That order is underlined by the fact that for United, winning the tie had nothing whatsoever to do with winning a trophy that remains an insignificance; it was simply about making sure 33 became 34. Directly ruining a rival's ambitions is a rare pleasure, and now, with Liverpool out of everything and United relying on others in the FA Cup, all that remains for this season is the defence of the treble. To the players' credit, with City this season, Liverpool last, and Arsenal in 2004, they've responded with the vicious alacrity we're entitled to expect, so heartfelt appreciation for that, boys.
Although that's not why we love them – we love them because we have to – they do sometimes make it very easy indeed, and as we walk through the valley of the shadow of debt, we're grateful to spend a little while pretending that all's well with the world. It's been a while since I skipped my way to the car of a morning, even if the cynic in me was wondering whether United's approach to this derby – far more serious than in recent years – was the result of an instruction from above, aimed at quelling what has become widespread dissent.
Of course at half-time, it looked very different. Even though the City players were bound to be nervous, and even though Mancini was bound to organise them Italian-style, it seemed as though United's gameplan was to snatch the clinching goal in a last-20 minutes siege - folly in the extreme. Playing with neither urgency nor pace, City were allowed to gain in confidence when they should have been squashed, making for a nervier evening than was necessary.
The way they tore into them in the second half was far more like it, the frustration that they don't play like that all the time. Although the standard of passing, shooting and the like is understandably variable, the aggression, composure, and commitment to attack should not be. After spending most of this season and last hanging around and passing it sideways, Carrick for once displayed his obvious ability when it really counted, and similarly Nani looked at last like he might understand his – no doubt he'll be replaced by Park on Sunday.
I wonder what Garry (with two 'r's) Cook made of it all. A worthy successor to Peter J Swales, Franny Lee, and friendly Dr Thaksin, he's never grown up from being the kid with tall stories that exists in every playground. You know the kind – plays for England schoolboys, dad's a black belt in karate, granddad discovered America.
His latest arrogation stated that City are poised to become "without doubt the biggest and best football club in the world", and that City's trip to Wembley was a case of "not if but when, having beaten Man United yet again". The claim – made in New York's aptly-named Mad Hatter Pub – was later justified on the grounds that he didn't know that he was being filmed. Aha! Now I see! One can only be held to account for making outlandish claims when on camera. In that case I am the finest writer and finest looking man ever to walk the earth. And before anyone starts, I know United aren't exactly slow to crow either; the difference is that we do so with good reason.
Craig Bellamy is another at the very top of his groundless gobbiness, clearly visible on telly shouting "you're finished, you're finished" to Rio Ferdinand during the second half. Whether or not he's right remains to be seen, but even if he is, at least Ferdinand managed to get started. Bellamy, on the other hand, has won nothing, come close to winning nothing, and built a reputation as a vile, cowardly thug with bad tattoos and peculiar posture. Perhaps that's why he's had so many clubs, though of course they're always handy for when you fancy whacking someone.
The Ferdinand incident came in the immediate aftermath of someone in the crowd hitting Bellamy with a coin they threw at him. Although I'm not condoning that kind of thing, there is something karmic about it - Bellamy did, earlier in the season, make it his business to slap a fan already restrained by four stewards.
It's also worth pointing out how darling Craig's behaviour differed from that of Patrice Evra. In the first leg, Evra provoked City fans by retrieving the ball in order to take a throw-in, and was duly hit with a cigarette lighter. He reacted by looking with general disgust in the direction from which it came, and then got on with the game. In the second leg, Bellamy shouted abuse at United fans, was subsequently struck by a coin, threw himself to the ground, bounced up once requisite attention had been sought, and stomped off, leaving someone else to take the corner. The corner was rubbish, United broke, and within seconds it was 1-0; well done Craigy.
Watching the game with a friend who had two sleeping children upstairs, that goal was the cue for the pair of us to scream without raising our voices - yes, I'm so happy I'll even paraphrase Bono. After the winner, this was accompanied by a little jig, so that we missed the camera panning from the pained ecstasy etched into Rooney's face, to Tevez – who at full-time did not look remotely arsed – to Van der Sar, to the City fans, a herd of what my Gran would call farbrent farbisseners.
Once the game was done, we were left peering round Terry Venables's goatee trying to watch those who'd remained in the ground to goad the away support. There was annoyance when this was interrupted by the post-match interviews, but only briefly - Darren Fletcher's performance was of such magnificently wired intensity that it was lucky the kids were in bed.
And if that wasn't reward enough, it was quickly followed by the treat of Mancini, seemingly on the verge of tears. Showing how quickly he has become infected with the blue delusion, he snivelled his way through the lie that but for the "ten minutes" during which United scored twice (on 52 and 71), City were their equal. "Bitterly disappointed", said Jeff Stelling knowingly.
On the subject of bitterness, Blackburn's poor form has meant that we've not heard much from Sam Allardyce this season, but this week he saw fit to criticise Benny McCarthy for his disloyalty in leaving a club where's he's not getting picked, to join a better one, in a better location. This is the same Sam Allardyce who left Limerick for Preston, Preston for arch-rivals Blackpool, and Notts County for Bolton, publicly touting himself for the England job at every possible opportunity while he was at the Reebok.
During that period, Allardyce was accused by the BBC of various other acts of gross loyalty, so there is no one better placed than he to demand it of his players.
The notion of loyalty in football is, in the main, nonsense. Players aren't employed by their clubs as a favour that they're obliged to repay – they're retained for as long as they're considered useful, and then shifted as soon as possible. So what grates isn't that players leave, but - provided they don't join a hated competitor - how they go about arranging their departure. Ronaldo, for example, didn't annoy anyone through his desire to play for Madrid, but by publicly pledging to stay and agitating for a move at the same time.
Similarly, it was impossible to feel sympathy for David Sullivan, calling on karma to right the wrong of Eidur Gudyomtov preferring Spurs to Westairmfrewnfrew; why on earth wouldn't he? And the whinging is even harder to understand coming from someone who claimed to be a lifelong fan of one club, yet had no problem buying another.
It's funny that citers of karma almost always think that their misfortune is something going, rather than coming around – it must be much less confusing if you're City, for whom fortune's a strictly one-way arrangement.
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