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It’s a special kind of madness, football. But then what could one realistically expect? You take a tribal game that then becomes the biggest sport on the planet, and you impregnate it with billions. How was it ever going to stay sane?

Moyes was not so much a dead man walking as a man buried alive in his own technical area; those that interned him heckled towards the snorkel peeping out from the shallow grave.

It’ll be a grim business. Despite all the other myriad nonsenses, at all other clubs who have installed a revolving doors in their HR departments, Manchester United binning Moyes in his first season at Old Trafford will redefine the impatience of what those of us over the age of 40 call through gritted teeth, the modern game.

There are no extenuating circumstances for the Glasers, all their motives are baseless and born out unthinking vanity. The Telegraph this morning says that this is the worst season since Slur Alex finished 13th in 1990.

So this is the worst season in over 2 decades.

Except the season isn’t over and United look very unlikely to finish as low as 13th.

And had the club dismissed Fergie for his misdemeanour back then, they would not have been able to watch him build the dynasty of achievement that he went on to do. 13 Premier Leagues, 5 FA cups, 2 Champions Leagues, 4 League cups and Christ knows how much more besides.

Moyes had a win rate of 52.9%.

Reading through the United forums throws up just as much mindless nonsense from fans as is available on the Spurs ones. It’s embarrassing.

The modern fan is a petulant, spiteful son of bitch. Dripping with entitlement, covered in its own vomit; existing only to gorge to excess, it regularly throws up over itself in disgust. Scowling, gasping to get the words out, “I want more…”

 

 

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