The summer that was.

I have lived in important places, times
When great events were decided : who owned
That half a rood of rock, a no-man's land
Surrounded by our pitchfork-armed claims.

I heard the Duffys shouting "Damn your soul"
And old McCabe stripped to the waist, seen
Step the plot defying blue cast-steel -
"Here is the march along these iron stones."

That was the year of the Munich bother. Which
Was most important ? I inclined
To lose my faith in Ballyrush and Gortin
Till Homer's ghost came whispering to my mind.
He said : I made the Iliad from such
A local row. Gods make their own importance.

Epic by Patrick Kavanagh.

That was the year of the Iraq bother. Bar-stool history. Epic moments in time dispensed with faster than it takes a pint of Guinness to settle. The throw away remark did have the desired effect of transporting me back to age seventeen, shocked and awed at the rain-fire that fell on Bagdad all broadcast live through Sky and CNN. War was live.

Not that it was of any real significance to me, my priorities at the time were girls, Manchester United and minor football. In no particular order. The leaving cert was a speck in the distance. At season’s end. Try as they might, Derek Mahon, Heaney or Patrick Kavanagh couldn’t elbow their way in. Though Kavanagh seemed to sometimes stick.

As with any GAA summer, it began in winter. Squelching sneakers pounding their way round the hall as techno music blasted its encouragement. We would be fitter, faster and stronger than any other side. The problem is every other team adopts this mantra and it is the dreaded skill and mindset that decides silverware.

I was a severe latecomer to football. The other code dominated my upbringing to such an extent that little attention was given to any other. Watching your friends cover themselves in glory however is a powerful incentive and I decided I wanted a piece of the action.

Every summer that a person recalls fondly seems to be a glorious one with the weather. This was no different. I had a job on the building site, lugging twelve inch blocks in the blistering sun, grabbing a bite before training and generally feeling as invincible as the building trade.

The league was fun. We were fitter. We were stronger. We were faster than the rest. Our first game will remain a vivid memory. Twelve point wins are common place in any league in any county around the country but to be part of one was a novel experience for me. I remember picking a breaking ball in midfield and glimpsing my opposite number just behind me. The dull sounds of furious studs approached. I would be reeled in at any stage. But I kept travelling before popping it to the corner-forward for a score. I looked back at my pursuer who stood bent over, spluttering in the same pose any one of us could perfect of a Saturday night. This is what power feels like.

The league came and went in an orgy of points, goals and applause. Trundling in the van of a Monday morning, we would take some stopping come championship time. I should have taken up “the gaa” much sooner as exclusive football heads marvelled at my ability to scoop up a moving ball with a flick of my right foot. How else was I supposed to do it? Bend my back?

The weeks before the championship were indulgent and mostly innocent ones. Lucozade sport was consumed everyday because a rep told us it would make the difference. Nobody flinched at the €15 it took for a fat frog. The standard €50 night out doubled. Ours was the world and everything in it.

Round one. The twelve point side. What chance did they have? Routes are mapped to the final. A bus to the ground no less. New jackets. The whole town watching you. But I was about to discover the old maxim that the championship is a different game to the league.

We started well, full of running, invention and a couple of points. But the points were coming a little tougher this time. The shoulders were harder, the tackles lingered a moment more, walking that line between fair and foul. My own marker seemed to think foul was fair. They had the cheek to take the lead before half-time. Quizzical brows during the break morphed into raw fear as our power slipped. I receded into a shell. Gobbled up and spat out by the championship. The muffled groans of the embankment shook every sense. I don’t want the ball.

It was simple shock as the whistle shrilled to signal the loss. It is not supposed to go like this. What’s a backdoor?

A route out. Which we took. Two comfortable wins had us in a semi-final. Against Doneraile. The eternal foes. The same night as the debs. Our dinner would be missed. A coach was hired to take us up after; we brought the tuxedos with us. They hung on the locker key while studs rattled and numbers were handed out. Number eleven for me. Directly up against the centre-back.

I don’t know what in the zone feels like. Nor will I ever, I’d imagine it a sense of serenity during battle. An utter belief that everything you try will come off. That not only the game but time itself will bend to your will. I’m not sure how to describe the complete opposite of that. How to sum up the quivering mass of indecision I was as I approached the field. Winners want the ball. I was the other kind.

I’m not sure how long I lasted; I think it was fifteen minutes before the coach called me ashore. I hadn’t noticed my replacement coming on. So I figured he was giving me some instructions. “You are going off Paul” was his curt reply to my enquiry. I softly walked around the field back to the dressing room with whispers of condolences in my ear. Once inside I threw my gear bag across the room and kicked the bench, displaying the aggression I needed out there. It’s safe in the shell.

We won. In the final. Had a blast at the debs. The game lost to haze of sambuca. The boys did their best not to discuss it around me. Focused on getting served and dresses. They had done their part.

The final came and went. The team we were facing had two Cork minors. There is something mystical about inter-county minors. Especially in Cork. As if they are some hybrid of boy and machine. No mention of their name came without minor attached. We were beaten early. I was hooked around the fifty minute mark this time. The boys nearly came back but the die was cast.

Tears flowed after. The summer was dying and reality would have to be faced. We were minors.

The league semi-final was the last chapter. Beaten out the gate. Our coach called us a disgrace after and said he was going to watch a real team in Newtown down the road.

I found room for Heaney and Mahon, but especially Kavanagh. That was the year of the Iraq bother. God’s make their own importance.

For your consideration; Five football reads.

This is not in order of preference, nor is it a list containing autobiographies. These are a peek at footballs less heralded lands and a couple of its more extraordinary tales.

Comrade Jim. The spy who played for Spartak.

The barely believable tale of Jim Riordan. Trained as a spy and fluent in Russian, Riordan charts his incredible story as a spy posted to Berlin on national service to eavesdrop on the Soviets. He subsequently falls in love with Russian culture.

Secret kick-abouts with Russian servicemen mushroom into a debut with the mighty Spartak in front of some 50,000 people.

A tale of cold-war suspense, treachery, copious amounts of Vodka and ultimately the power of football. It crosses any genre.

Dynamo, defending the honour of Kiev. Andy Duggan.

The gut-wrenching tale of a football match in 1942 that took place between the German Luftwaffe and the pre-war Dynamo Kiev in Nazi occupied Ukraine.

Duggan’s book's begins with an innocent party to celebrate a wedding with its laughter and food gradually giving way to the churning of German tanks.

A tense, emotional tribute to some extraordinary acts of courage. Having read it, the name Nikolai Trusevich is likely to never leave you.

When Friday comes, Football in the war zone. James Montague.

A football and travel memoir, Montague spent three years travelling throughout the middle east trying to understand its football culture.

There are crazy derbies in Egypt. Money being thrown around in Qatar and a list in Abu Dhabi telling spectators what they cannot bring into the stadium. It includes machine guns, cats, swords and newspapers.

Each chapter deals with a particular country or region and each have some jaw-dropping tales. The book shows how football can be divisive but also redemptive.

More than just a game, Football v Apartheid. Chuck Korr and Marvin Close.

A book recommended more for the story than the writing. It explains how prisoners of South Africa’s infamous Robben Island used football as a force to overcome their hardship and as a tool for their freedom.

The chapters dealing with how the prisoners set up committees and rule-books, and dealt with serious bureaucratic issues regarding their game make you forget for an instant where they are.

The seriousness in which they attacked every minute detail of the game, on and off the pitch forged an understanding and deep bond between them and ultimately made an unjust prison term easier to bear.

Feet of the Chameleon. Ian Hawkey.

The scarcity of books about football in Africa was helped when Ian Hawkey released this in 2009.

He dispels a lot of myths about the African game and helps us discover a continent brimming with magic and fanaticism about the beautiful game.

Some of Africa’s vast history and geography explained with precision through the prism of football.

Rory in rarefied company.

The golf swing is a complicated thing. We mortals that plunge into the ground every week know next to nothing about it. We can read up on it. Maintain stance, follow through, eye line, transfer of weight. But when all is said and done and when you face the first with a giggling horde behind you, you swing like a batsman, and the result is mostly in the lap of the gods.

There are pros that make you feel better. Witness the swing of Jim Furyk. It’s like watching Rafa Nadal hit a baseline winner, you can see with every stretched sinew, the effort that goes into it. Both winners. Both innately gifted. But Furyk offers hope on a misty morning at the driving range.

Rory Mcllory is the cold effortless reality. That moment when a man realises he will never play professional golf. Mcllory hitting an iron is now the purest, most poetic thing in Sports. Like a delicate wrecking ball, arched back waiting to destroy its target. He holds his stance for a second or two after, as if made from stone. That now iconic twirl of the club. He likes it alright.

The manner in which he destroyed the field at Congressional Park over the weekend seemed as effortless as his swing. -1 maybe -2 was the expert’s choice in picking a possible winning score. Show me numbers; -16. The records tumbled as quickly as his challengers faded. Any hint of weakness was swept aside by every approach, every putt, and every wondrous wedge. The fans that amassed in their thousands roared him on. “Get in the hole!” With Mcllory it didn’t seem such a ridiculous notion.

Augusta has been deemed the turning point. The brutal implosion at the grandest stage. When the surest of swings turned into a lottery. Was Augusta that important to him though? He learned of course, to close a back-nine. To get the job done. But in the aftermath of the Masters he spoke as if it was a mere speed bump on the road to greatness. A footnote in his inexorable climb. So I threw one away? I’ll win the next one.

Lee Westwood was the bridesmaid yet again and that should be noted. A magnificent player and clearly a decent man. His time will come is a line that he has heard far too much in his career. Just when the fierce shadow of Tiger Woods had faded along comes another tyro capable of another era of golfing tyranny.

Subconsciously the others cede to Tiger. They will also do now to Rory. Like David Villa does to Lionel Messi. Like Andy Murray does to Nadal. There he goes. The man.

We are left then hoping that Tiger finds fitness. That his demons are finally banished and we can get back to that knowing smile when we see him charge of a major Sunday. A young buck has stomped all over his territory. Smashed his records and is the talk of the town. Back nine of the Open on a Sunday or the PGA. Tiger and Rory. You want to call it? Golf is in the lap of these two gods.

Keep the red flag flying; ten great moments from Manchester United in the European cup.

10. Porto put to the sword. (1997)

PORTO ARRIVED AT Old Trafford for the quarter-final of the Champions league as the form team in Europe. United by contrast were still cutting their teeth at this level and had only scraped through to this stage by beating Rapid Vienna 2-0 in Austria with goals from David Beckham and Eric Cantona and possibly the greatest save in the clubs history from Peter Schmichael.

The blitz that swarmed Porto from the opening minute at Old Trafford shook the Portuguese to their core. David May bundled home from six yards, Eric Cantona scored soon after and Andy Cole and Ryan Giggs finished the rout in the second half. Sir Alex Ferguson’s United had started to stir in Europe.





9. The Massacre of Roma. (2007)

Sir Alex once described this game as the greatest night he has ever experienced at Old Trafford. It is not hard to see why. Roma arrived with a 2-1 lead from the first leg and confident from that performance. They were shredded by half-time. Michael Carrick struck two beauties from long-range, Cristiano Ronaldo scored two himself and tormented the Italians. Patrice Evra even got in on the act scoring the seventh in a performance and result that may never be bettered at Old Trafford.




8.Full-back enters folklore in Madrid. (1968)

Ten years after the tragedy of the Munich air disaster United stood on the cusp of the European cup final. Their opponents in the semi-final; Real Madrid were spoken of in reverential tones by most United players. Bobby Charlton once said “These people aren’t human” yet United won the first leg 1-0 at Old Trafford to take a slender lead to Spain.

However by half-time United trailed 3-1 on the night. David Sadler pulled a goal back and with the tie nearly over it was the unlikely figure of full-back Bill Foulkes who got on the end of a George Best cross to send United to Wembley.






7. Ronaldo tears up the Emirates. (2009)

It was a testament to just how dangerous Cristiano Ronaldo was in his time at United that a corner for the opposition sometimes ended with a goal for the Portuguese machine. In the second-leg of United’s semi-final against Arsenal, Ronaldo first laid the ball off to Ji-Sung Park before sprinting the length of the pitch to slam home Wayne Rooney’s cross. Devastating.






6.The Babes shine in Belgrade. (1958)

The last great light before the dark. The Busby babes of the fifties were the first English side to compete in the European cup in 1957. They reached the semi-finals beating Belgian champions Anderlecht 10-0 on the way. In 1958 many expected them to go one better and this 3-3 draw in Belgrade confirmed their place again in the semi-finals.

The plane that was taking the young team home however crashed in the icy runway in Munich after several stalled takeoffs. Eight of Busby’s immortal side perished in the crash while the manager himself was seriously injured.



5.Scholes breaks Catalan hearts. (2008)

The game; semi-final of the Champions league. The opponents; Barcelona. The mood; tense.

Ronaldo was running, Barcelona were chasing, the ball was hastily cleared to an onrushing Paul Scholes. The midfielder took one touch before arching a stunning shot into the top corner. The roof lifted from Old Trafford and United hung on to meet Chelsea in the first ever all-English Champions league final.



4.Roy’s keen in Turin. (1999)

Sir Alex Ferguson is not someone who heaps praise upon individuals. So when he said of Roy Keane in the second leg semi-final against Juventus that “It was a honour to be associated with such a player.” It gives you some idea of just how influential the Corkman was. With United trailing 2-0 after a disastrous start, Keane dragged them back into the game with a towering header and set the tone for perhaps United’s greatest ever performance on the continent.




3. Red Flag rules in Moscow. (2008)

An historic match in English football, the first ever all-English Champions league final was settled by a slip and a save. Cristiano Ronaldo headed United into the lead before Frank Lampard equalized. Both sides had chances to win in extra-time with Chelsea hitting the post and Ryan Giggs having an effort cleared off the line.
The run of exemplary spot-kicks was broken when Ronaldo’s staggered run-up failed to fool Petr Cech and the keeper batted away the penalty. John Terry had the chance to take the trophy but slipped on the drenched surface leaving Nicolas Anelka to be the fall guy and Edwin van der Sar to be the hero for United.



2.The journey ends at Wembley. (1968)

Ten years after the Munich air disaster United and Matt Busby had the chance to finish their fateful journey together at Wembley for the European cup final against Benfica. Bobby Charlton headed United into the lead but a Benfica equaliser forced the game into extra-time.

Goals again from Charlton, Brian Kidd and an iconic George Best effort won the tie in extra-time and gave England its first ever European cup winners.



1.Nothing and then everything at the Camp Nou. (1999)

The clock ticked over ninety minutes. The score in the final of the Champions league stood at Bayern Munich 1 Manchester United 0. A desperate Peter Schmichael stormed forward for a United corner. The ball bobbled, bounced and through Ryan Giggs squirmed its way to substitute Teddy Sheringham. He turned and scuffed the ball into the bottom corner. Ole Solksjaer was also on as a sub and recalled after that once Sheringham scored he was over the moon because he would play thirty minutes in a European cup final. He curtailed that to one. From another corner he extended his right toe and sent United to heaven.

What If....

the takeover had not happened?

Take your pick. The most profitable club in the world would have remained so. Instead of incurring Switzerland’s GDP as debt. Ticket prices might have retained some semblance of normality. A transfer strategy based on age profiles and sell on value would not have been implemented. Fergie wouldn’t say “no value” every transfer window as international midfielders are juggling balls at the Bernebéau for a pittance. Andersred would be some Scandinavian striker we might be in for. Green and Gold would bring back memories of Giggs scoring at Bramall Lane and Sparky kicking nuts.

Glazernomics would never have entered the red lexicon. We wouldn’t sigh and stare sadly at the sky sports news ticker on deadline day. A Bond issue would be the latest spy movie or a slightly dubious magazine. The business section of the newspaper would be restored to its rightful place beneath the breakfast. The ACS might be the name of some firm from London and not something that treats your credit card as an ATM. That blood boiling anger that lodged in the pit of your stomach when it happened would be a mere memory from a nightmare.

USA chants would be used by people from the USA. Swag sellers in Manchester would probably have gone under with the lack of Norwich trade. Red and Red would stay United. The Tampa Bay Buccaneers business wouldn’t be ours. Middle of the season jaunts to the Middle East with our skirts up may or may not have happened.

Fergie would be the Coolmore Mafia’s consigliere. David Beckham would miss a photo op. David Gill would be heralded as the lone voice in the darkness as his first book entitled “Debt is the road to ruin” is released. Man City wouldn’t win a trophy.

Announcements to the press would be for team affairs, not what winery in Chile has become an official partner. Red e-mail accounts would not be spammed by desperate attempts to sell tickets for the vital home tie against Crawley Town.

Some of that ten million paid out to the Glazer family for “management and administration” fees might have paid for an international midfielder to juggle the ball at Old Trafford.

Operating profits of 100 million that amount to a loss of 83 million would be a problem in a textbook for a P.H.D economics student. No one would care what PIK stood for. The Red Knights and their utopian vision of supporter ownership but with private investment, would be deemed a possibly unworkable plan as Fergie advises J.P and co to buy a couple of more shares.

There would be bitter complaints around Europe as under UEFA’s new fair play awards United are far and away the richest club in the world. Having left Newcastle, Michael Owen states he could do a job for United, who try and hide their derision as David Villa is showcased to the press.

United would win three league titles, one European cup, three league cups and a world club cup.



Alan Shearer signed for United?






This is a two-era question. The first of course, goes back to the summer of 1992. Alan Shearer is the bright young thing of English football. Manchester United and Blackburn Rovers confirm their interest in signing him. For reasons passing understanding Shearer chooses Blackburn. What if he hadn’t? Fire up the Delorean reds, and let’s imagine the dour-faced one signed.

There would have been goals. There is no disputing that. Say what you like about Shearer, he found the back of the net at will despite playing for some poor sides. United were suffering a goal drought of biblical proportions in the early part of the 92/93 season. Shearer would have undoubtedly eased that but he would not have been the answer. Fergie wrote in Managing my life that had he signed him it is unlikely that he would have signed The Answer in Eric.

There is the doomsday scenario that was avoided. There is a Simpson’s episode where Homer gets transported back in time through his malfunctioning toaster. By merely squashing a fly and transporting back he ensures that all humankind is enslaved to Ned Flanders. Shearer at United instead of Cantona would look roughly like that. Imagine a press conference with dear Alan giving monosyllabic answers while Eric creates art at Leeds. Then take a deep breath and drink a drink a drink…

There was a second chance to sign Shearer of course. After his superb Euro ‘96 it was widely believed that he was going to finally don a red shirt. But due to love or stupidity he chose his local club Newcastle and spent the rest of his days as an onlooker while the silverware was handed out.

It is difficult to say just what would have happened had he made the move then. The only thing that can be said with certainty is that he would have won a medal or two. But would Ole Solskjaer have gotten the chances he did had Shearer been in the team? The 96/97 season is perhaps the most overlooked of the Ferguson title wins. Sandwiched between the fledgling’s double and the incredible treble, it is remembered as the passing of one legend in the King and the birth of another in the baby faced assassin.

It is not fanciful to assume Solskjaer’s career at Old Trafford may have come to an abrupt end had we signed Shearer. He was almost out the door without him in ‘99. Would Dwight Yorke have been signed? The whole dynamic of the team that was responsible for the impossible would have changed.

So give thanks to Alan Shearer the next time he is droning on Match of the Day. Even thinking of him now all you are left with is goals sure, but also that bland celebration. One arm-up, running away. I’ll take the guy with his collar up and chest out thanks, and while I am at it I’ll take that kid sliding on his knees at the Camp Nou. Fate can be so cruel but my god it can also be so kind.


Terry Venables took the United job, not Fergie?




Scoff as you may but “El Tel” was a man in demand back in 1986. He had led Barcelona to the Spanish league and would lead them into a European cup final, that they lost having missed every one of their penalties in the shootout with Steaua Bucharest.

So no real differences there, Fergie’s United have been (Moscow aside) rubbish at shootouts. It could certainly be argued that short-term success could have come under Venables. Perhaps Saint Lineker would have joined and maybe the presence of trendy Terry would have persuaded Paul Gascoigne to ignore London and make proper use of his talent.

So it may have been sweet but it would definitely have been short, and we would miss out on the greatest period possible of supporting the shirts. It is difficult when thinking Manchester United not to think Sir Alex Ferguson. Indeed it is hard to even conjure an image of another man prowling the Old Trafford touchline, but let’s try.

There may or may not have been the worse goatee in the world. In that silly Sun advert that was airing a while back Tel accompanied ‘Arry and Big Cas in black in white mouthing something and trying to sound like an authority on the game. Man United managers should not have a goatee. Benitez and Venables are the only two I can think of that have one and that’s a strong enough barometer for me.

Press conferences would be cliché filled nonsense. The phrase “Venables gets out the hairdryer” would merely mean he is drying his hair. Mind games would no longer feature. He would play with three centre-backs. Tapping his watch would mean he is late for an appointment, possibly goatee related.

He would smirk in that uncontrollably smarmy way when something goes right and do the same if something went wrong. He would leave after two years having won an FA cup and supervised another slump down through the table. Martin Edwards would rush to phone that Scottish bloke that is doing well. He would have taken the Arsenal job.

United would appoint another flavor of the month manager, possibly Howard Kendall or someone like that and nothing much would change. Arsenal would dominate the next twenty years of English football. Arsene Wenger would be made Japanese prime minister having outgrown the Grampus eight job and wowed the Japanese political landscape with his grasp of other languages.
We may have stumbled across someone who could have won us a league title but it would have been a fleeting success. The greatest asset Ferguson has is his ability to destroy and rebuilt great football teams. There is not a manger today that has done it with such success and with such regularity.

The day is coming though reds, forget what if? What will we do when he’s gone?

This article first appeared in Red News. Manchester United's first fanzine.

A war chest or penny pinching? United and transfers.

This article first appeared in Red News. Manchester United's first fanzine.

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It has been difficult to define the Manchester United transfer policy for the most of Fergie’s reign. Value was always a prerogative. But if Ferguson was absolutely sure that a player would improve his side then he was prepared to put it all on the table. From £2.3m for Gary Pallister to £7m for Andy Cole, right the way through to £30.75m for Dimitar Berbatov. United and Ferguson have gone for that “marquee” signing when the time suits.

But he is also not averse to a cheap punt. For better and for worse. Henrik Larrsson was paraded in front of a stunned Manchester press pack in January 2007 having signed on loan from Helsingborg. Jaap Stam; that great big Dutchman was jettisoned for the creaking legs of Laurent Blanc. Going by nearly every account, the King himself was signed during a flash of inspiration while listening into a phone call. Fergie, the horse owner does like the occasional bet in the transfer market. His gambler’s instinct has failed him recently. While Javier Hernandez may have seemed a gamble at the time, he was scouted extensively, Bebe was Fergie ignoring the form and going with a trusted tipster.

Bar anomalies such as Bebe United have certainly become more meticulous when signing players. Researching everything physical (Owen Hargreaves is the exception that proves the rule here) to the mental (Ditto Gabriel Obertan) the club has to be certain that the player will fit in at a place where scrutiny takes on an almost manic zeal.

Reds everywhere were underwhelmed last summer when our business was concluded. Only three relatively unheard of youngsters came in. No Ozil, no Villa and certainly no Snejider. But as the season rumbled on and we stared in disbelief at the deadline day madness, last summer’s business turned out to be mostly inspired.

Soon the rollercoaster of this season will end. A sunny day in May in the city of rain may very well see the champions of England again. But we all accept that changes are needed to sustain this fantastic run of ours. Are there any indicators to what we can expect this summer?

As outlined value has always been important to United with transfers. But there has been a definite stiffening of transfer policy since the Glazers began calling the shots. We heard soon in the aftermath of Berbatov’s transfer that he would be the last of his kind. No longer would a potential transfer be judged by mere performances on the field. “Sell on” value is now key. The Glazer model of prudence is buying youth; Hernandez and Smalling, supplement that with an outlay on established; Hargreaves, Van Der Saar, Carrick and pay for the established using a flow of fringe players. Zoran Tosic, Gerard Pique (A monstrous mistake) Gussippe Rossi and any first team players that still command a fee.

The young players act as an insurance. Take Nani and Anderson. Signed amongst much fanfare in the summer of ’07, both have retained their transfer value and in Nani’s case enhanced it. Hernandez is now a walking dollar sign for the Florida natives. At 22 with a reputation growing by the minute, he has arguably quadrupled in value this season alone. While nobody wants to reign on the parade of devotion to the little pea, it is not beyond the realms of possibility that in a few years he gets itchy feet and heads to Spain. The circle will have to start again.

Faith in youth is bred in United. It is part of the very fabric of the club. It certainly appeals to Ferguson. Anyone who watched him as that great youth side of ’92 began to flower could see the beaming pride of the man. He spoke of the likes of Paul Ince being a great player but how the great thing in football was when a young boy turned a corner and became a man. It is hard to believe that a man who has ruled with an iron fist endorses this particular transfer policy but his continued defence of the Glazers suggests he does believe it is a prudent one.

Back in that season where the double was won with kids, he pondered whether he should give into the fans craving for a big money signing and splash the cash. Darren Anderton was his choice to replace Andrei Kanchelskis but he thought better of it. He would stick to the plan. The masses craving for flashbulbs and jersey presentations would not sway him.

Edwin Van Der Saar was one of the first players signed under the Glazer ownership though the deal was believed to be in place before the takeover and they hardly wanted to rock the boat further by quibbling over £3.5m.

Would the Dutchman be signed now? If such a question was put to Fergie the answer would be a resounding yes. He has control, yet the name continually being linked with United to replace Edwin is David De Gea. The 20 year old Atletico Madrid keeper is an outstanding prospect. Similar in height and build to Van Der Saar and very good with his feet. So physically he is sound. Mentally we have read about his maturity, how he has only been debating whether or not to take the challenge of Old Trafford not because he doubts his ability but if it is the best step for him at this stage of his career, So mentally again United have done their homework. But can anyone seriously say that his age isn’t a factor? All going well De Gea could be number one for ten years and United would still make a profit when he decides to head home.

Is Fergie comfortable having three goalkeepers with no experience in the Premiership? Isn’t that the one area where established must be a given when deciding on a player. We all remember trying to replace Schmichael, the mere notion that a players sell on value is now a factor in deciding our new goalkeeper is a disturbing one.

There has been some argument that now the Glazers have reduced Fergie’s bullets, he must be more accurate when he is shooting. Gone is the scattergun approach of Djemba-Djemba and Kleberson replaced with quality for half the price in Evra and Vidic. There may be some merit in that argument. If restrictions are in place it would definitely focus his mind. It would help to explain his reluctance to enter the market last year, though the monstrous spending of city and Chelsea is perhaps the real reason.

The signing of Dimitar Berbatov may be an era-defying one for United off the field. Having got his man despite the advances of city on deadline day Fergie hailed it as “A terrific bit of business by the club” He wasn’t referring to value just reminding the owners that sometimes you have to push the boat out.

So get the marquee out? Maybe, but only if the numbers add up

An ode to a prince.

The Dutch appreciate space more than any other. Century’s of foraging for their own has given them an undeniable sense and acute awareness of space and how best to utilize it. In his tremendous book "Brilliant orange" David Winner marks space as the unique defining element of Dutch football. Flexible space was the mantra of one of the greatest club sides ever seen, the hypnotic rhythm of Ajax led by Cruyff, Neeskens et al passed and moved their way to three consecutive European cups, and as one casts their eyes over the current European champions it is that same spatial awareness that is the hallmark of a ginger beacon that has shone at Old Trafford for more then a decade.

There is something magnetic about watching Paul Scholes kill a football with his in-step move away from the plodder hunting him down and then play a simple pass which will inevitably roll onto a team-mates foot. "Fantasti" or the controller is what the Italians used to describe Gianni Rivera, maestro is the only apt word to describe Scholes. A player so horribly under-appreciated not only by the masses in England but also by some of fleet streets finest that it verges on criminal. He has been the finest midfield player in England in the past fifteen years yet he has no individual awards to show for it. No matter, he has delivered moments of mesmerising motion that will live long in the memory, three of which best sum him up.

There have been so many seminal Scholes moments, many involving the perfected volleying technique so devastatingly shown against Bradford and more recently Aston Villa yet my three Scholes moments do not involve goal scoring, strange as that may seem given his penchant for the spectacular. My argument for Scholes being an all time great is based more on his peripheral vision then say that arching arrow which broke Barca hearts. The first is the most recent and it is the most simple in both its premise and execution. Wes Brown is taking a throw-in twenty metres in the Chelsea half in the 2008 Champions league final, He throws it to scholes who is being heavily marked, Scholes flicks the ball back to Brown who returns the favour. Scholes is now backed in with Brown on the move. Any other would have controlled tried to turn and win another throw-in, this is not any other, Scholes darts a flick between two Chelsea players to send Brown into an acre of Dutch heaven, the rest is history. It is a moment already forgotten by most yet this simple flick could only be executed by Scholes. It was understated almost modest yet it was compelling.

The second moment is again from this years Champions League, this time in the hostile environment of the Olimpico in Rome. Scholes finds himself on the left-hand side of Roma's penalty area, he and every other United player is surrounded by the suffocating Italians, Scholes clips a cross over the penalty spot to no-one in particular or so it seems, Cristiano Ronaldo arrives like a steam train to shudder an unstoppable header past the goalkeeper. Ronaldo's header is heroic but his superman act would never have taken off without the perfect human launch pad.

If there is one moment to encapsulate the celebration of pure technique that is Paul Scholes then it was surely conceived in the mammoth Champions league semi-final tie in April 2007 between United and A.C Milan, Losing 2-1 to the Kaka inspired giants United were on the ropes. Cue the ginger prince, picking the ball up just outside Milan's box the options seemed bare, until one swish of a right boot scooped a delicious lob over the hapless Nesta and onto the onrushing Rooney's chest. The rest as always was simple because the little man makes it so.