On the Tube late one night, I couldn't help but overhear a conversation between two people, about how ironic it was that they'd missed the previous train. Drunk and bored, I suddenly found myself interrupting to explain that this may have been annoying, but ironic it was not.

Before I knew it, I was on my feet, fielding questions from the rest of the carriage and slurring my way through explanations of the dramatic, the tragic and the proleptic. Now, there's a new category to add to the list, brought to my attention by a terrace chant - once ironic, now ironically sung, "Darren Fletcher Football Genius" has added a wrinkle that we might perhaps call irony squared.

The hope is that it will be chased into the grammar books by a similar ditty - "Darron F**cking Gibson" - aired for the first time at Upton Park last Saturday. Sung largely out of amazement, we can only hope that it'll graduate in the same way. If not, it'll do as yet another example amongst the many contributions coaxed by Fergie from bit-part players; alongside the obvious names that adorn the last twenty years are also those of Dublin, Cruyff, Berg and Macheda. There are numerous Vince Lombardi quotations that sum up this kind of thing, but let's go for "the only measure of who we are is what we do with what we have".

Yes, it's a good time to be Fergie right now, even if what he has is a problem of partly his own making. Brilliant in a crisis - especially one that constrains his ability to tinker - no one loves an I told you so more, and he'll doubtless be enjoying the fair few currently knocking around, a tribute to his stubbornness, judgment, and his all-the-pieces-matter approach to squad building.

This has been no more in evidence than during the past week, every player stepping up to make adverse circumstances seem routine - admittedly aided by Saturday's opposition, Westairmfrewnfrew, who were compliant in the extreme. Even when Carrick replaced Neville - whose injury was classily jeered by the home crowd - to have avoided victory would have taken as phenomenally poor an effort as the injuries would have been excuse.

The game was an excellent opportunity for Scholes to play himself back into form, after pre-match comments that suggested he was low on confidence - understandably so following a patchy first half of the season. For someone used not only to excelling but to giving regular masterclasses in orchestrating the whole damn thing, the gradual waning of influence must be an almost unbearable frustration, but in both games this week, he showed that used correctly, he can still make most opponents look remedial.

That he was still required to save a miserable first half reflects badly on the efforts of those around him, United dominating possession but creating little, to flat-vowelled shouts of "they're sh*te, these". The second half, though, was a different story, Westairmfrewnfrew obliterated by rhythmic, patient and pacy passing. As we saw against Spurs last week and to a lesser degree at Chelsea, the 4-3-3 is a decent way of harnessing the running power of Anderson, allowing those in front of him to roam more freely at the same time. And while Gibson has only give then merest hint that he might develop into a United player, goals from midfield can cover up a lot of faults this particular formation can hide; can't they Frank?

Talking of Lampard, and Chelsea, it's nowhere near late enough in the season to be pleased by City's victory, but the reduced gap is appreciated nonetheless. Each season, the league title is awarded around this time to whichever team has a built a narrow lead, the most recent winners being Chelsea, Liverpool and Arsenal. The reality is that on none of these occasions has the enthusiasm to crown champions other than United been reflective of the football I've seen, and this time, it's been shown up more quickly than usual. With both United and Chelsea now facing a hectic but favourable run of fixtures, the test will be of which squad better understands how to win. I know where my money is.

The hassle that is the matchgoing experience was put into sharper focus in midweek, with the joy of attending a game in Germany. Reasonably priced tickets, a new ground that's actually like a ground, and most notably, no officious authority; it was possible to enjoy a beer before the game and leave when it finished, totally different to the usual European misery.

The time spent in the car in London did, however, prompt a conversation about ex-United player Willie Morgan, which reminded me of the time I ran into him in a toilet. Yes, I know that sounds weird - the good news is that it gets more so. Having both had a drink or two, it was only a matter of seconds before were singing "Willie Morgan on the wing" to the very part of his anatomy with which he shares a name, before just as quickly going our separate ways.

Back to the game, United did exceptionally well to beat Wolfsburg in difficult circumstances, showing enterprise and heart. Playing midfielders in defence was actually advantageous in terms of how the team passed the ball, to the extent that I'm quite looking forward to seeing how it works against Villa this weekend.

Perhaps the most important aspect of United's win was Obertan's superb creation of goals two and three. Despite a promising start, people had already begun to question his final ball delivery, criticism he stymied with two very different interventions - one a slaloming run followed by a composed and perfect cross, the other an intuitive, first-time through pass.

Unfortunately the beneficiary was the otherwise anonymous Owen, whose happening upon a hat-trick is unlikely to have fooled Fergie. Of course the question on everybody's lips after the game was whether he'd managed to grab the match ball, and luckily good old Geoff Shreeves was on hand to ask it, Owen confiding the following response:
"I give it to the masseur to grab it - I get a bit shy when I'm holding it, as if to say ‘look at me'. So I give it to the masseur and hopefully he'll get it signed for me and hopefully pop it back in my bag on the quiet when we land in Manchester".

Yes, Michael, how very self-effacing of you - no one will ever know.