Visiting Fratton Park is a rare pleasure these days, congestions and obstructions preferable to gangways and sightlines, authenticity and proximity to the pitch trumping whatever the newer grounds have to offer.

- Ljajic snub smells fishy

Ending up in row 3, my little group was afforded an excellent view of Kusczak’s silver boots and pan face, which grimaced every time he was forced to kick clear. Although he had probably his best game in a buttercup yellow shirt, his inability to use his feet is almost Bosnichian, and equally unacceptable.

Kicking a ball high, hard and straight is a skill learnable by anyone blessed with a working lower body, let alone a footballer - the clue is in the name, Tomas. I can only surmise that the poor lad is simply is too busy to squeeze in some practice.

It was disappointing to find Begovic in net for Portsmouth, with a whole half to think up insults for sanctimonious Spice Boy James that he’d have actually had to hear. Instead, the first 45 was notable for its two penalties, the ease with which Rooney converted United’s bringing back dissipated annoyance for his permitting Carrick to miss at Burnley in August, though he did at least refrain from the cringeworthy rocking baby celebration.

His goal didn’t fire United, though, who were as despicable following it as they had been before, Valencia a worthy exception despite a one-footedness so pronounced he looks like he’s about to overbalance. Portsmouth also played well, the controversial penalty they were awarded just reward for their efforts.

From row, 3 it actually looked fairly clear-cut – although defenders often escape punishment when pulling shirts, Vidic didn’t stay tight enough when Piquionne pulled away, making the offence too blatant to ignore. You do wonder how many more penalties will be given for similar infringements, but it doesn’t alter the fact that the decision was correct and the subsequent goal the fault of the defender not the referee.

On the subject of referees, I was deeply troubled in midweek by the hair of Mark Clattenburg. Officials are there to facilitate the game in as unobtrusive a manner as possible; how, then, can we rely on someone vain enough to have implants and oblivious enough to style it like a fat man from Soccer AM?

The game itself ended up easier than expected, for bonus points eliciting a new excuse from good old Uncle Arry - this time the atmosphere was to blame. Although Tottenham played well early on, Kusczak didn’t make a serious save for an hour, United protecting the goal area very well despite defending badly. After a dodgy start, Vidic grew into the game like he’d eaten a mushroom, and De Laet – pronounced to rhyme with stupid elbow star tatt – also did well.

The returning Berbatov had decided to play the role of midfield playmaker, which naturally, he did rather well, even if it exacerbated the major problem with his game. Frustratingly, it ought to be solvable in a single sentence ordering him to leg it towards the box immediately after playing a defence-splitting pass, rather than amble in laconic admiration.

After the game, Fergie was gushing in his praise of Anderson, and well did he deserve it. Rhapsodising his ability to run at defenders with power and pace, he unwittingly revealed an awareness of the player’s best attributes that two seasons of largely withdrawn roles had suggested he was without.

Consequently, we now have the joy of a two-leg semi-final with City, a game that makes a mockery of police insistence that derbies be played at lunchtime. Unsurprisingly, a victory over a team that wasn’t even Arsenal reserves has got them all giddy, Hughes asserting post-match that “we showed that we are a match for anybody” - typical of the baseless braggartry that comes out the mouths of liars, fantasists and City sympathisers. Followers of Ricky Hatton’s career will be awaiting the inevitable turnbuckle headbutt.

Meanwhile Carlos Tevez has once again redefined magnanimity, telling us that “while I was at United, I was a loyal player” – so until you weren’t, then. He also confirmed that should he score, he won’t celebrate out of respect to United supporters. For the record, and regardless of the Fergie sign him up brigade, he isn’t one of us, he never was, and him thinking any different winds me up.

Talking of City, I found myself sympathising with Arsene Wenger this week. That it’s childish and churlish to be such a bad loser is beyond doubt, but given that he is, bravo for refusing to indulge in the kind of empty gesture that infests society to such vomitous degree.

Credit to him also for giving the moralisers something different to wring their hands to, even if we still had to listen to a fair bit of Sepp Blatter’s guff about the Ireland France game. The Irish request to join the tournament as a 33rd team was an act of quite astounding selfishness and self-obsession, showing no regard for what FIFA acquiescing would have meant and ignoring the fact that had the handball not happened, Ireland may still have been eliminated.

FIFA, meanwhile, must hardly be able to believe the luck that’s allowed them to flee the real crime – the seeding of the play-off draw – like Ronnie Biggs in an invisibility cloak. Forever playing the saviour, Blatter pledged to change the playoff system, as “there’s too much pressure”.

Excuse me Sepp, but isn’t that what we’re here for? We follow football game after game because we’re on a quest for the most feverish buzz possible, yet now it has to go because those privileged enough to be directly involved can’t handle it. But what Blatter really means, and later said, is that there’s “too much at stake” – too much money, to be precise. Typically, this concerns no one but the suits, but Blatter is incapable of seeing beyond the end of his bespoke, which is why he’s able to ignore the rapacious carpetbaggers who are the true threat to the future of the game.