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.

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 (and Ian Brown) said, "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 be able to 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 also became a chore.

And I can see why schlepping 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. A few years ago BBC Radio Five Live had on a fanzine bod from United and one from Liverpool in the build-up to a game, 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 about winning with style, whereas for Liverpool it's just about winning. 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 their 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, maniacally cackling at such extreme and sadistic violence.

Poor old Benitez. Just when he thought he'd reached his nadir, his week 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 if 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.