Was this a season of disappointment? Of competitive balance? A two horse race with an overpriced and underachieving show pony stealing headlines? Has the European soccer planet shifted gravitational pull towards the Iberian peninsula? The story lines abounded, and a few refreshing moments shall wet your appetite before the MOST IMPORTANT EVENT is explained.

The global economic collapse caught up with the Premiership, as managers at the very top and bottom grappled with interest payments taking the place of player acquisition. Manchester United did not renew Carlos Tevez’s contract, losing 20 plus league goals. The Red Devils rode Wayne Rooney as long as they could, falling just short in the league race. Liverpool, forced to pinch pennies, failed to sign a quality striker and capitulated after injuries to Fernando Torres.

Chelsea declined to buy Kun Aguero in the January transfer window, instead relying on the eventual top scorer Didier Drogba and in form Nicolas Anelka. Despite a loss, at home, to Jose Mourinho’s Inter, the Blues beat United at Old Trafford and blew everybody else out of the water, scoring more than 100 goals by season’s end.

Arsenal were and were not a contender. The injury to Robin Van Persie left the Gunners dependent on Nick Bendtner, the soon-to-be-world’s-greatest striker who is not quite yet the world’s-greatest-striker. And the injury to Cesc Fabregas in the Champions League did not help matters.

In the battle for Fourth, Manchester City went from a collection of individual talented miscreants to a band of undersized misfits. Roberto Mancini welded the diminutive Craig Bellamy, Carlos Tevez, and Shaun Wright Phillps into a fierce attacking talent. They managed to thrash Chelsea at Stamford Bridge, but lost at home to United on a Paul Scholes header.

And they fell short of fourth, losing the second to last game to Harry Redknapp’s Spurs. Yes. Spurs will soon play Champions League football, the golden city of Jerusalem should fall from the sky any day now, and the temperature in Hades is a refreshing 4 degrees Celsius. Still, we all recall the price of success that Pompey paid after Redknapp’s spell.

At they very bottom, Portsmouth entered administration as allegations surfaced that the club missed one too many ransom payments. Faced with impossibly high interest rates from the ransomers, also known as “bankers”, Pompey bit the points deduction bullet but, in spite of itself, has managed to reach the FA Cup final. However, the EPL did not care to throw its weight behind a Championship participant in next season’s UEFA cup. To the surprise of nobody, Portsmouth missed the deadline for the application.

The soccer blogsophere entered the realm of the Securities and Exchange commission, with bloggers brushing up on their accounting and MBA for dummies books. The debt cast light on a clash of anglo saxon cultures, as American owners lived by fast and loose franchise “principles” while the English public clamored for public trust. To be continued…

Still, the biggest story was not the John Terry scandal that rocked the English media. Nope. JT’s infidelity only served to distract and mislead the puritanical public. JT’s sexcapades were smoke and mirrors to cover up the canary in the mine, the bird of victory that chirped and tweeted well before Wayne Bridge got betrayed.

I speak, of course, of the infamous Stamford Bridge Colgate-Gate. While Chelsea won a home victory, a fan was caught brushing his teeth at a match. And we celebrated. And we cried. And we wondered – why? Why? Why did this poor fan wait until arriving to the soccer stadium to brush his teeth? Did he just eat a foul odored snack? Did he actually apply toothpaste and water, or was this a dry run? Was gingivitis a legitimate concern?

At the time, we laughed at the signs of the Blues championship with bewilderment and skepticism. Surely this was  a PR stunt, we told ourselves. After all, if the International Panel on Climate Change cites non-peer reviewed blogs as secondary sources, then all is well on planet earth? And thereby planet premiership?

But we were blind to the smoke spewing from the Chelsea volcano. Only now, covered in molten lava, as the odor of our own burning skin fills our nostrils, can we reflect on this omen of omens, this sign from the Gods. As our corpse melts into a summer of World Cup entertainment and probable disappointment, we would do well to the remember our brush-in with “The Brush” of the goddesses.

Sigh. Spring beckons the winter-weary with playful rays of sunlight and budding flowers. But, for the European soccer fan, this time of year can induce the opposite of Seasonal Affect Disorder – do you suffer from “Seasonal-Abject-Depression”? Please, joint me as we mope together.

The harvest has been long, the winter cruel, and the missteps of the fall haunt you like a mansion’s deceased butler. As the roses bloom and the clouds part, do you only find yourself complaining about a running nose? A scratchy throat? Red eyes? Is your glass half empty, even though it’s half full of delightful wheat flavored beer?

As the young couples promenade about town, holding hands and smiling effervescently, do you find yourself full of jealous? Do you pass the day thinking about errant Nicklas Bendtner or Dimitar Berbatov headers, delicately plucking the pedals from a flower and saying “FA Cup…not this year. Premiership…not this year. Champions League…probably never”?

Have any ants ruined your picnic at a park? Is your sun dress an ironed, wrinkly mess? Do your khaki shorts make your thin-as-a-stick calves look, err, thin as a stick? Would one errant penalty kick in November have made you the happiest person in the universe? Does your heart ache for moment’’s passed, for what if’s, for a time when Fernando Torres could run without spraining his MCL?

Spring is a time for new beginnings, but do you long for the summer already? Would you readily trade the humidity and heat for the glimmering prospect of a new manager or new impact player to trot about? Or is that just one of the many lies we tell ourselves, that with just one more signing we could….we could….Sigh. Sigh.

Hope springs eternal, but Spring encroaches upon the soccer fan like an enemy army assembling on a nearby hill. Despite the seasonal treats, the memory of another season past, another year of dust collected in a trophy case, stings like the harsh winter wind. Sigh.

I have a theory – search engines prove that machines will never ever be able to supplant human beings, only replacing the flesh & bone eventually with cold steel. Leo Messi has boldly left the cocoon behind, never again to caterpillar up or down a leaf. Is he secretly the lovechild of a Maradonna mariposa? How far can his golden wings take him? Only the wind knows….

And, of course, we are to blame for not seeing them.

For those who take the “assumptive equation” at face value, Arsenal vs. Barcelona pits pretty vs. gorgeous. So why wasn’t the first leg a beauty pageant of universal proportions? High on drama? Yes. But the first 45 minutes pitted Barcelona against Manuel Almunia, as Arsenal marked Messi out of the game but let the remaining Cules run rampant. Then came ten minutes of brute Ibrahimovic, and then 20 minutes of direct Walcott running.

Is it a practical reality that the size of Zlatan and the dribble-first pace of Theo made the difference? Should we paint these players as the evil necessity of the modern game? I’m not so sure. Rather, I have doubts that either club lives up to the Beautiful Game Myth. In fact, I have doubts about said “Myth.”

For starters, for all the talk of patient and pretty passing, the Gunners primarily attack with overlapping wing backs. In fact, a stunning array of their offensive forays end with corner flag-cross Do the two or three extra 10 foot passes in midfield break the bank? In the revancha, keep track of how many times a wingback runs to the touchline and crosses. Is that really beautiful? Also, for the talk of elegance, let’s not forget that one of the biggest goals of their EPL campaign came from Nicklas Bendtner…..

Yet the Myth pervades our past as well. People nostalgically paint the 2004 undefeated side as a collection of starving artists with barely enough pounds to purchase an easel. But cafe-lingerers they were not. The Invincibles were led by the venomous tackles of Patrick Vieira and a younger Sol Campbell. On a micro-level, these players point to a false dichotomy – some artists can also “take out the trash.” While Arsene Wenger may cloud his signings and mis-signings in the Kantian rhetoric of “playing the right way,” can we look beyond the smoke & mirrors to identify a hole in scouting & development. Namely, a Yaya Toure or Gilberto worthy of feeding Cesc the ball?

Barcelona, for their part, continue to sit back and watch in amazement as Leo Messi tears through defenses with ease. But is giving the ball to one wily & crafty winger the epitome of collective passing we have been spoonfed to expect? Or did the Cules of Ronaldinho, Deco, and Javier Saviola produce first-touch football more worthy of the term “fantasy?”

We can easily regress into the utilitarian compromise, the need to play Diego Milito, Yaya Toure, and sign a target forward like Zlatan to “get in his head to balls in the box.” But such rhetoric to my ears rings empty. The current Barcelona relies heavily on the lungs of Dani Alves, especially when savvy opposition keys in on the wunderkind from Argentina.

Still…..

Nobody can deny the pleasure of listening to a crescendo. Both Arsenal and Barcelona have defenses that prefer to pass backwards to a goalie or sideways to a teammate rather than boot the ball forwards 40 yards. Whether this tactic sets them on a majestic plain beyond the reach of mortals, whether I look at them with the eyes of a cynical distant cousin & not a loving father, the conclusions we are spoon-fed require reflection.

But let’s not paint the past in such simple shades of black and white either. Many point to the Brazil side of 74 as the greatest team of all time. Let’s look at their famous 4-1 final victory over Italy…

A header. A shot from distance. A free kick. The very last goal, considered one of the greatest goals in World Cup history, exemplifies the beautiful game ideals of collective passing and movement. But Brazil already held a 3-1 lead. Against capitulated opposition, park soccer plays are easier to pull off.

While the fourth goal left a sweet taste in the mouth, the shadow of the “beautiful game” continues to cloud contemporary perspectives. I really did not mean for this article to come off as me railing on Arsenal & Barcelona, two fantastic clubs, but rather to incite reflection on those funny little boxes in which we place teams and plays.

Arsenal & Barcelona, upon close inspection, fail to live up to the Beautiful Game Myth inspired by 74 Brazil precisely because it is a Myth.

So at this redhead’s insistence I’d followed her ex(?) husband, this Glasgow Shipping magnate, from Merseyside to West London to the Piccadilly stop. Given his acquaintances and enemies, I’d deduced he may be in shipping, but not of the legal variety. But who was I to  pass judgment? What bugged me was my client’s own motives. She sent a check a week that didn’t bounce, but what was in it for her? I didn’t see jealousy. This was one of those aristocratic marriages of convenience – she went from daddy’s checkbook to the next available bank account. Only a slight difference in age.

So what was I to do? Well, spy on my own client, that’s what. But first I had to nose around the old Highbury haunts and see an old friend.

First, for the sake of sanity, I gathered my thoughts and recalled how I got to where I was. I had followed the Scot and his lanky boys, one of’ em  “Vandy”, to a bar in Merseyside which ended in a brawl with some clowns. I recall a big Blondie doing most of the damage. The Scot also had a young dame at his arm in a stunning red dress.

I then followed the Scot to West London, where I learned he was married. To the old redhead or the young lady in red, I was unsure – but I had an inkling. I had set up a whiskey-fueled observation post in a coffee shop when some thugs tried to pound some sobriety into me. Turns out the thugs thought I was working for the Scot, so the Scot had smarter enemies than himself. Or so it seemed. Or maybe the Scot knew I was following him, but didn’t consider me a threat.

Either way, I headed to Holloway Road in the hopes of seeing the young dame in red at one of the fashionable establishments. I got drinks with the Scots’ young squeeze, who turned out to be his niece. The young lady also said my client, the old redhead, was the Scot’s sister. Seems a family member had died and was about to leave a nice little pot of pounds. But she and the Scot only wanted one little statuette, a family heirloom.

I believed her as far as I could throw her. Before we could walk to one of my favorite pay-by-the-hour accommodations, we spied my friends from West London do a real number on this uppity gang of youthful miscreants. The sirens came and she flew the coop, but I stuck around because I have a theory of the universe:

If you stick around anyplace long enough, the trouble comes to you.

And it did.

I ducked into a pub and, after an hour of drinks and chit chat with the bartender, in walked the Scot and his collection of miscreants. They strutted about like they owned the place, set up shop in a corner, and began to shoot some pool. In walked the young lady and her eyes played tricks with the Scots’. I could smell the chemistry from my side of the bar, and I counted hole number on in her “family story.”

In walked the young tikes from around these parts, but they hardly looked equipped or interested in fighting. One of them, a short pale fella, carried a briefcase. He nonchalantly set the briefcase down near a table and started to shoot some pool. The head of the tikes, this skinny guy with carefully kept dark hair, spoke a few words to the Scot, but his body language made it clear who was in charge.

The kiddos beat it after about half an hour, but conveniently forgot their suitcase.  The Scot, smiling from ear to ear, picked up the suitcase after a few minutes and stepped outside. The young dame stayed inside and talked to the henchmen, flirting and making them feel uncomfortable yet beholden. Then she cast me a glance sharper than a butcher’s knife.

Then, I was out like a light.

I came to consciousness in a scantily furnished apartment with blood stains on the wall. Prospects were dim. I was tied to a chair, in a living room, and there was an ancient old sofa a few feet in front of me. The blinds were shut, the lights off, and the sunlight fading fast. My stomach grumbled, my wrists ached, and I promised myself I’d never fall for a dark haired dame again.

I passed in and out of consciousness, but awoke to the jangling of keys and the door opening. It was pitch black in that damned apartment, and as the door opened I was temporarily blinded. But then I made out the shapely figure of my red headed client. She rushed up to me and, before I could say anything, planted a kiss to make every single hair on your neck stand on end.

She apologized and promised to explain as she untied my hands. I only cared about one thing – my hands. When she finally freed my wrists I jumped off the chair, grabbed her arm, and pinned her against the wall. I had every reason to give her an earful, when the sound of gunfire and tires screeching interrupted our budding conversation.

I let her go and stepped to the blinds, peeking but seeing nothing. Still leaning against the wall, she said “They know we’re here. They’re coming.” I let out a grunt and a laugh. “Of course they are”….

London was the kind of town you could live in your whole life and never call home. London smiles at you like a mother but only loves you like a mistress. You only got into trouble when you confused the two, and you couldn’t help but confuse the two.

Song Credit – “She’s Crafty” by The Beastie Boys

The long and arduous Premiership journey has reached the halfway point, as a handful of teams gaze upon the summit and the rest fear a crashing fall back to Earth. But how can we quantify such a qualitative championship? With our best efforts, that’s how. And  a little inspiration.

David Bowie’s glower has already helped us in ranking the top of the premiership, as has Cantinflas, the flower of 1950’s Mexican cinema. And, well, we are running out of words that rhyme with power. Please email suggestions. In the meantime, enjoy a look at the great towers of legendary architect Gaudi. We present your EPL tower rankings.

The Magnum Opus Pieces – Chelsea

The Sagrada Familia, a large Roman Catholic Church, initiated construction in 1882. While long considered the obra maestra of Gaudi, one must beg the question: when will we enjoy the finished opus? Realistic estimates place completion around 2026. Note how the construction cranes seamlessly blend in with the looming towers, as if, as if…Gaudi himself knew this blueprint would be in perpetual construction.

Chelsea relied on a controversial penalty to tie a slippery passing West Ham side, but the African Cup of Nations will pose Carlos Ancelotti problems. Can an incomplete Chelsea side continue to get results without the likes of Didier Drogba or John Obi Mikel? The Blues currently sit atop the Premiership, but points may not come so easily in January.

The Battling Casa Battlo – Arsenal

When designing this magnificence mansion, Gaudi appeared to have one simple goal in mind: avoid straight lines. The bending back of the building and the turret and cross on top has led to an intriguing theory: is the estate’s structure a dragon being stabbed by good old St. George? I actually think it represents an apatosaurus with a hardened calcium deposit on the spinal column, but the Fullbright people did not care to indulge my research request.

Arsenal continue to play attractive, mazy, and at times quixotic football. Still,  despite a win at Anfield and being 2 points from United, Gunners’ fans themselves do not know how to feel about Arsenal. With so many quality strikers on the trainer’s table and Vela still struggling with the pace of the EPL, Wenger has put his faith in the diminutive Arshavin as the tip of his offensive triangle.

It has succeeded thus far, but against negative tactics and physical defending, the Gunners may rely on the heads of Gallas and Vermaeleen for goals, a frightening prospect. And while Alexander Song has started to shine, national team duties with Camaroon will snatch him away. As one cold-overed blogger lamented,”Oh, these Gunners…”

The Crass and Costly Casa Mila -Manchester United

Gaudi needed to turn a buck, so he often worked for wealthy patrons. The couple who hired him for the Casa Mila was Pere Mila, an ostentatious developer, and Rosario Segimon, an affluent widow. In fact, one joke states that Pere only married Segimon for her guardiola, Spanish for a “piggybank” and also her deceased husband’s last name. I am unclear if Pep descended from this lineage, but that would explain his dapper Burberry designer ties.

The Fulham loss merely shone light on the dark state of the United backline. Carrick, not known for his tackling in midfield, was never going to make Red Devils fans forget Rio or Evans. And Fletcher at right back, one of the positions most dependent on pace in the EPL? I like to think with enough force a square peg can enter a circle, but…United just need to spend money this winter break. And lots of it.

The Guell Park Facelift – AstonVilla

When Gaudi designed the Guell Park, he confronted a monumental task: turn the decrepit remains of a failed housing development into a tribute to nature. And he succeed in stunning fashion. Gaudi was so happy with the resulting product, that he purchased a house “La Torre Rosa” which is located at the park’s entrance.

The Villains, based on their meager 3 losses, are tough to beat. Martin O’Neill has not dramatically remade last year’s side, but instead has instilled a tremendous spirit. And…Ashley Young has dazzled. The victory at Old Trafford was stunning and easily the highlight thus far, and all Villains smile to look down the table at the Barry-inspired City.

Yes, a picture says a thousand words. But I really don’t have the energy to play with Picasa or write 1,000 words. Maybe characters, but not words. Instead, read this weekend recap and just make believe it meets my editor’s word count. That’s the beauty – I am my own editor. And I’m skating on thin ice.

In England…

I would say that Arsenal put a dent in Liverpool’s title chances, but my mathematically inclined copy editor has informed that the difference between a 1/1000th chance and 1/2000th chance is statistically insignificant. Thus, I will instead say that Arsenal deservedly beat Liverpool 2-1. The Scousers did take a 1-0 lead into the half, but Arsenal’s possession dominance turned the tide of the game early in the second. Once the Gunners gave up attempting to cross to a 5′8 out of position sole striker (Arshavin), and began playing the ball to feet, things fell into place.

At Old Trafford, Manchester United’s makeshift defense failed to keep a clean sheat against Aston Villa as Aglongconfusinglastname rose high to head home the game winner. More surprisingly, Michael Owen failed to a score a hat trick. Thus, a few major papers temporarily put on hold their “Owen Haunts Capello Nightmares” headlines. At least for the time being. He may score in a worthless midweek cup match, though. And props to these fine publications for saving the environment by recycling preposterous headlines.

At Stamford Bridge, Ricardo Carvahlo continued his renaissance for Chelsea as the Roberto Carlos of central defense. While supplying killer passes for the opening two Blues goals, he played no small part in all three Everton goals. Nobody in the isles wants to admit this fact, but Terry and Ricardo’s failure to handle a routine throw-in will keep Fabio Capello up at night more so than Owen’s occasional purple patch. But at least he’s a reliable penalty kick taker.

In Iberia…

The best kept secret in Madrid, aside from stealing your neighbor’s wireless, is Gonzalo Higuain. Despite riding the bench last season when Ramos cowered before Raul, the young Argentine led the merengues in goals. And this season? Pellegrini’s psychological torture of the once eternal siete threatens to overshadow the Pipita’s emergence from Raul’s shadow. But two goals away at Valencia should keep him in the pichichi chase, even if he has failed to warm over the cold hearts in Madrid.

Meanwhile, amidst the hullabaloo of the Catalan derby, Zlatan Ibrahimovic has quietly lived up to ridiculously high expectations. His job interview and description was pretty brutal – “So, basically we won everything last year and you will be replacing our most prolific goalscorer of the last decade.” Still, the Swede smashed home a penalty kick in the first half and Barcelona turn 70% possession into an extended and painful passing sequence. Painful for Espanyol, that is. And neutral spectators.

The Gunners-Liverpool match provided a classic case of the reeling multinational financial institution and the upstart credit union. On the one hand, the American bailout of the Scousers finances a few years ago only magnified the debt and jacked up the interest rate. On the other hand, Torres and Gerrard have a telepathic understanding – without even a phone call, text message, or email, they wore the exact same outfit to work the last four weekends.

Some coworkers get along, others get quite cozy.

The opening fifteen minutes followed the EPL top four formula of a classic rock reunion tour. The band started off on all cylinders, playing all your favorite songs in the span of, well, fifteen minutes. Then, the 55 year old chops, hands, and hips started to show their age. They played a few tunes from that less popular but slightly critically acclaimed (by their standards) album as your elderly father took a break to the johnny on the spots to relieve his overactive prostrate. After treatment, though, both William Gallas and Javier Mascherano were able to carry on despite hip flexor problems.

The Gunners attacked down the right flank where Theo Walcott and Sagna conspired to outrun their own passes. However, even when combining well, the utilitarian calculus lacked an unjustifiable end – did anyone really expect Arshavin to beat Carragher to a cross? A poorly thought out plan, well executed, is still a poorly thought out plan.

Arsenal looked for Fabregas with every spell of the ball, but Mascherano hounded his tiny Spanish counterpart all over the pitch. Alexander Song did his best to cover Torres, with a few late tackles keeping the Spaniard’s highlights bleached on his head and not some Sky Sports clip. Scousers had a halfway legit penalty appeal when Gallas took out Gerrard’s right ankle, but luckily the Englishman’s poor third touch had already short-ciruited his own chance.

When Dirk Kuyt pounced on a poor Almunia clearance, Liverpool garnered a deserved 1-0 lead, deserved as in “relative competence.”

Arsenal started the second half like a cobra on fire, weaving rapidly through the Scousers defense and spitting sparks and venom at every turn. Within minute, Glenn Johnson got caught out of position – in his own defensive box instead of overlaping – and knocked a dangerous low cross into his own goal.

Minutes later, Johnson got skinned by Arshavin with a tomahawk chop turn – bending a curling right foot shot in off the near post. The Scousers sputtered and sputtered, chugging along like a train without a track. Alquilani came on for Mascherano, but even his tidy ten foot passes could not reset the sputtering offensive clock.

The last thirty minutes were a tortured series of uninteresting encores as the bassist fell asleep, the drummer’s arthritic wrists gave way to synthetic beats, and the lead singer lost his voice. The referee, who’s first half laissez faire approach took a page from We the Living, began carding tired players with the interventionist aplomb called for in The Jungle.

Gassed from 70 minutes of running, both sides found themselves susceptible for pivots, elasticos, and a very special trick: the completion of a ten foot pass. Until Liverpool remasters this skill, the Kop will stay a very quiet place.

In Iberia…

Real Madrid struggled to overcome a spirited Almeria at the Santiagu Bernabeu. Despite an early Sergio Ramos goal, two second half goals from Almeria put the merengues on the backfoot for a large chunk of the match. Still, the substitution of Karim Benzema sparked  Madrid comeback, with Cristiano Ronaldo also playing a key part.

The Portuguese heartthrob threw a hissy fit after missing his penalty kick, and things got worse after he scored the game winning goal. Portu-hulk…Got…Angry….PORTU-HULK TAKE OFF SHIRT! Granted, a large collection of teenage girls screamed with delight (and perhaps a handful of their fathers), although Florentino Perez shook his head in disgust. “How am I supposed to sell millions of this clown’s shirt when he himself doesn’t wear it?”

Meanwhile, Barcelona beat Deportivo La Coruna with strong performances by both Leo Messi and Zlatan Ibrahimovic. The lumbering Swede and pint  sized Argentine may play opposite styles of footy, but sometimes opposites attract. And sometimes opposites peacefully and silently coexist out of necessity, never crossing a word, all for the childrens’ sake.

The Catalan universe continued to run on paradoxes, as the goliath Zlatan headed wide at 14 minutes, yet the diminutive Messi headed home  in the second half for the winner. Still, after a handful of draws, the Azulgrana were more than happy to snatch a few points from those pesky Galicians.

Across the channel…

Arsenal ended their rough spell with a 2-0 victory over Stoke City. With Robin Van Persie injured for an extended period and no amount of Serbian witchdoctor magic speeding his recovery, Arsene Wenger opted to place Andrei Arshavin at the tip of his attacking triangle.

Cesc Fabregas pulled a CR9 and missed a penalty kick, but the impressive Arshavin recovered from a lingering Slovenian hangover to score the opening goal. And was assisted by the repentant yet still slick passing Spaniard.

At the Eastlands, Manchester City picked up their first major scalp with a 2-1 victory over league leading Chelsea. The Blues started brightest, but Didier Drogba failed on numerous occasions to extend the 1-0 lead after an Adebayor own goal.

Most importantly for City, Carlos Tevez took a break from his busy modelling career (he’s the “before pic” for total facial reconstructive surgery co.) to curl in a delightful freekick that put City ahead. And City finally ended their run of one hundred and one straight draws.

Manchester United demolished West Ham with a 4-0 victory at Old Trafford. The makeshift Red Devils defense, with Gary Neville in central defense and Darren Fletcher at right back, did little work as United dominated possession with a rejuvenated Michael Carrick pulling the strings to perfection.

Still, the old but but not yet decrepit fledglings stole the show, as a Scholes’ cannon and a classic Giggs’ scamper resulted in the first two goals. AntonioValencia also continued his impressive run, calmly finishing an Anderson cross to add to an understated yet impressive first six months for United.

At Liverpool, the expectations are so low that even Rafa Benitez could find the positives in a dismal 0-0 draw at Ewood Park. Yes, the Scouser defense did manage to keep a clean sheet on the road.

When asked to list the positives, the unusually optimistic Benitez noted “well, Kuyt did not get injured…Lucas did not get injured….Benayoun did not get injured…Carragher did not get injured…Ngog did not get injured…” And the Futfanatico correspondent left after half an hour of such ramblings.