Source: Telegraph
Rome beckons as Manchester United party gets off to flier
A season that began with an ugly draw at home to Newcastle ended with another against Arsenal. Beauty was contained in the sound of the final whistle. Big boys in red shirts cavorted like chemically-enhanced Morris men. The players did not hold back either. Mad-chester indeed.
As has become the custom, four soldiers just returned from Helmand Province ensured safe passage for the Premier League pot to the hastily assembled dais. This is perhaps not the place to delineate degrees of heroism. Suffice is to say that when the fireworks started the uniformed figures, one propped up by a walking stick, were not required to run for cover.
"It doesn't get better than this," said Sir Alex Ferguson addressing the supporters over the Old Trafford PA. "Now we look forward to a nice trip to Rome and we are going to bring that cup back." To which the faithful retorted: "Fergie, Fergie sign him up." The emotional attachment to Carlos Tevez burns on. And then began the lap of honour, the United family mixing business and pleasure with the kids accompanying their fathers along the Old Trafford perimeter.
The party started early for some. The 08.15 Virgin departure from Euston had exhausted supplies of the amber nectar shortly after Milton Keynes, or within 40 minutes, to put a clock on the consumption.
Inside Old Trafford, the Usain Bolt show also rattled along nicely. The fastest man on two feet has been a willing consultant at Carrington these past few days ahead of his 150-metre dash along the city's premier thoroughfare, Deansgate, today.
He submitted willingly to requests for pictures and autographs. For those with athletic aspirations he was happy to share the secrets of how to place your foot on the centre of gravity, a problem that afflicts the great Cristiano Ronaldo, apparently.
Around the stadium an expanding army of legionnaires gathered in golden helmets to plot the coming advance on Rome. "Que sera sera, whatever will be, will be, we are going to Italy, que sera sera." You can't put a price on originality.
Among the throng, Sir Bobby Charlton stood with his hands in his pockets staring out across the lush acres of the stadium he once graced, perhaps recalling the days when he, George and the King were the subject of the same unconditional love in the stands.
He shouldn't worry. When the time comes, and hopefully that is some way off, Charlton will bid farewell to this mortal coil as arguably the most loved footballer this country has produced. The present day incumbents described by many as the best of the Ferguson era set out in the lunchtime sunshine full of pep.
Ronaldo gave us an immediate, exhilarating flourish down the right and a hint of his histrionic darker side when an opponent dared challenge with a tackle. On another occasion he responded to a gorgeous crossfield thump from Wayne Rooney with a thousand step-overs, dizzying only himself. Bacary Sagna kept his eye on the ball and made the tackle.
Arsenal had not come along to admire the parade, but to dump on it, which is as it should be. They passed and probed with precision revealing no signs of trauma following the heavy defeats to United and Chelsea at home. A draw was the requirement for United. Ultimately the game could never escape from that.
Either side of half-time the referee's mettle was tested as the tackles grew in texture. It was that kind of game. Fluency was suffocated by the sense of occasion. Long spells of Arsenal possession did little to help the party swing.
Ferguson withdrew Tevez with 20 minutes remaining to augment the protective ring the champions had thrown around their Premier League trophy. The lungs of Ji Sung Park were called upon to do their thing.
The salute offered up to Old Trafford by Tevez as he took his leave had the look of a long goodbye. "Sign him up" implored the crowd for the umpteenth time. Somebody will.
