One-Shot (25/02/09)

I was up for the game. I hoped United were too. As is so often the case, though, I expected the worst. So when we set upon Inter like peanuts on butter, it was beautiful. Every shot of the so called "Special One" trying to hide his panic on the touchline was a triumph for human decency. It was a vindication that, as I assured my father before the game, I bore not fear towards him, only a boundless desire to see him put in his place (the sub-Fergie pretender bracket.) The Mouth earned his bread beforehand, saying this and that about United probably not even coming to the San Siro to attack, and stoking his own self-satisfied flames.

As is so often the case with his kind, he didn't have nearly as much to say on the pitch as he did off it. United violated Inter Milan with all the respect of a masked maniac. We were Mike from Swingers, "a Big Bear with big claws" just kind of batting them around, "poking them." Unlike Mike though, we knew just what to do with them - batter. That we didn't score at least once is a travesty. A combination of bad finishing and the delayed entrance of Wayne Rooney stopped us. Just.

Matches like that make me wish I'd made it, and not for the first time lately. But you knew that already. You probably thought it as soon as the words "game" and "United" appeared. Before I squander what (if any) goodwill remains from non-football readers, let me say this to United regarding the return leg:

You are Clarence J. Boddicker, they are Emile, the goop-soaked goon. Floor it.