Then you take him out for a pint and have a polite word. Then, after months of your own flesh and blood crying on your shoulder, there comes a time when polite patience turns to anger and venom. He’s not a bad person, not someone you’d loathe as a human being, but for what he’s doing to someone you love, you begin to despise him. Using this analogy, I currently have said boyfriend pinned up against a wall by his throat, making it clear that if he doesn’t f**k off and leave my sister alone I’m going to do him some serious harm. Simultaneously you feel utter bewilderment that your sister doesn’t end the affair herself. Why are you staying with this man who is making you truly and utterly miserable, unpicking your mental stitches one by one? You’ll have to excuse me if I ramble, because I’m working this through as I write, but I think I now hate Moyes for what his gross professional negligence is doing to a football club that I dearly adore, nearly, I think, almost as much as I love my own sister. Is that personalisation? F**ked if I know. I hate his stubbornness, his inaction, his despairing, “oh dear, the players have let me down again, face”. I’m sick of the f*cking sight of him. Nice, honest, hard-working fool that he is. Do the decent thing, hand in your resignation letter and leave the country. If you’re struggling with the wording you’ll find several million volunteers to lend a hand.
Moyes has haplessly removed every ounce of competence, flair and joy from my football team and, as a result, sucked the pleasure from my own experience not only of watching United, but Premier League football as a whole. A big part of my enjoyment of life has been wiped away in a matter of months. For the first time in my 38 years I gave serious thought to just sacking the
Liverpool match off and going out and spending some time in the sun with my kids. I’ve genuinely never elected or instinctively wanted, on a free day when United are playing, to do something else other than watch my team. I wish I had, but like a melon I rushed us all back from a family morning out to catch it. Going back to the sister/boyfriend analogy, why keep putting yourself through something that makes you so unhappy? Of course, it’s not as simple as breaking up with a partner, because it’s a relationship I and all of you will always have to be one party in. It’s been, largely, an absolute joy. But right now, I instinctively feel like we need to devote some time to doing other things. And before you get all “fair weather fan”, my love for the club has and will never change and, sure as eggs are eggs, I’ll probably be sat watching our next match like a dumbass, regardless. I hate Moyes for making me even think that I shouldn’t watch and I hate him for deconstructing my relationship with football. I’m just sick of the f*cking sight of his team, perfectly constructed in his incompetent image.
It’s a team filled with very talented footballers who have all, as if by magic, regressed to absolute sh*te. A team with flair players constricted by rigid, unimaginative tactics designed to stop opponents playing rather than to create and score ourselves, bar through set pieces and percentages football. I don’t hate
David Moyes, the football manager, because my team aren’t as good as they used to be. Very few expected or demanded that anyway. I hate him because he’s betrayed the spirit and footballing values of Manchester United that date back sixty years: adventure, fight, positivity, guts. If the manager were in charge of Allied Forces in World War Two, he’d have 500,000 freezing, starving, lice-ridden, demoralised men huddling in huts on the cliffs of Dover, firing random pot shots across the channel while the Luftwaffe bombed the living sh*te out of them and a German invasion force streamed up the beaches. “Stay in formation lads. They can’t hurt us if we remain in our evenly distributed wooden huts, shooting at seagulls.” Then, after a small band of Jerry broke through his lines he’d stand and watch, eyes wide, slack-jawed, then slump to the floor, catatonic. “Sir, what do we do? Sir, f*cking say something. Corporal Round?” “Don’t ask me son. I just lay out the bayonets.”
Moyes has taken a club where a legendary manager created incredibly high standards over a quarter of a century and consciously lowered expectations to the level of the club he left. He pays lip service to the idea of better things to come, but his demeanour and choice of language betrays him. He uses “try” where Fergie would have used “will” and describes lost matches in a manner that suggests we weren’t as bad as we all saw we were. And then, as a nod to a better future, he invariably talks about “picking ourselves up”, “working hard” and “going again”. But it’s hollow, words so transparent that you can see that not even Moyes himself believes them.
Of the now forlorn and quite frankly f*cking embarrassing chase for a Europa League spot (who’d have contemplated that in July?) he said, “We’ll fight to the end and wait and see how we get on. It will be tough, but we’ll see what we can do.” Moyes in a nutshell. He’s ventured out onto the cliff tops as the German troops overrun his tactically retarded defensive huts, hands in the air, waving a roll of sh*tstained bog roll as a makeshift white flag. The worst part is the use of the word “fight”. If there’s one thing neither Moyes nor HIS team have an ounce of, it’s fight. The gutless squad of a gutless football manager. Cowards, the lot of them. He’s given up on them and they, long ago, gave up on him. And that is what hurts the most, because conceded goals and lost games, Sunday aside, barely register now. There’s nothing to play for from here anyway and it’s all so regular that we’re almost totally desensitised to it. What hurts is the total capitulation, week after week, a betrayal of a great football club with great fans, who sang to the very end in a manner that no other support could muster. They sang because, whilst the team in their hearts is dying, the club will never die. It was a show of defiance in desperate times. Support not for a manager whose cringe-worthy “Chosen One” banner must surely now come down along with his ravaged, rancid empire, nor for the owners who have sucked the club dry and continue to allow this farce to play out unabated, but for Manchester United the institution, the one thing not even this manager can f*ck up. And it was a display that demonstrated that the fans are holding the spirit of the club on trust until such a time as a manager and his team see fit to take some of it back. But that won’t be
David Moyes. We all know that now. He’s carelessly lost it once and should never be entrusted with it again.
I don’t hate you as a man, David, but I hate what you’ve done, what you are doing and what you will go on to do if inexplicably allowed to. And for that I want you gone, from my club and from my consciousness. I never thought I’d use these words, but kindly f*ck off David Moyes, and take your pointless, slack-faced, equally incompetent minions with you. If not for me, then do it for
Gary Neville, whose legendary status is being sorely tested by his total inability to be objective about your nine-month farce. If Red Nev falls, then all is truly lost. Or do it for my sister or something. I’m so confused.