“Some things in life are bad, they can really make you mad. Other things just make you swear and curse…like Fergie’s team selection”. Ok, it’s actually “like traffic lights”, but they’ve got nothing on the man nicknamed Tinkerbell long before Ranieri bumbled onto our radar. As frustrated as a mute at a pantomime, I flailed and railed on discovering we would play Liverpool with Carrick and Scholes in midfield; horses for courses is all very well, but only when you pick the right ones.

Painfully lost in the corresponding fixture last season, these days Scholes is effective only when given space or as the furthest forward of a midfield five, whilst Carrick needs pace up front to properly exploit the quickness of his eye and accuracy of his passing. Individually they weren’t actually that bad, but the partnership was entirely unsuitable, the running power to get beyond the strikers particularly important against a side with two spoilers stationed directly in front of the back four.

Thus the total exclusion of Anderson’s energy and ball-carrying ability was inexplicable. With the wide players isolated on the touchline, the front two received nowhere near enough support, the team unable to work the sharp passing that undoes diligent defending and makes it far harder to foil attacks solely by weight of numbers.

A United end dominated by loud Russian voices isn’t something I thought I’d ever hear, but with only 250 making the trip to Moscow, the remainder of the allocation went to more local types, imploring Fergie to “give me away”.

It was a bit like hearing Alexandra Burke singing Hallelujah; odd sounding, but hard to dislike in a sharing the wealth kind of benevolence. In any event, their enthusiasm enlivened a fairly dull evening, so nice one Cyrillics.

As a Londoner, I was almost envious of their lack of shame in instantly outing themselves as non-Mancunians, remembering the self-conscious years of my youth spent fearful of revealing my generic southern accent. As it happens, this was largely a reflection of my own insecurity; United fans have always been proud of the club’s universal appeal, despite some of its unfortunate by-products.

Even though glory hunters of my generation support Liverpool, I’m regularly called upon to justify my affiliation, which I assume isn’t a roundabout way of complimenting me on how young I look. Whenever I’m asked which team I support, my answer almost always precipitates a further question challenging my right so to do. This is inevitably followed by a grudging acceptance when I reveal that my dad’s from Salford, and his dad had a season ticket in the 30s, 40s and 50s – as though the legitimacy of my identity is somehow within their gift.

Whilst I have what is generally deemed to be fair reason, I still rail on behalf of those who don’t. How could any young boy fail to be seduced by what United represent if he had no other footballing imperative forced upon him? As Rakim said, and Ian Brown later repeated, “it ain’t where you’re from, it’s where you’re at”.

This is precisely the reason why no one cares when opposition fans (often those of Woolwich Arsenal) come to Old Trafford and sing things like “City come from Manchester”. Regardless of what borough the ground happens to be in, serial winners famed for fortitude and panache encapsulate Manc attitude far better than perennial losers forever bragging about what they’re about to do.

Anyway, to the football. The game against CSKA was similar to the one at Besiktas; United largely in control without really threatening, the goal expected at some point or other arriving late in the game. It was, though, a little disappointing not to have this fixture in December when it’s properly cold - partly for my own gratification, partly to see the players suffer.

As it happens, they’ve shown real enthusiasm in recent weeks, which as fans, we feel we should take for granted. And so we should, but it’s also worth remembering that as soon as hobby becomes work, a person’s relationship to it changes, even if it’s still a hobby. There was a time when every day I would salivate at the mere prospect of writing, but the moment it became my job, and even though I don’t love it any less, it is now indisputably a chore.

And I can see why shlepping to Moscow is a chore, the game arousing not even the slightest anticipation, the result irrelevant to the eventual outcome of the group. Unable to find and take revenge on the police horse that bit me the last time I was at the Luzhniki, the major plus point was the performance of Fabio. Both he and his twin - who unfortunately isn’t called Grooverider - play with an absolute absence of fear, and although it would be better if they were from Gorton or Collyhurst, Rio’s a decent alternative.

Of course the midweek fixture was only a warm up to Sunday’s serious business against Liverpool. A few years ago in the build-up to the game, BBC Radio Five Live had on a fanzine bod from each club, which provided a neat illustration of why Mancs and Scousers don’t get on. Asked as to the root of the rivalry, the United delegate delivered an erudite exposition of historical, geographical, sociological and economic factors, to which Liverpool’s responded with “nah, it’s all about the football, la”.
This dichotomy is also reflected in the playing philosophies of the clubs. For United, it’s essential to win with style, whereas for Liverpool it’s essential only to win. Our European Cup win over Chelsea, for example, is forever tainted by the penalty shoot-out that earned it, whereas their victories in Rome and Istanbul are central to Liverpudlian mythology.

From a United perspective, the question this Sunday is dare we win? No Red in his right mind wants to see the end of Benitez’s able stewardship, but what an opportunity awaits – the joy of not only kicking them while they’re down, like Shogun Rua in his pomp, but of grinding them into gristle, cackling maniacally at the sadistic violence of it all.

Poor old Benitez. Just when he thought his week had reached its nadir, it got worse, the ignominy of being publicly and justifiably criticised by Jermaine Pennant bestowed on very few.
A player whose touch was so awry I thought he’d forgotten to remove his tag, Pennant is but one of the many unpleasant uselessnesses Benitez has sold at a loss, all the while moaning about the paucity of his transfer kitty.

Like those of Arsenal and Chelsea, the quality of Liverpool’s squad actually reflects very well on Fergie, who has, since the Forlan-Bellion-Djemba-Djemba-Kleberson-Miller embarrassment, been on the money with almost every signing. The current collection may still be a couple of outstanding attacking players light, with no discernible first eleven, but what it does have is range.

With each player bringing something different to the team, the horses for courses approach - though frustrating - does generally work, and there are always game-changing options on the bench for when it doesn’t, explaining in part the rediscovery of the late goal phenomenon so vital during the 90s.

Meanwhile, the reserves also look very strong. Given the sins Fergie has excused in the past, you can only wonder what Zoran Tosic has done to offend him, his exclusion - even from League Cup games - completely unfathomable. In the last couple of weeks, the now fit Gabriel Obertan has excelled as well, showing physical strength, the ability to play off both feet and a sharp footballing brain - unsurprising given the size of his head.

Jonny Evans is another young player who looks to have something about him. Although he’s yet to convince completely, I was particularly keen on what he had to say earlier this week:
“Because it was my first real season I made a conscious decision to play it really safe and just concentrate on defending above all else. This year I need to try and get on the ball, and really try to express myself a bit more”.

The man he may eventually replace would do well to take note of this. Those who remain underwhelmed by Rio Ferdinand’s defensive ability have dwindled in number, but no one can argue that his attacking contribution has been a disappointment. Billed from a very young age as a ball-playing libero in the mould of Beckenbauer and Sammer, he’s neither auxiliary playmaker nor reliable goalscorer. Whether the fault is with him or his manager is unclear, but full marks to Evans for wanting to do better.

To finish, three things that amused me this week; one, a temper tantrum from self-confessed “big man” John Terry, literally jumping up and down with infantile rage after Villa’s winning goal; two, Glen Johnson protecting his balls rather than his keeper as Darren Bent lined up his beachball cannon trick shot; and three, reading that Aly Cissokho failed a medical at Milan on account of his teeth; from the club that signed Ronaldinho, that is quite an achievement.

"I'm a firm believer in the philosophy of a ruling class", surmised legendary thinker Randal Graves, "especially since I rule". Whether he was advocating the purest anarchy or most virulent oligarchy is open to interpretation, and the footballing world appears to be divided on the matter.

Pursuing the former is Football Club United of Manchester. Conceived in early 2005 as an option in the event of a takeover, the idea was supported by many intending to boycott but unwilling to be deprived of their United fix. A few months later, the club was born, with the aim - despite perceptions to the contrary - of running alongside, rather than in opposition to its bigger brother.

Of course the Glazer takeover was only a tipping point, serving to highlight the other liberties - early kick offs, heavy-handed stewarding and ridiculous pricing - that had been largely ignored through the previous decade because their encroachment was incremental and the football so good. The reality, though, was that the action had become the only enjoyable element of the 90 minutes, so FC set about revitalising the matchgoing experience as an outlet for well-intentioned unruly behaviour.

In Glen David Gold’s fictional biography of legendary magician Carter the Great, our hero quickly learns that the crucial skill a conjuror must master is that of misdirection. Nowadays, there is no finer exponent of the art than Sir Alex Ferguson.

Although no one bought his criticism of referee Alan Wiley’s fitness as anything other that a poor attempt at masking his team’s underperformance, it didn’t matter. Thousands of words were still consumed exploring the accusation as though it was legitimate, far more, for example, than were directed towards his team selection. So effectively, everyone fell for it yet again anyway, victims, yet again, of the arch dissembler.

That Fergie’s comments were churlish and incorrect is beyond doubt, but his point about Continental referees is not without some validity; the standard is remarkably low, an observation that becomes more glaring with almost every European game. In his day, Jeff Winter was one of the very worst, but nonetheless I was interested to read what he had to say this week - words I never thought anyone would ever write, least of all me. Anyway, hidden within the usual self-promoting drivel was this:

“I think referees will be so incensed about this that Sir Alex may find that United no longer get the benefit of the doubt on certain decisions.”

Clearly we need to take anything he says with an enormous pinch of lard – this is a man who thought that an end of season ovation from The Kop was partly in his honour. But if there’s something he might know about that we don’t, then it’s this, and what a this it is; according to Winter, the game is currently bent in United’s favour, and as a result of Fergie’s outburst, we should expect it to become bent the other way. He went on to suggest that Wiley sue for defamation; perhaps his ex-colleagues should be suing him.

The notion of institutional favouritism has long been a staple of the vanquished, and this seems a suitable occasion to explore it. Thus, consider:

Eric Cantona responded violently to an individual fan who insulted him, and was banned for nine months, but when Didier Drogba violently threw a coin into a crowd aimed at whoever it happened to hit, he was banned for three games; Craig Bellamy, unprovoked, assaulted a supporter during a game and was fined, but when Patrice Evra was wound up by a member of Chelsea’s groundstaff during a warm-down, his attempted assault netted him a four game suspension; Roy Keane admitted deliberately injuring an opponent in his autobiography, for which he was banned for five games, but when Michael Owen did the same in his, nothing happened; Christian Negouai missed a drug test and was fined £2000, but when Rio Ferdinand did so a few weeks later, the FA suspended him for eight months.

As Rio himself might say, res ipsa loquitor.

As far as refereeing decisions go, from my perspective – certainly biased, but also pretty extensively researched - for every bum one United get there’s at least one that goes the other way. The difference in perception is because generally, the latter is neither crucial nor repeated on television more times than Mary Poppins.

The game against Sunderland encapsulated this in perfect microcosm. During the first half, Andy Reid appeared to handle the ball in his own area, but nothing was given. ESPN’s commentators then watched a replay, agreed it was a penalty, and didn’t mention it again.

If Old Trafford is as quiet as people say, then it’s hard to believe that any visiting officials can be intimidated by 76,000 fans; in fact it’s often appeared as though they’re more intimidated by the outcry should they give United a marginal decision. You’d expect a team that spends sustained periods in opposition penalty boxes to receive significantly more penalty kicks than other teams, and yet they do not. And when United are away, referees have to contend with tighter, usually half-empty grounds, now full of fans apoplectic with one-way rivalry (even though like any home advantage advantage, its existence is an imaginary construct that preys on the mentally frail).

There’s a feeling that some officials are scared of upsetting Fergie, but it also works the other way. On Saturday, the only plausible explanation for nothing being added to the minimum of four added minutes, despite United scoring in that time, is that Wiley couldn’t be doing with the hassle that’d follow another seemingly impossible turnaround.

But as with the unawarded penalty, that’s just not why we didn’t win. As fighters are fond of saying, never leave it in the hands of the judges. If you do, you deserve what you get.

And United deserved what they got. Resting players now to keep them fresh for later may have become a necessity, but if you get too cocky in the process, occasionally it’ll rebound on you. Fergie was silly not to start at least one of Anderson and Carrick, in the groove after excellent midweek efforts, but the omission from the squad of his emergency Giggs, with an international break imminent, was utterly inexplicable. On the plus side, it was nice to see Welbeck given a game, even if it wasn’t in his natural position, just a shame that he was let down by teammates whose collective display was as poor as poverty.

If this was unforeseeable, the contribution of Foster certainly was not, his mistakes punished in points for the first time. Whilst not saving the excellent early shot that gave Sunderland their first goal was forgivable, mincing away from the cross that led to their second was not. Physical shirking is never acceptable, and must be punished severely; I hope Micky Phelan tied him naked to a goalpost and got Scholes and Rooney over to do some shooting practice.

For the last few seasons, home games against middling sides have been won fairly comfortably, Ronaldo’s remarkable knack for delivering morale-crushing early goals not giving the others much of a chance to underperform. At the start of the season it was suggested that the team might struggle to score in his absence, but in fact they’re finding it easier; the problem is keeping them out. Form’s obviously a factor, but the configuration of the team is another; with its major source of goals gone, others have taken on greater attacking responsibility and the team is set up to facilitate that; good.

Sunderland, of course, played very well, although will be disappointed that their best wasn’t enough to beat United’s worst. I promised myself I wouldn’t mention Kieran Richardson and his pigtail, but just when you thought the man with the most hittable face in football couldn’t look any more stupid, he goes and gets himself sent off in the way that he did. He really is thicker than a five dollar shake full of scousers.

Moving away from United, FIFA vice president Jack Warner made the headlines this week, after he panned England’s World Cup bid, and what a truly devastating panning it was:

“I came here and was shocked that I got a bag for Australia at the entrance...why isn’t there a bag for England?”

Ah, presents for freeloaders, the cornerstone of any successful tournament. And there’s more:

“My colleagues are saying very quietly that the guys who are coming to them are lightweight. This is the type of thing that loses you a bid…If I had the Premier League, Beckham and the Queen there would have been many things I could have done for the people who are voting”.

Yes, apparently it’s also important that these freeloaders meet their favourite celebrities, rather than waste their valuable speaking to those running the bid.

Most telling, though, is his advice to be “more aggressive in the market place”. At last, something we can take in good faith. You see, market place aggression - unlike organising World Cups - is something in which Mr Warner has no little expertise. After the last World Cup, for example, Ernst & Young - FIFA’s auditors - estimated that his family made a profit of almost $1 million selling tickets on the black market, and all the misdirection in the world shouldn’t distract us from that.

Although The Britannia is meant to be "a difficult place to go" (particularly in the current financial climate), last Saturday turned out to be fairly relaxing afternoon in Stoke. Reputedly the noisiest ground in the country, pre-match it was hard to tell whether that's so for people telling us it's so, but it's one of the better new stadia, with a remarkably high concentration of people able to combust into volcanic rage each time a throw-in goes against them.

Even after 25 or so years of watching football, though, I'm yet to get what it is that makes home advantage any kind of deal. The pitch at Stoke is a whole yard shorter than Old Trafford in width and length, but what else is changed? Eleven men each side, two goals and a ball; the game's the game.

Players will argue that they're affected by the atmosphere, but I'm not having that. As an ex-City lawyer, I know exactly what it's like to do your job with a bunch of aggressive losers in your ear shouting how much they hate you. I may have wanted them to shut up, but offering it as an excuse for my underperformance would be risible to say the least.