Old Trafford. The Shakedown

Gooood morning, Vietnam.

As you may’ve noticed, we don’t really do Old Trafford. Not in a fashion you’d wish to remember, anyway. We’ve been privy to a few terrific opening laps in recent years- one, two, even three-nil up- only for the wheels to ping off at the crucial moment and send us hurtling toward the embankment in a blaze of general wrongness. To make matters worse, our annual away day schoolings are usually always captured live on the telly box with the whole world pressing their nose to the window. Curiously looking in as the madness unfolds. What are they up to?

Sure enough- as many whizzing graphics will highlight on SSN in the coming hours- our record in the red half of Manchester makes for a ghastly read. In fact, of all the members of the ever-present club which operate in the top flight, we of Spurs are the only club never to have won at Old Trafford. Never. Not once. Well, we did kind of win a few moons ago, but in some bizarre turn of events, the linesman on duty that evening had mistaken the rule book for a copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar, which, understandably, had very little on the ins and outs on goal-line rigmarole.

Terrible business, that.

The key here, then, is bedding demons (oo-er) and rising above the memories of continually ballsing it up against S’Ralex and his mob. You can probably still hear the screams of previous campaigns’ paltry surrenders, but they’ll not help us much today; mere blotches in the colourful pages of history that would do well to make themselves scarce for an hour or two. Better forgotten than dwelled upon, I say. The early signs are good. Players’ whisperings in the media this week have made it clear it’s a task that doesn’t particularly daunt them. Dawson, in typical stoutness revealed he was, in fact, relishing the prospect of taking on the Champions on their own patch. And why not? After two heavyweight knockouts on the bounce at home, there should be every reason to believe we can give their britches a damn good ruffling.

Much of the spotlight is hanging over the Bale/Neville match up. Should Ferguson decide to deploy him, there’s a real hankering among Spurs fans for the grubby little turd to cop a faceful of Welsh afterburner. Hopefully scorching that pre-pubescent moustache off in the same instance. Neville belied his years last week against Bellamy; by virtue of using brain power to outfox the putter yielding imp’s lick. As such, it’s likely he’ll be used in the same way against Bale today, rather than the oft erratic tendencies of Rafael. Or is it Donatello?

I forget.

Anyway. Team news in our neck of the woods has a bit of intrigue about it. Lennon’s in the squad, *cautious applause* so too is the returning Sergeant- whose spell on the naughty step ended last weekend. Intriguing, mainly, in that there’s a spot of reshuffling to do with the Hondurans homecoming. Modric’s taken on central midfield duties in the last two outings- to wondrous effect- so there may be some reluctance to plonk him elsewhere to make way. Drop Huddlestone, then? I wouldn’t like to call it. Suffice to say, a fully re-charged Wilson is an option we would do well not ignore.

Right, a few hours until kick-off. I’ve a feeling in my waters this morning and it’s nothing to with the potency of the espresso I had with breakfast. (Seriously, it may as well been radioactive) The feeling’s a pleasant one; a boom in confidence from the previous fetes of giant toppling. I can honestly see us doing, well…well. A draw would be by no means terminal; a win would possibly cause the known universe to implode on itself.

3-2 it is then.

COYFS!