We all love it when giants are killed. We even have a word for it: giant-kiling. If that is in fact one word. Who cares? And the manner in which giants are killed is all-important. So when the Great, the Godly (in their minds) Manchester United take their zillions of pounds of inter-galactic superstars (I’m sure Di Maria is from Pluto) to visit lowly Leicester City, recently promoted, completely impoverished and fielding a team containing not one name anyone’s ever heard of, you expect blood. And there was blood. But it was the red blood of Man United that was spilled. In rather vast, and humiliating quantities. Yet it was the manner of the defeat that was so satisfying, so unexpected, so wonderful.
The reds were 2 nil up after about 10 minutes and were ‘cruising’. Which means becoming smug and arrogant and smelling a rout (which proved to be the case, but not necessarily as they originally smelt it) and counting the goals they were all going to score. Dozens of goals. Hat-tricks all round. Even the defenders. If you can call them defenders. Which you weren’t by the end of the game.

Leicester pulled a goal back. Because the midlanders know how to fight. And the goal was brilliant and created by the amazing running of Jamie Vardie. A man who was an unemployed bricklayer three weeks ago.Ok, he wasn’t, but he was playing non-league football four years ago, which is almost the same thing. Playing for Stocksbridge Park Steels whilst Wayne Rooney was deciding how many diamonds to put on the door-handles of his next Range Rover.

United scored again. Ahhhh, 3-1 up, that’s ‘safe’. Which turned out not to be the case as Leicester then scored 4 more unanswered goals as the Mancs defence simply crumbled and forgot what it was there to do. What it is paid, collectively, over a million pounds a month to do. Shit, sorry Louis, just forgot what I was s’posed to be doing. Phah.

And that fills us (assuming the ‘us’ in question are not Man United fans) with distinct pleasure. We all love to see big teams trounced, little teams perform miracles, the odds upset. Unless, of course its our big team being trounced. Then the joy factor is ‘somewhat diminished’. Like, f’rinstance, if High Hopes Spurs (we always have high hopes and aspirations; but not always the results… hardly ever the results) face bottom-of-the-table West Bromwich Albion, at home, down the Lane, oooooohh, that’s three points in the bag. In the bag maybe, but not our bag as we managed to lose. Rachie went and sent me a text message at the end. Two words (one more than our on target attempts on goal over 90 minutes). Which read: ‘total wank’. That was it. The summary of our efforts, endeavors and achievement.

Yet even with all that happening, it was at the Etihad that the story of the day unfolded. Man City playing Chelsea. City have a player sent off and Chelsea score. Quel surprise. Then on comes Chelsea legend, hero and demi-god, Frank Lampard, now playing in Man City colours. And he scored the goal to tie the game. To save new club from disaster, to frustrate old, beloved Chelsea, who’s badge he nauseatingly kissed for 13 years to the disgust of all decent people. Frank turned, didn’t celebrate, looked close to tears and tried to show nothing for fear of being hated by one bunch of fans or another. 1-1 was the final score and Lampard maintained his equanimity. You had to respect him. Even if he does have John Terry on speed-dial.

Happy monday, though for many of us that’s not the case.

A xxx

PS today’s pic is the guy who went in for a tackle against Ed Balls, shadow chancellor of the exchequer, in a ‘friendly’ match at the Labour Party Conference. Nice.