On the way to Wigan last week, the chatter was whether we'd cede the points if it meant that United were forced to spend some money in what remained of the transfer window, the rationale being that not adding a bit more class in midfield would be more damaging than a defeat. In the event, the win amounted to more than a papering-over-the-cracks job, even if, to paraphrase Pulp Fiction's Mr Wolf, there's no need for fellatio just yet.

Things didn't look especially great watching the players warm up. Usually it reminds you of how ridiculously good they are, and there were times when it was worth getting in the ground early to watch. This was particularly so in the days of Beckham and Veron, who'd stand the width of the pitch apart, and ping passes (as Jamie Redknapp would say) over the heads of everyone in between. However Saturday's shooting practice was amongst the very worst I've seen, and it didn't bode well for a successful afternoon. The man behind me had the right idea, leaning back in his seat, eyes firmly closed, and he turned out to be someone regularly seen apparently sleeping in various stadia around Europe, spawning his own parlour game, "Drunk, Narcoleptic or Blind".

Anyway, back to the warm-up, there's this game United play, which I believe is called boxes. The starting eleven, save the goalie, gather in a small square, and divided into two teams, compete to retain possession. For the times when it runs out of play, there's a large cluster of replacements kept at one corner of the pitch. Fair enough, no point them wasting their time chasing around. What's quite remarkable, though, is that there's someone whose job it is to stand adjacent to this cluster and roll the new ball to the nearest player when required, lest one of them have to move a couple of yards to get it for himself. That same someone is also responsible for putting bench coats on those substituted, again to ensure that no unnecessary effort is expended; I wonder how handy he is with the loofah.

United's team is again much changed from the previous game, but this time for the better, and with one or two exceptions is the strongest available. As ever, watching the huffing and puffing of Gary Neville and his bumfluff goatee is winceworthy in the extreme, but it's good to see Fletcher back. Handed the moniker of "The Scottish Player" early on in his career, over the last couple of seasons, he's become the only automatic choice in midfield, and of everyone in the squad – in fact everyone in last season's squad too - has easily the highest number of outstanding big game performances.

As soon as the game kicks off, cute little Wigan manager Roberto Martinez can be seen standing in the technical area waving his arms, with endearing enthusiasm, if no apparent effect. What's particularly noticeable is how far from fetching he looks in a suit so tan that even James Dean couldn't make it suave. And not only that, but he's teamed it with a pair of brown shoes that from a distance make it look like he's standing there in bare feet like a madman.

It's as I type this observation into my phone that I realise how utterly I've shafted myself. When you decide to be a writer, you also decide to accept certain hardships, one of which is to be perpetually at work. It's a bit like revision for an exam; it's never finished, and even when it is, it isn't. Before now, going to the game has been pretty much the only thing outside of that remit, allowing me to get on with thinking of nothing but it, until here I am – actually recording the attire of Wigan's manager, when I should be focused on enjoying the famous Man United. A sad day indeed, and, as Danny Dyer would say, "pwopah nawty".

While we're talking matters metrosexual, it would be remiss not to mention suntanning policeman Howard Webb strutting around in his tight top, part beefcake part lots of cake. To give him some credit, he only interfered with the play twice, and did a good job of missing Vidic's foolish hand-off on Rodallega, whose resultant gibbering anger was one of the more amusing episodes of the afternoon. He was abetted in his tantrum by Jason Scotland, who is actually larger than his namesake country.

Despite the chuntering around me, the first half wasn't too bad, and easily United's most coherent of the season. Having Berbatov as a focal point made a huge difference, and although they can play plenty better, there were two or three sublime moves with him at their centre that should have ended in goals. That they didn't was down to wayward finishing, rather than anything done by Kirkland in the Wigan goal.

Talking of Wigan players, I bumped into Mario Melchiot a few years ago, helping some friends film the opening of London's Ruff Ryders store. He's actually got some pretty handy ball skills, and showed a few to the camera, repeatedly saying "it's all about the poo-see, it's all about the poo-see". It was only much later I discovered that "poo-see" is Dutch for nutmeg.

At half time, there was the usual raffle or whatever, the prizes putting Blankety Blank to shame. First place received the odd sum of £510, second a meal at Rigalettos restaurant in Wigan's "exclusive" west stand, third a bottle of "Uncle Joe's" - whatever that is. At least I think that's what it was – it could have been Uncle Joe himself. This was a rare occasion on which it might have actually been worth buying a ticket, with so few people in the ground, recently renamed the DW Stadium by club chairman Dave Whelan, in a staggering act of shameless narcissism.

Although Rooney seemed to get most of the post-match plaudits, Berbatov was easily United's best player. Against Burnley, there were two tactics. Get the ball to Rooney on the edge of the box and hope, or get it wide and hope that the resultant cross somehow evaded the 47 enormous defenders massed around the goalmouth. Suddenly, there was another way.

It's a while since a player has so split opinion, the snobbery of Berbaphile aesthetes such as myself winding up those irked with his languid style and vice-versa. Following his goal, a mate of mine in the latter category commented on the smug glances I was unwittingly shooting at him, and he was right – along with a fair few others, I've staked my reputation on the indolent Bulgar, and each time he does something beautiful I find it impossible not to beam with vindication.

Most pleasing of all, though, was the developing understanding between his rapier and the Rooneyian broadsword, although both were overshadowed by Owen's goal, which precipitated the highlight of the afternoon. After what was a very nice finish, there was warm applause as he attempted to fraternise, followed by a heartfelt chorus of "You Scouse Bastard". But trust him to ruin it. The Guardian reported that after the game, "Owen was not willing to talk to any media other than United's own television station." "You cane me, then you want an interview?" he asked, without breaking stride.

So how does he think his missing of easy chances and general ineptitude should be reported then? It's not ok that Fergie refuses to speak to this one and that one, but at least he's earned himself some slack. Owen, on the other hand, has not, and this particular display of self-obsessed whining illustrates exactly why no set of supporters has ever taken to him (although Boris Johnson might argue that this kind of behaviour ought to have made him popular on Merseyside).

This Saturday United are at home to Arsenal - a game that could really have been done without for another couple of weeks while we try and build some momentum. Doubtless a way of sneaking Park into the team will be found – not really necessary now Ronaldo has gone, putting almost all the attacking onus on the centre forwards. I don't dislike Park, who can be worthy enough in the right company, but the team needs inspiration more than endless running around, and both Nani and Valencia did enough last week to keep their places.

What will be interesting to see is how Arsenal approach the game. Despite the reputation constructed for them by the London-based media as altruistic cavaliers, against United they tend to be fairly cautious. But with our defence depleted and them in decent form, hopefully they'll have a proper go and it'll be a decent game.

Last word this week goes to Mark Hughes. As someone who once had a hamster called Sparky, his blueness is a particular sadness, and this latest nugget is a perfect encapsulation of how utterly he has been consumed by delusion. Crowing about his acquisition of Joleon Lescott, he commented that the player "is arguably the best centre half in the Premier League".

Yes, Mark, you could argue that, but you could argue that black is white, white is black and both are green. Ralph Waldo Emerson once said that "money often costs too much", and with that in mind, perhaps it's time for a lie down.