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.

There's not really very much to say about the game itself. Picking Scholes to feed two wingers was a sensible way of getting round a packed midfield, but the wide men stymied the plan with delivery so bad it put the Post Office to shame. At the moment Nani and Valencia are misfiring opposites, the former with all the confidence but no idea what to do, the latter with no confidence so doing nothing with his ideas.

Thank Eric for reinvented winger Ryan Giggs; if only his purple patch were also a hair replacement device. Brought on in a substitution sponsored by Hollywood Signs - who might perhaps stock such a piece - within fifteen minutes, the game was over.

But despite this latest run of form, Giggs will always be a conundrum who never quite met his Harvey Freeman. An indisputable great, a player who epitomises the youthful flair and aesthetic beauty that make United United, he's also the most frustrating I've ever known and loved.

The other very best players of my United-watching career – Robson, Keane, Cantona, Schmeichel, Scholes, van Nistelrooy, Ronaldo – were far more consistent, and generally played with greater intensity when things were going badly. And they all, with the exception of Scholes, carried the team for significant periods of time - something Giggs has never done.

To an extent he's a victim of his position; it's hard to dominate a game from the wing, and it's hard to play well if you're reliant on service - although others have managed. But the unarsed body language, the bottled one-on-one in the 2003 home derby (a personal grudge), and the 2004-6 vanishing act remain severe and genuine charges.

To borrow Fergie's phrase (pinched from Paddy Crerand), a discussion of his time in the shirt can leave you with blood as twisted as those who endured the horror of marking him on a good day; not so of the others with whom he shares the pantheon. Judging him by his own stratospheric standards, any honest evaluation of his career leaves you wondering why he hasn't been brilliant more often.

Yet he still belongs in the very top category. At his best, he's still the best, and it's sad to think that one day there'll be a United without him.

For now, though, it's all about appreciating the great man while we can, arguably the architect of an enjoyable few weeks that have seen the return of the inevitable goal; a sure sign of a team that's playing well. For the most part, the attacking play has been incisive and sharp, even if the finishing is still ropey as ever, and I'd go as far as to say the football is better now than at any point in the last two seasons. Despite defending badly, starting slowly and falling behind, it's a while since I've felt in apprehension of defeat.

This week's game against Wolfsburg was one such example, when after they scored, it was obvious that both an equaliser and winner were imminent. An entertaining 90 minutes of football with more than a few moments of high class, what a shame it wasn't enjoyed by a full house. The relevant governing bodies need to start fining clubs for unsold seats, which they should be giving away free to local kids who can no longer afford to watch their team.

It's been bothering me for two years, but during the game I finally clocked that what Anderson reminds me of is one of those kids' toys with a rounded, weighted bottom, that bounces up each time you knock it down. He's coming along nicely now he's playing regularly, and with Carrick rehabilitating after his run away from the ball turn at Spurs, there's good competition for the role alongside Fletcher, even if we've still got no clue who'll be playing from game to game.

Anyway, a few other things. During the cricket international between England and South Africa the other day, England captain Andrew Strauss denied permission for opposite number Graeme Smith to bat with a runner when he was suffering with cramp. Football would do well to learn from this. Extra time is dull enough as it is, without the flow constantly hindered by cramping players who should've trained harder. Fine, stop the game for genuine injuries, but cramp is a punishment for inadequate conditioning, and should remain so, or we may as well pause the action every time someone gets a stitch.

I didn't intend to go back over old ground, but as I was writing this, I heard that Emmanuel Adebayor had escaped a ban for his goal celebration against Arsenal. Fair enough, so he should. However it turns out that he was treated leniently because of "the extremely provocative nature of the abuse he received". Excuse me? What abuse was this then? We know it wasn't racist, else we'd have heard about it specifically, so what might it have been, and what about it was worse than the usual? No reporter or television mic picked up on anything unacceptably nefarious, nor any Arsenal fans I've asked who were there, so how has the FA managed to?

It seems to me that the media has, for its own ends, determined the stick he deservedly received to be particularly harsh, City have run with it, and the FA have bought it. Perhaps they'd interested in this bridge I've got for sale…

Talking of bridges, Phil Brown took the Hull squad on a walk across the Humber this week, where they came across a woman about to commit suicide. Apparently, Brown talked her down - this appears to be something of an expertise – and it's certainly easy to see how he was able persuade her that things could be much worse.

And finally, after the roaring success of his insightful punditry and inspirational management, it's little surprise that Alan Shearer has been invited to represent the royal family - similarly famed for powerful oratory and uplifting leadership – as deputy lieutenant of Northumberland. I wonder what kind of severance package he's negotiated.