PREMIER LEAGUE:Once Alex Ferguson feels his authority has been undermined, the errant player cannot be long for this world
WAS IT merely coincidence that Manchester United wearily chalked up another Premier League title on the same day the continent cleared its throat for the annual celebration of naffness that is the Eurovision Song Contest? The two events are beginning to become indistinguishable: both play out with a sense of numbing predictability in cavernous arenas filled with weird obsessives waving flags. The only difference is the songs so beloved of the Stretford End are a touch more catchy than anything belted out in Moscow on Saturday.
The scores are in on another all-conquering season at Old Trafford and, while it’s douze points all round as far as their trophy haul is concerned, there’s no escaping the sensation that this feels a rather hollow triumph: the footballing equivalent of Russia winning votes from its former satellite states by threatening to cut off their gas supply.
Previous United triumphs have all left indelible images burned on the brains of anyone with football at heart: Steve Bruce’s brace of injury-time headers in 1993; Eric Cantona bringing St James’ Park to its knees three years later; Cristiano Ronaldo’s improbably brilliant free-kick against Portsmouth last season.
Yet when fans gather in the darkened corners of Salford gastropubs to reminisce about their youthful days chomping salmon bruschetta in the K stand, what will be the moment from this season that causes eyes to glaze over and throats to swell with nostalgic lumps? The 45 minutes which saw Tottenham’s defence laid to waste at Old Trafford in April was exhilarating but owed as much to Howard Webb’s incompetence as United’s excellence. Even Federico Macheda’s winner against Aston Villa, which prompted a few jaw-bones to dislocate, could not disguise the fact the Italian is still more likely to end next season on loan to Preston rather than leading a rousing chorus of “Glory, Glory Man United”.
Great moments – and, by extension, great seasons – are conjured by great players but none of United’s most celebrated firebrands have left scorch marks on the 2008-09 campaign.
Wayne Rooney has run around a lot, in that bulldog-with-a-wasp-up-its-backside way of his, but in front of goal, he has been no more effective than Darren Bent; the same applies to Carlos Tevez, whose constant mewing over his future to obscure south American television stations is beginning to grate with more than just Alex Ferguson; while Dimitar Berbatov, so indifferent he should be in a Noel Coward play, still looks as if he considers running for passes and joining counter-attacks beneath him.
Then there is Ronaldo. The Portuguese has always been a ludicrous, self-absorbed waste of Brylcreem but when he was averaging virtually a goal a game last season, any criticisms bordered on the churlish.
No longer. If Ronaldo’s demeanour last season could be symbolised by that trademark Cheshire cat grin which routinely accompanied his goal celebrations, this year it has been the anguished, put-upon pout which appears to have been modelled on a six-year-old who has just been denied a brightly-coloured bottle of cola.
There have still been goals – enough to put him top of the Golden Boot standings, as it happens – but that has to be set against the effect of playing for a team which not only creates countless chances but also wears opponents down to the extent that matches, particularly at Old Trafford, have all the competitiveness of a turkey-shoot.
Instead, this will still go down as the Year of the Tantrum, his attitude encapsulated by that fabulous moment of self-absorption against Sunderland in December when he substituted himself, leaving a bemused Alex Ferguson, sitting up in the gods as he served a touchline ban, scurrying for his mobile phone to tell his underlings who should replace him.
Ferguson can accept all sorts of nonsense from his players if he thinks they have something to offer Manchester United – Cantona’s eccentricities and Roy Keane’s volcanic outbursts were routinely indulged when they were at the height of their powers – but the one thing he will not stand for is being made to look foolish.
Once Ferguson feels his authority as manager has been undermined, the errant player cannot be long for this world. Far from Ronaldo agitating for his long-mooted move, he may find the decision is taken out of his hands if the manager decides he has become more trouble than he’s worth – a point which renders the club’s assertion yesterday that the winger is “not for sale” rather redundant.
Real Madrid remain the most likely destination but here’s a thought. With his penchant for industrial-sized quantities of hair-gel and high camp absurdity, why not give C-Ron a shot at Eurovision? Norway 2010 would be a poorer place without him, even if the same can’t be said for Old Trafford.
