They say that the Premier League is no country for old men, that its dash and intensity are too much for the over-30s.

The year is still in its infancy, but already 2012 has proved the nay-sayers wrong. With the broad shouldered Phil Jones losing impulsive cult followers with every passing game, English football is turning to tried and tested players.

In its perpetual quest to destabilize the English national team, club football has sent a resounding message. The returns of Paul Scholes to Manchester United and Thierry Henry to Arsenal are reminders that the Premier League lacks faith in the youth game, and that its cynical commercialism trumps all. Fancy a Paul Scholes No. 22 shirt?

However, 2011/12 will never seduce the Premier League’s most recent retiree. Edwin van der Sar’s career ended in May, without an asterisk. But United fans remember him, with throbbing temples every time David De Gea leaps for a corner, or Anders Lindegaard’s complacent feet encourage an opposing striker to press high-up the pitch. The ghost of van der Sar still haunts the United penalty area, undermining its youthful commanders.

It’s unsurprising that De Gea and Lindegaard are struggling to emulate the man who Rio Ferdinand still calls “the best I’ve ever played with”. Van der Sar set incomparable standards, refining his on-field presence through years of experience and incessant success. United’s defensive struggles this season are a tribute not only to their former goalkeeper’s shot stopping ability, but also to his encouraging yet aggressive attitude; van der Sar was able to unite ever-changing back fours, and to ride calmly through the worst of injury crises.

His poise was admirable. He saved Nicolas Anelka’s weak penalty to win Manchester United the Champions League. Van der Sar, glistening in the Moscow rain, his arms raised high in the air is an iconic image; as famous as Ole Solskjaer sliding across the Camp Nou turf.

Van der Sar’s calm confidence facilitated his record-breaking run of clean sheets in December and January of 2008/2009. From Samir Nasri’s lash at the Emirates to Peter Lovenkrands’ prod at St. James’ (a total of 20 hours of football) the Dutchman didn’t concede a single goal. Against West Brom, he broke Petr Cech’s record run of clean sheets in the Premier League; a game later he toppled Steve Death’s British record. He smashed Danny Vanderlinen’s European total at home to Fulham*.

“His calming influence goes right through the team,” Giggs said after the West Brom game. “He is getting better with age. Yes, he has great players in front of him but, when he is called upon, he never makes a mistake.” From the beginning of his streak Van Der Sar maintained that numbers were not what mattered, that Manchester United’s quest for an 18th title was more important than any statistical milestones. Yet, 3-0 up and with just minutes left against Fulham, a Bobby Zamora shot bounced inches wide of the United goal, and van der Sar grinned – a slightly mischievous half smile. That was about as close as he ever came to self-indulgence.

Henry Winter lucidly described Manchester United’s frightening confidence during van der Sar’s record tilt. “These are memorable days and nights for Sir Alex Ferguson’s players,” he wrote. “From San Siro to St James’, they gleam with conviction… An aura of invincibility surrounds them.”

When Peter Lovenkrands slotted home after just eight minutes at St. James’ Park to end van der Sar’s record run of clean sheets, the Geordies behind the goal began chanting “dodgy keeper, dodgy keeper.” The humor, however, failed to ruffle van der Sar. His focus and composure over the last eighty minutes helped United to a 2-1 win.

Van der Sar’s run ended at 1311 minutes, but the resolve it instilled never left Manchester United that season. Even in Rome, where United’s Dutch No. 1 was denied a third career European Cup, fans left convinced of United’s potential.

“When we go 1-0 up, other teams think ‘Oh no, here we go, it’s going to be hard,’” van der Sar said that year, after one of his many clean sheets. “That’s what we want, we want to create fear in the opposition.”

Van der Sar placed his record-breaking achievement in the context of its importance to his team. More than most players, he subscribed to Alex Ferguson’s belief, however cliched, that “no man is bigger than the club.”

It’s the Dutchman’s pervasive calm that Manchester United has missed most this season. The foundation of United’s 2009 back five is slowly crumbling: Nemanja Vidic is out with a long-term injury, John O’Shea plays for Sunderland, and Ferdinand and Evra are regressing. In a year, of the seven key contributors to the 2008/09 defense, perhaps only Rafael and Evans will remain.

It’s telling that van der Sar was the first to leave. He was more than just a fabulous goalkeeper; he was the foundation-stone on which United’s most parsimonious rear guard was built. His decision to retire began the defensive decline that United are experiencing now. After so many years of solidity, though, it would be churlish to complain.

*The length of Verlinden’s streak remain unclear. According to some reports, van der Sar actually fell 72 minutes short of the Belgian’s record.

This was written by David Yaffe-Bellany. He is the editor of In For The Hat Trick. You can follow him on Twitter.

iSimangaliso Wetlands Park. Formerly known as ‘Greater St Lucia Wetlands Park’. The destination for myself and the future Mrs Pattison on a scorching hot Sunday in November. It was the final stop on our whirlwind three day safari before returning to our Charity project in Kwa Zulu-Natal. Drifting in and out of fitful sleep, I was enveloped by that maudling, detached, melancholic sense that an unforgettable experience was coming to an end; a fitting state of mind for the bombshell about to drop.

A jolt; and I was snapped out of my haze. Our guide for the trip Jannie was a long-limbed, iron jawed Afrikaaner; whose penchant for the worst excesses of early nineties rock had formed the backdrop to our high speed cruise along the monotous freeway. The abrupt interruption of James Hetfield mid-growl signalled that our trip to ‘Never Never Land’ would have to be put on hold as he had to ‘go take a pee mate.’ Naturally having a bladder the size of a pea, my beloved followed Jannie’s march to the facilities (either that or they were conducting an illicit romantic liaison in South Africa’s finest services). My thoughts as had become the norm on these roadside pit-stops turned to one thing: Liqui Fruit. Addictions can develop at a surprising pace; for me this invigorating fruit punch had become an obsession. Having made my purchase and happily slurping on my carton of ‘marula mania’ I turned to the newspaper section to kill time whilst I waited for Jannie and Laura to return. Of course, I couldn’t understand a word of the prose as it was entirely Afrikaans so my flicking through the pages amounted to looking at the pictures.

Then came two pictures of familiar faces that grabbed my attention. The only words I could discern from the headline was KEANE FERGUSON MANCHESTER. My heart started to race; what the bloody hell could it all mean? The headline appeared angry, but then again everything said or written in Afrikaans invariably does.

It’s okay, I’ll ask Jannie. At least I would if he wasn’t honking the horn of the truck, having lit a (hopefully not post-coital) cigarette. When a large South African with Metallica on full volume orders you to leave, it really isn’t the time to ask if he mind playing the role of translator.

Onward. For three hours. My mind was darting all over the place. Injury? New contract? Retirement? Soundtracked by Def Leppard and Roxette, I thought back over all my enduring images of Roy. In the tunnel with Vieira. Driving home the crucial goal against Bayern. Surging through to finish at Highbury. Dragging us back from the precipice in the Delle Alpi. I was now 22 and in that time the single happiest moment of my life had been sealing the trophy at Camp Nou. It felt like we had ‘completed football’ and Roy more than any other in my view was responsible for that. He was the foundation upon which our finest hour had been built. What the hell had happened?

The Wetlands was beautiful. On an open top boat we cruised up the river, observing families of hippos having the time of their lives whilst crocs sunbathed watching on. Yet whilst I was undoubtedly enjoying the experience the anxiety over the Roy story festered. I don’t believe in fate and all that nonsense but it does seem strange looking back that my expectations at that time were predominantly negative. It was a challenging time to follow the team; the climate of uncertainty of the new Glazer era sat uncomfortably with me and being on self-imposed hiatus from my daily feed of all things United I became naturally inclined to fear the worst. Fittingly the Teeside humiliation had been the last game I had managed to see. Glumly looking on from a Pretorian bar as my beloved Reds were taken apart, losing 4-1 to a rampant Middlesborough side made the prospect of two months without watching United seem a blessing rather than an unfortunate consequence of our ‘do-gooding’ exploits.

Arriving back very late it would ordinarily be unthinkable to call home but I knew in these circumstances Dad would understand. (It wouldn’t be the last time that United news would be shared from distant lands - two years later in Peru a call to share the news of our engagement was hijacked by details of the Tevez signing.) The phone rang for what seemed like an eternity. Hopes dashed, I became resigned to waiting a whole other day. Only to hear a crackle, a distinctive grumble, and a clearly furious voice come down the line. After quelling his initial concerns that something serious had happened my end, I explained about the newspaper story. My voice was a tremble with trepidation as I enquired as to what has happened with our captain, our leader, my hero.

A pause on the line. A deep sigh. And at that point, I knew my worst fears were about to be confirmed.

‘I’m sorry, son. He’s gone.’

This was written by Tom Pattison. Tom discusses music on his blog ‘Listen With Danger‘ and writes about United for The Faithful. You can follow him on Twitter. (The kind man has contributed to this series before – read here.)

Sandwiched in between the utter naivety of the first seven or eight years of your life and the predictable yawn of teenage anxiety, there’s a golden age in childhood. It’s that age when climbing trees, skimming stones and dressing as a one-eyed buccaneer is not only immensely enjoyable, but also immensely important. It’s the magical stuff that Mark Twain writes about, much better than I ever could. Still, I’ll give it a bash.

It’s true that summers last forever during this golden age. Games played with friends, brothers, even enemies, go on long into those warm, hazy nights, really meaning something. Going for a kick about? Making the most crucial last ditch sliding tackle of your little life, more like.

It’s in this period that an interest in football becomes a devotion. For a while mine manifested itself in recording the vital statistics of every Manchester United game on a pad of A4 lined paper. Home side always listed first, teams underlined in red, goalscorers noted with the time of goal coming afterwards in square brackets, that kind of thing.

It felt like I did this for at least a couple of seasons, but when I dug it out recently I discovered I’d actually given up after about twelve games. It was rather tedious, after all, and once I’d missed out a couple of matches by accident the whole neat little project came tumbling down. Looking at my father’s ancient Subbuteo boxes, it appears he’d done a similar thing, only in a slightly more haphazard way. Apparently Nottingham Forest were once a good team, would you believe?

Anyway, one name appeared time and again under the ‘United’ column in my records: A Cole. Thanks to my blissful golden age, I watched football purely for the football. I knew nothing of Cole’s initial difficulty in settling at United, in a team dominated by a certain French striker, I didn’t even know that he’d been Sir Alex’s second choice really, and was even offered in part-exchange for Alan Shearer at one point. All I knew was that he was our best goal scorer, and that he scored all the time.

When Eric Cantona – our best player, if not our best striker – retired, I was gutted like the rest of you.  I came into school an innocent, happy child, only to be confronted by these nasty rumours that The King had quit football to become an actor.  Ridiculous. Had to be jealous Liverpool fans, right? I checked with my dad later that day: “they’re pulling my leg, right dad?”

Incredibly, they weren’t. Cantona was gone, and a year later a rather uninspiring player was signed to fill his void: Dwight Yorke.

Not being from one of the bigger clubs, I didn’t know much about Yorke, only that apparently he’d scored a few for Villa. He just didn’t look good, though. While Cole wasn’t exactly Mr Interesting, he at least exuded coolness. Yorke, though, had this chubby, leering face.  Had to be bad news, he did.

(Seen through the eyes of a child, Ronaldinho (when we had the chance to snatch him) probably looked like a bad option to replace Beckham a few years later. Luckily in the case of Yorke, Fergie pulled off a brilliant transfer this time and I was made to look like a ten-year-old.)

Cole and Yorke struck it off immediately. They must’ve each scored ten overhead kicks in that magical treble-winning season, if not twenty. And those stepover dummies, running onto the inevitable return pass and stroking it with ease into the net! Talk about a strike partnership. I’d never seen such telepathy.

The best thing about these two was that they came as a pair. Alone, a genius like Ryan Giggs or David Beckham could score a vital goal to win a game, but Cole and Yorke needed each other to play well. Far from being a hindrance though, it made them better; they were far greater than the sum of their parts. They worked for each other, they played for each other, they summed up the Old Trafford ethos of teamwork and co-operation.

We all remember that goal against Barcelona, and thankfully it’s one of those that really was that good, golden age or not.  It encapsulated the Cole/Yorke relationship in a move of such simplicity and beauty that you won’t see many better at the highest level. We may have scraped through the Champions League group stage as the tournament’s second best runners-up, behind Real Madrid (and highest scorers, 20, of which Cole got 3 and Yorke grabbed 5), but nobody could really complain that we hadn’t deserved it. It’d been a killer of a group anyway: any one of Barca, Bayern Munich or us could’ve gone on to win the thing that year. Little did I know that when we met Bayern in the final for the grudge match, they too were looking to complete a treble.  I can still see Samuel Kuffour now, bawling and thumping the floor in anguish. As happy as I was, I’m proud to say I truly felt for the guy, seeing how much it hurt him.

So, there I was, twelve years old; one year left before the golden era would end. We won the title again the following season, and Cole and Yorke continued to make a mockery of Premier League defences, yet in truth I’d already started to notice things that took the gloss off it all – like Mark Bosnich and Quinton Fortune, for example.

What was initially planned as a piece about Cole morphed into one about Yorke, too, but it’s impossible to discuss one without the other – and I won’t even go near the rumours of what they got up to in their private life. After all, pre-pubescent boys don’t want titillation; they just want football. The break-up of the Cole/Yorke magic coincided with the end of my golden era, perhaps even contributed to it. There would still be brilliant goals and fantastic forwards afterwards, but none of them felt the same. Ruud van Nistelrooy seemed to take pleasure in scoring only dull goals, and when Rooney and Ronaldo came along I had the wherewithal to notice that, while they are excellent footballers, they’re pretty despicable human beings.

Call it the golden age, call it nostalgia, but for me there will never be such a formidable strike partnership in English football. On their own, Cole and Yorke were good strikers. Together they were unplayable.

This was written by Jude Ellery. You can find more of him over at Strange bOUnce, the place where sport-inspired (mostly football – wahey!) fiction, satire and verse flourish. Follow him on Twitter, good people.

In sport, reputation can be crystallised or destroyed in one match. Claudio Gentile was unfairly recognised as a hard-man outside Italy for his savage treatment of Diego Maradona (and then Zico in the next game) in the 1982 World Cup but here was a player who was fantastically more all-rounded than that one game made him. On the other hand, and more debatable, was the reputation Owen Hargreaves forged in World Cup 2006 after his lung-busting display against Portugal, rocketing his value sky-high to earn a £18milion move to Manchester United. Before that, he was a much maligned player in Sven Goran-Eriksson’s England squad. In cricket, Dimitri Mascarenhas is often viewed as a big-hitter after once scoring five sixes in an over but his record as a batsman previously showed him horribly out-of-his depth. However, for Darron Gibson and his Manchester United career, he has suffered the misfortune of having his star rise and shot back down, in one match.

That game was against Bayern Munich in the Quarter-Finals of the Champions League in 2010. Manchester United were already trailing, having been defeated 2-1 in the first-leg away but raced into a 3-0 lead before half-time with Gibson opening the scoring. However, the game turned on its head just before half-time as Ivica Olic pulled one back for Bayern before Rafael inexplicably got himself sent-off for over-zealousness as the Germans then scored the goal they needed to send them through. The defeat left Sir Alex Ferguson bitter and in a way, the team involved paid the price for their carefree manner. It might be notable, although personal issues and injury problems had contributed, Wayne Rooney has rarely figured as a lone-striker since then despite the goals he scored; Fabio usurped Rafael in the right-back position for the calmness he exudes while Gibson hasn’t been given the same run in the side that he did in the lead-up to that game.

Perhaps, the Bayern game was irrelevant – United could have emerged victorious and all that Gibson may have gained from it was short-lived hero status – and, maybe, we’re just being kind. Perhaps, he was just a frighteningly average player; one who fades in and out of games and one whose impact can only be felt when he plays lucky dip with the goalkeeper and takes a shot. But let’s be honest, here (and put your Gibson effigy down/stop your party) – that would be harsh.

It became most obvious at the start of the 2010/11 season that Gibson was not what many call ‘United quality’ – a term all-too-often bandied around for every other player, but, when talking about Gibson, it seemed a fair description. However, that didn’t mean he was a bad player. What it meant was that he deserved to somewhere else; best-case scenario, a mid-table club where his efforts would be appreciated. Somewhere where the services of a good player, nothing more was required.

What Everton are getting is a player who can do more than just hit a ball really hard – contrary to popular opinion – but someone who can spot a pass, who can read the situation, who recognises the importance in ball retention and who was fairly robust in the challenge. But that just wasn’t enough, not when you consider his flaws to go with it. Of course not. Not at United.

But the Bayern Munich game is still important in this story (a rather drab one, to be fair). It was quite comfortably his best game in a red shirt and football, as we’ve seen and are still seeing, has had many players, seemingly average, flourish from not only faith shown by the man with power but with the self-confidence of a plucky deer who had just fought off two hungry gazelles (or something). These players have just the right attributes to get around. Gibson could have been that man. A healthy run of games after that fateful night would have been of a great benefit, for sure; because the reason his flaws were so exposed was simply that he just wasn’t able to develop and grow as a player. And in that sense, he was unlucky. Thankfully, Darron Gibson has another chance. At cash-strapped Everton. And best of luck to him, too.

There’s a moment in every superhero story where the protagonist momentarily loses his power. In the 1986 relaunch of DC Comic’s Superman series, John Byrne revised the superhero’s abilities so that it would be easier to for writers to come up with suitable challenges. Last night, Newcastle United was such a challenge for Manchester United’s Phil Jones. Because, up to now, the Premier League season had been too easy for him. Whatever position and scenario he had been thrown into, Jones had reacted with aplomb. But finally, he met his match, as the powerful duo of Demba Ba and particularly, Shola Ameobi, proved an overwhelming nemesis and has shown that, after all the endless praise he has received, some dose of realism is needed to be had.

The other more pressing issue is of Phil Jones’ position. At the Sports Direct Arena, he played at centre-back – much believed to be his eventual and best role – but he suffered against the directness of Newcastle’s play and the physicality of the two forwards. This can be rather harshly analysed further as he was involved – and perhaps even, at fault – for all three of Newcastle goals, firstly being beaten in the air by Ameobi; then conceding the free-kick that Yohan Cabaye converted and lastly, having the misfortune of scoring an own goal. Phil Jones will be a fine player but he’s also had to carry a lot of responsibility in his début season for Manchester United and that’s a lot to ask of a young player. However, that’s also testament to Jones’s great ability as he has become almost essential to the side. Perhaps not yet at centre-back where he looks a bit lost between attacking the ball and not – something Rio Ferdinand has mastered – but more likely in central midfield where his drive is essential in a team which is still finding its identity. Again, Jones has had to step up following the injuries to Tom Cleverley and Darren Fletcher like his has had to filling in at right-back.

If Jones suffered, Manchester United also suffered and they looked a shadow of what they were, not only in the first few months of the season but lacking the traits of all Sir Alex Ferguson teams in the past. Once they went behind, and that task was made even harder once Cabaye has scored straight after half-time, they reacted so meekly. They had one real chance; Wayne Rooney’s shot cleared off the line – when have they last reacted so insipidly under Sir Alex? Then was the performance of United’s attackers, most prominently that of Rooney’s. The England striker was substituted off in the second-half, improbably, when United were chasing the game. Again, when has that happened under Sir Alex Ferguson? although sometimes, sacrilegious substitutions have to be made.

Rooney was substituted because influence was becoming an hindrance, retarding attacking moves due to poor execution of the final ball and at times, getting in his own team-mates way. That’s because his positioning is often Manchester United’s best and he knows it, the Gaffer knows it but history has similarly seen overly-influential players become sacrificed for the team’s cause. Rafael Benitez did it in April 2010 in a heated Merseyside derby by replacing Steven Gerrard for Lucas to calm the game down while Argentina imploded in World Cup 2006 after taking off Juan Roman Riquelme but because they were so reliant on him, they couldn’t mount a comeback. It was probably the wrong choice to take off Rooney but Sir Alex could see the striker’s desperation and thought that he may compose himself if he was shunted to the left. Alas, it was to no avail and he was eventually replaced by Javier Hernandez.

Manchester United’s wing-play was uncharacteristically poor, as it was in the defeat to Blackburn Rovers 2-3 previously. In fact, there were imbalances throughout the team team. Newcastle pressed and United’s passing from the back was panicky. The gap between central midfield and defence was too large although that can be put down to Newcastle’s two strikers playing very high in United’s half and the fact that quickly, they had to chase the game. At the end of the match, Newcastle United manager, Alan Pardew, seemed more taken aback by, not the result, but how easy his team prevailed. Indeed, you might have forgiven him if he boastfully exclaimed in his post-match interview, such was the dominance of Cheik Tioté, that “the formula for beating Manchester United is not so complicate: leave the ball for them in the centre of their midfield and wait for someone to do something. It’s like waiting for Godot: nothing will happen.” In actual fact he said: “We won because we controlled the game. They had a lot of balance in their team but we didn’t let them play and we deserved to beat the champions,” said Pardew. “We took a big gamble with our high line but by pressing them we broke up their play so many times. We took a physical risk in that at the back we were sometimes two versus two, but we could cope with it. We got a great victory because we sat on them all night and were aggressive.”

The worrying thing for United fans, it’s happened before, in the 1-2 defeat to Basle and it doesn’t often happen like this. Not under Ferguson. The performance was atypically Manchester United and they know they will have to show some of that “spirit” they’ve shown in the past if they are to keep abreast of Manchester City in the title race.

If we are to believe the lovely Mayans, the bearers of good news, then, sometime in 2012, the year we’ve just entered of course, the beautiful human race – and also Luis Suarez – will be wiped out by some sort of terrible catastrophe. Oh well. Thankfully however, there are a bunch of cool, slick wordsmiths who are considerably more optimistic than the Mayans and see this year as one, not of doom and gloom, but of happiness – in particular, for Manchester United.

Here’s what the editor of this site, and some of the other top-quality writers from around the interweb hope will happen in 2012 (and readers can contribute to in the comments section below):

An injury-free season for the Da Silva twins

As I’m all too familiar with in life, all good things never last. I got a brilliant new phone a few weeks back; it could do everything, such as talk to other, equally-unlucky people from long distances. Amazing, I know. But the joys were shortlived as the touch screen suddenly decided not to work – somehow, probably not the Mayans’ fault – and my smile was gone, replaced with a not-too-welcome frown. And there was something about this that reminded me of the da Silva twins. There’s something quite remarkably satisfying about watching them play; that Brazilian flair, that infectious smile, that curly hair. And they’re quite good, too. However, when everything’s going so well, it’s all undone when it happens. They pick up an injury. And my smile becomes a frown.

And so my wish for 2012 is an injury-free season for either – and, indeed, both – Rafael or Fabio da Silva. I’m absolutely sure should they stay fit (apologies for coupling them), Manchester United will enjoy a happy year. Both have the potential to be the best in their full-back positions too, and so it’s a shame that we’ve never seen either have a lengthy spell in the first team, yet instead they’re nursing a broken eyelash in the treatment room. Who knows, though? Perhaps, just perhaps, we’ll see them become the players we expect them to be this calendar year. Probably not. But – hey – a phoneless man can wish, and wish I will.

Ravel Morrison to drop the attitude and become a star

Forgive me, if you will, for momentarily lapsing into doom-mode to start things off. Times are not, no matter how hard the sighing decree, really that bad. Or if they are, well it’s only a game, isn’t it? Delude to amuse, and all that carry on. However, there does appear to be a lingering air of futility around United supporters’ every wish, demand, desire and enunciating of positivity during these current times. Many will purport that a month of wishing for wonderment is a relatively wasteful exercise, given there’s a litany of ugly obstacles lying each and every way – namely: lack of, um, money, something apparently vital when chasing a player who’s good at playing the game. Ooops. The same sense of futility applies itself to those who admirably bat aside the need for acquisition in lieu of promoting young stars. It’s an appetite born not solely out of an excitement at what’s waiting, but also a sad desperation. We seek change because we’re not happy with what’s in front of us; in fact, our unhappiness can be measured by the way in which we implore Ferguson to change things: by using kids. But our current impairment cannot, despite our romantic notions, be so simply bandaged up.

Ravel Morrison is a rarefied talent. Despite only making 3 first team appearances, his career is already marked by a deluge of juxtapositions. He is one of the finest young talents the club has ever possessed, and he’s also the most criminally immature. His sleekness and irrefutable genius on the ball is hampered by a lingering proneness to tapping frantically at the implosion button. There is a hunger to his game, too: little is made, or heard, of the fact that when he’s not at the club he’s daily partaking in five-a-sides and indoor jousts with the friends who the club would rather he parted with. And yet, despite his seemingly obsessive compulsion to be traversing a pitch at all times, he regularly fails to turn up for training. Quite how a boy of 18 could possess such an attitude is more worrying than it is deplorable. It is surreal and offers little in the way of hope. Morrison, for all his illimitable talent and potential, will be left with all the other would-have-beens unless the realisation of what lies in store dawns on him soon. The majority of those who have invested a hope in him have done so with a belief that it will all work out eventually. Ferguson knows how to deal with troubled gems, we hear. Or Ravel will simply grow out of it. But Morrison is a special case: one who, so far, hasn’t bucked up. Many believed his oozing style would enliven the dull Christmas period, including the club. The scattered word was that his knock post-Palace had ruled him out. The truth was it hadn’t.

2012 is going to be a defining year for United. The title will either be retained or lost to a rising blue sea across town. A midfielder will or will not be bought, and United will either stay and sink or rise to the level a club of its standard should be playing at. Ferguson will age another year and his reign will edge ever closer to its end. The Glazers will pilfer even more money and the vast majority won’t care. And Ravel Morrison, that complex and wonderfully gifted enigma, will either embrace the chances his talents will rightly earn him or see a career dissolve before it even raises its head to the brilliance of what awaits if he really does want it. Forget, for a moment, the talent of Paul Pogba – someone who, if reports are accurate, isn’t overly keen on staying with the club. Ravel Morrison, above anyone, is the one who is unequivocally talented enough to fuel a fire that has been fading out in midfield for too long. Early signs are not encouraging, no matter how readily we dress it up and state the contrary. We try to mask reality because we think that if we say something often enough it will eventually become true and everything will turn out fine and dandy. But, given it’s a new year and the effects of my seasonal indulgences are yet to wear off, I’ll spring a hope upon us: that Ravel Morrison will wriggle free of his own strangle-hold and liberate himself and us. Mark Kelleher, Stretford End

Rio Ferdinand to confirm his status as the best

My first thought was to hope our young players carry on their progress and at least one of them properly ‘breaks through’ – however after giving it some thought I’m plumping for a senior member of the squad, Rio Ferdinand. I’d love to see Rio stay fit in 2012 and remain at the club beyond the summer (there’s been plenty of speculation that he’ll leave). Rio will mark ten years at the club this summer and will probably go down as the best defender in United’s history. This season so far he’s proven he’s still a quality footballer when he’s fit and with Vidic out for a long time he could be crucial in the quest for silverware and helping the youngsters develop. It would be nice to see him reinstated as the captain of England for Euro 2012 too – I wouldn’t be surprised if he retired from international football after the tournament so if he could lead England to victory that would be perfect. His Twitter presence has tainted his reputation in the eyes of some but for me he’s the best defender I’ve ever seen and it would be great if his career hits another peak, in 2012. Doron Salomon, Stretford End (again)

2012 to be David De Gea’s year

My wish for the coming year is that Ferguson will find the solution to the present goalkeeping situation. I say the ‘situation’ merely because there is a concern about De Gea’s adaptation to the English game, Fergie himself admitting that he is rotating the position to ‘help De Gea learn the Premier League’ from the sidelines.  The manager is too long in the tooth not to understand the intricacies of introducing a young player to the world’s biggest football club, more, introducing a foreign youngster to the most specialised position on the football pitch. Hence we saw the astute acquisition of Lindegaard, and his rotation of both keepers has thus far worked well – United are level-pegging with Manchester City, and both players have broadly impressed when given the chance. But 2012 should be the year that United see out their ‘transition’, and a settled back line – which includes the goalkeeper – should help settle the side no end.

For me, there is no doubt that the Spaniard will go on to become a fantastic goalkeeper, and United’s number one. The decision to procure his services from Atletico Madrid for £18 million was taken with great forethought and precision – lest we forget that he made close to a century of appearances for the La Liga side, winning the Europa League and the UEFA Super Cup to boot, and has been described as ‘the future of Spanish football’. And whilst Lindegaard has yet to concede a goal in the few Premiership appearances to date, has shown great presence, and exudes a confidence that is often required in this position, I still believe that De Gea will eventually establish himself in 2012 with a consistency of performance that is demanded at this football club. Despite his recent difficulties (most notably in the air), he is more of a complete goalkeeper than the Dane, with a distribution (so vital in the modern game) arguably even better than Van der Sar’s, great agility, and importantly with the mental strength and concentration that has made him stand out at such a young age. Nik Storey, Stretford End (again!)

The beginning of the end for the Glazers

It’s a very unlikely scenario, but what I’d like to see in 2012 is the beginning of the end of the Glazers. How about this for a scenario… Sir Alex Ferguson makes the following rare admission in a presser on the summer tour of Asia:

Q – After being knocked out of Champions League and FA Cup early, and finishing second in Premier League … Will you be adding to the squad this summer?

Ferguson - ”We have to respond to the challenge we’ve been set, there’s no question about that. Since we lost the boy Ronaldo there’s been no money in the kitty. Money doesn’t take you all the way, but I’ve just had to make do. I’ve brought in some young players – there’s value when I sell them on. My hands are tied.”

The admission would exert significant presasure on the Glazers to sell up or provide cash. We know the latter is not on the agenda. By the summer the global markets *may* have calmed down enough for the Glazer family to partial IPO in Singapore, resulting in United supporters, or United-supporting investors taking a sizeable chunk of the club and being able to exert pressure. It would be 2005 in reverse, with outsiders chipping away at the Glazer shareholding until a full sale becomes inevitable… Ed Barker, United Rant

United fans to get behind the team

What I want to see in 2012? I’d like to see a permanent end to Middle East conflict. North and South Korea becoming the bestest of really best friends. The Government to suddenly find £100bn of gold they’d had locked in a vault for 50 years, like when you find a fiver in an old pair of jeans. I’d like the Evra and Suarez case to disappear and not to be angered by people’s responses to it daily.

This all seems a bit easy though, what’s the point of these things if you don’t aim high? So what I’d like to see in 2012 is a reality check. A realisation that United may not have the worst team in history.

I was told many times last season how bad United were, mainly from United supporters. So many teams had such superior squads. Then, when United won the league, it was still hard for some to admit their own team may not actually be an embarrassment. Victory was then qualified by saying the rest of the teams weren’t good enough and the title had been won in an easy season.

Of course this isn’t all United fans but a significant and vocal section. At Old Trafford the word ‘sh*t’ is statistically proven (that may be a lie) to be the most used, followed by ‘useless’ and ‘c*nt’, invariably directed at the home team. I’m not asking for blind optimism and for people to ignore frailties the team may have, just that it would be nice to not hear the team being slated week in, week out. For good results not to be met with reasons why they weren’t that good and for bad results not to be met with a gleeful ‘I told you all this, this is what I’ve been saying for ages.’

Unlikely, I know. Annie Eaves, Sports Witness

A visit from Saint Meredith

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
United socks hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that Saint Nicholas soon would be there.

The baby was nestled all snug in his bed,
While visions of footballers danced in his head.
A Littlewoods nightie, and dad’s special cap,
Lay close in attendance as owners did nap.

When out on Pitch One there arose such a clatter,
Wayne sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window he flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to goalposts below.
When, what to his wondering eyes should approach,
But a little red man, in a bustling team coach.

In his mouth was a pipe, or cigar, or a stick,
Wayne thought for a moment it must be Saint Nick!
More rapid than Concorde, the vehicle came,
Then he whistled and shouted, and called them by name.

“Now, Bobby! now, Georgey! now, Dennis and Duncan!
On, Malcolm, on! Joey, on! Francis and Colin!
To the top of the pitch! to the top of the goal!
Now run away! run away! run away all!”

All the men tumbled out when he parked up the bus,
One boot stood on another and Wayne heard a cuss.
But then up to the goalmouth the players they flew,
With a bag full of balls, and their eager boss, too.

And then, in a twinkling, Wayne saw on the grass
The players all dribbling or choosing to pass.
As he drew in his head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney their gaffer did come with a bound.

He landed, well balanced, with a ball at his foot,
His crimson shirt faded and all covered in soot.
But he brushed himself down and there right on his chest,
Sat proudly a dragon, on an old-style crest.

His eyes how they narrowed! his cheeks how they sunk!
As he saw young Wayne dressed in silk cap and silk trunks.
Then his mouth it grew small, as his lips, they went tight,
The moustache on his philtrum was black as the night.

The stump of a pick he held firm in his teeth,
Bit tight, he had clearly no rush to bequeath.
He had a slim body and yet slimmer smile,
That made poor Wayne wish he could run for a mile.

He was near perfect shape, a trim little old elf,
And Wayne shied when he saw him, in spite of himself.
The glare of his eye and his motionless head,
Soon gave Wayne to know he had something to dread.

He wasted no time and went straight to his task,
He rifled through cupboards, then turned sharp to ask:
“Dear Wayne, what is meant by this Christmas eve trip,
Is honest appraisal of this here wage slip.”

He held it aloft, the small blue printed note,
And queried the figure he proceeded to quote.
Why was Wayne still paid such a laughable sum,
When neighbouring players looked on and made fun?

Written by Jude Ellery, courtesy of strange bOUnce After Christmas, they’ll continue the festivities with more poetry, and a bit of fiction for good measure.

From everyone here at MU24 (just me, lonely), we wish you a Merry Chrimbo, Chanukah, Kwanzaa, whatever.

Like James Brown and his brand new bag,  Manchester United have rediscovered their “groove”. For a team supposedly in crisis, this win – and indeed, the general response post-Basel – serves as an emphatic reminder to the critics that they are very much still a force. Ryan Giggs perfectly summed up what was so good about Manchester United’s performance against Fulham last night: ”When you have so many options on the ball – people running in behind, people dropping in the hole – we’re a very difficult team to play,” Giggs eulogised after the impressive 5-0 win. “The performance was really pleasing.”

Granted, the opposition since that fateful night in Switzerland have been teams that United are expected to beat, but you’ve got to start somewhere – and United’s rehabilitation has gone fairly smoothly so far, brushing aside stubborn mid-table teams with much verve and conviction; and the only time they’ve been caught with a narcotic is when Dimitar Berbatov metaphorically puffed on one after scoring that audacious backheel for the fifth at Craven Cottage. That said, away ties against QPR and Fulham should always be regarded as tricky, anyway. Seven goals – with not a single goal conceded – is no mean feat, either.

In the previous campaign, many had cited United’s emphasis on a ‘collective’ ; where, it was difficult to distinguish an outstanding individual, because, as a unit, they were all equally good. Here it appeared as if there were many outstanding individuals. Ryan Giggs, for one. At 38, he continues to amaze and his central midfield partnership with Michael Carrick gives United a surprising dynamic. By design, they shouldn’t work together but it inconceivably does. Unfortunately for Fulham, a team that usually displays great presence in the centre of midfield, Dixen Etuhu and Danny Murphy both crumbled into anonymity from the very start.

Sir Alex may take comfort from another impressive display in the middle of the park given that United still lack incredible depth in that position – and with Phil Jones now out injured and Darron Gibson being Darron Gibson, there remains a lot to be addressed there. Still, there’s a possibility that United may get lucky even with so few numbers if they continue to play like this, and you’d imagine the manager is likely to take this risk and decide not to buy in the January window. It isn’t recommended – at all – but Sir Alex’s stubbornness works in many amazing ways and he’ll probably end up having the last laugh and, come May, cheerfully drinking red wine as expensive as Athletic Bilbao’s Javi Martinez. Anyway, back to the Fulham game.

Manchester United hadn’t played this well in a game since September; and usually, they need both Nani and Wayne Rooney to tick. As frustrating as Nani can be, there can be no disputing that he is United’s most productive player. According to the number nerds, he creates a chance every 29 minutes, the same as David Silva. Pretty good, that. For the first goal, his dazzling run was extraordinary; with so little space, he managed not only to sprint and hold it down the line, but find Danny Welbeck with a beautifully executed and pinpoint cross. His second was an uncharacteristic header, suggesting that Nani is indeed adept to any situation.

Rooney is in fine form, too; always making himself useful when dropping deep and so outnumbering the opposition in the process. Moreover, the fact that he finds himself in such a withdrawn position creates a problem for the defence, and helps Welbeck to prosper, too. While Welbeck isn’t as prolific as Javier Hernandez, he arguably does more for the team. There have been countless occasions where Hernandez has drifted out – even in those in which he scores in – while Welbeck goes in always searching, always wanting. His positioning is an asset, too and his goal was reward for a good, solid past fortnight in a red shirt.

And praise is in order for others too; Anders Lindegaard managed yet another clean sheet. His inclusion is of course debatable; because it arguably ruins David de Gea’s rhythm and that of the defence, but that claim has so far been unfounded. Jonny Evans and Chris Smalling were solid again, while Patrice Evra responded well after a shoddy performance at Loftus Road on Sunday. It was a great shame, however, to see both Jones and Ashley Young leave the field of play with injuries.

The only criticism of United yesterday was the manner in which they approached the start of the second half. Perhaps, they allowed for arrogance and complacency to seep in at 3-0, but United should have learnt from the Chelsea game earlier this season; they led at half time with the same scoreline, and ended up 3-1 victors but only thanks to Fernando Torres’ horror miss which, if scored, would have certainly made for a nervy finish. They did improve as the night went on and bore two more goals out of their efforts towards the end; both gorgeous, but contrasting, takes by Rooney and Berbatov. It ended 5-0; who saw that one coming?

Back in February 2011, the Guardian’s ‘The Gallery’ humorously predicted Gary Neville’s next career direction in response to the news of his imminent retirement. Unfortunately, he became neither a Tellytubby or an Egyptian rebel – instead, replacing Andy Gray as the man tasked with analysing games for Sky Sports; and, boy, has he done it well. With his somewhat-oversized iPad-like gizmo and the trusty stylus which he excitedly waves around like an eight-year-old playing Nintendogs, he’s gone down a hit with armchair fans this season. And they’re not poking fun at him, any more. Unless you’re an oblivious, Neville-hating, armchair fan without a TV. Which would be weird.

His entertaining, fresh approach to punditry has been so well-received that some have even remarked the actual game, the one he’s tasked with analysing, to simply be ‘two 45-minute breaks’. That’s not too far from the truth because there’s something so obviously different about him – for example, his professionally soothing voice, his ability to read between the lines – compared to, say, Alan Hansen or Alan Shearer, where he actually says something viewers would find remotely interesting. And he probably knows a thing or two about Hatem Ben Arfa, as well.

Neville isn’t as relaxed on camera as Hansen or Mark Lawrenson – sometimes he’s nervous and fidgety – but he’s already proven himself to be far superior on his hourly 7pm review of the week for Monday Night Football. And he’s still fairly new, let’s not forget.

Of course, there are times when he falls into ‘The Lawrenson trap’ of saying something disappointingly banal; for instance, he put Tottenham’s emergence as a force this season partly down to ‘desire’; only seconds away from wheeling out the “never-say-die” cliché we’re so familiar with on Match of the Day. Fortunately, Neville is Neville and, in no time, he turns it around with a gem and all those minor blemishes are forgotten about.

His close knowledge of 21st century football is mightily impressive; he is familiar with all the latest trends, but finds the perfect balance in not going so technical with saturated tactics talk about the perceived role of the ‘False 9′. He will point out where teams are going wrong – and indeed, right – not shying away from being critical, even if it means being critical to his beloved former club, Manchester United. He’ll throw in some hilarious tounge-in-cheek statements, too. His David Luiz quip, in which he said the Brazilian appears as if he were being “controlled by a 10-year-old in the crowd on a Playstation”, remains a highlight.

He’s even seeing a contrast in fortunes from his playing days as many have begrudgingly praised the ex-United player, seemingly won over by his charm (true story). Neville has always been a bit of a charismatic figure, however; his famous friendship with David Beckham – the butt of many jokes – showed this. He once said: “I was with him that fateful night he first saw The Spice Girls on the telly and said: ‘See that girl who can’t dance or sing, I’m going to marry her’”. Now, he’s forging a famous double act with a less glamorous being in Sky presenter Ed Chamberlain, feeding off each other like two lion cannibals. But, once the show really gets going, Chamberlain stops talking – and leaves it all to the meticulous Neville. Someone, anyone, give the man a raise and, better yet, his own spin-off show.