This is the one they all seem to want

Three ferocious points on majestic offer – soft to a soon-to-be harshening touch

United V. City

And, Yes, we do see it all, every next excruciatingly twisted neck bit

Have this, and that, you sonsabitches

Red facing blue, you, the true you decide why?

And they play akin to nothing ever witnessed before – a proud Mancunian father watches while a beloved new son stores many a fielded memory terrifically within

The real he…

She will not tear herself away from Etihad tears if this particular match doesn’t end up according to plan – she took the drunken husband’s last-minute ticket to simply see what this fuss is all for

One-all-draw as the half-time whistle sounds crawlingly about a silenced ground, where opposed natures – in fact bustling strangers – do take to sharing chip-butties mixed together unawares with bravado beer

The fear has nestled itself till it goes again…

And we have a second-half piece of extraordinary drib-drab brilliance courtesy of USSR intelligence, namely one Andrei Kanchelskis with wings stretched on fantastically strong

This is It… teed on up, even these manically awry plastic fans of loath to admit it ours would be oh so embarrassingly proud

The amount of goddamn times we’ve seen ignorance-infested cold-shoulders to a most unmatched sport smothered in nothing but red and player’s names everything

Then, the two-all penalty, or Is It? Where was his agonised leg actually meant to be…

Niall Quinn seems to not know either way, he’s been tripped and shaken all seventeen feet of him

Ref’s whistle appears to have swallowed itself outright, and, typically enough for them Klinsmann pretenders, nothing else ever stirs to occur

We’re at injury-time as poor ol’ haphazard Niall drags himself off to a pulsating sideline to cry these Irish tears of elongated his away

And reinstated whistle finally breathes a mammoth sigh of relief…

And our very own gum-chewing manager’s stomp-the-ground feet take a most fitting SHARP emblazoned seat