Many a 90s teenager will be familiar with the Guns n’ Roses song Get In The Ring, the aggressive anger and swearing that appears towards its end a guaranteed parent-riler when played at the appropriate volume. But despite luxuriating in the vitriol, I never did agree with its opening couplet, which goes as follows:

“Why do you look at me when you hate me? Why should I look at you when you make me hate you too”.

There’s little as invigoratingly life-affirming as hatred, and I was disappointed in Axl for trying to ignore it; clearly he’d never heard of Manchester City (funny that). I’ve always felt that hatred should be hard to come by, but with City you have the paradox of them making it so easy that it forces you to hate them even more for ruining the challenge. And boy oh boy, how unfeasibly easy they do make it.

Let’s start with the idiot in charge of the PA who refers to the players by their first names - as though they’re everybody’s personal friend, rather than a collection of hired mercenaries unwanted by anyone bigger and better.

And if that toadying’s not enough, try the banner that hangs in the stadium - not ground – that they conned the council into paying for, in the face of definitive academic evidence that Manchester is red. Anyway, it reads “Manchester thanks you Sheikh Mansour”, alongside words in Arabic that presumably mean exactly the same.

Why are both languages required? Because it’s part of the same ostentation that has Garry Cook “working” in an Eastlands room with the blinds up at the precise time that he can be seen by people walking to the ground.

But what extreme magnanimity it is to offer thanks to the man who purchased their heritage as an ego massaging, country-aggrandising toy, a magnanimity also on display – like everything else they do – in the minute’s silence they held following the tragic events in Cabinda. No doubt this heartfelt gesture helped Emmanuel Adebayor feel very much better, the sympathy so sincere that within a few days they were lambasting him for being interviewed wearing an Arsenal polo shirt. Then but a week later, you have row upon row of cravenly bitter imbeciles literally falling over themselves to point out the hilarity of the Munich air crash. Well, they do say that you need a sense of humour to be a Blue.

Tuesday’s game was City’s first semi in 29 years, and perusing the collection of badly-dressed deformities, it wasn’t hard to see why. Choosing to mark the occasion by dimming the lights pre-match, adding to the circus feel, they unwittingly aided the creation of a more suitable football match atmosphere by drawing even more attention to the red flares that illuminated the United end. These were then utterly usurped by a dance version of Blue Moon that was authentic, inspiring, and classy.

The first half was fairly similar to that of the season’s first derby, United carelessly allowing City back into the game after going ahead. Even so, they still needed the benefit of a poor decision to score, Rafael unlucky to concede a penalty for a perfectly-timed foul.

Refereeing errors are generally understandable and not worthy of complaint, but this one grated more than most. Although not pressed into making a decision, Mike Dean nonetheless seized the opportunity to show off his cleverness in having spotted that which had escaped those less sharp-eyed than he.

There are certain officials whose demeanour makes it easy to understand why players become so enraged, and Dean is one, gesticulating at them whilst looking the other way like a primary school teaching traffic warden. But then what’s to expect from a man who comes from Wirral and sings “You’ll Never Walk Alone” after a few drinks?

That isn’t to say Dean was responsible for the result, even if he didn’t help, also incorrectly awarding City the corner that resulted in the second goal. Seldom threatening in open play, almost every set-piece created minor panic, particularly infuriating given the poverty of United’s – after 20 years, Giggs is still botching them with ball-aching regularity.

Partly due to a team changed more often than Style Council’s moods, partly due to the make up of the midfield, for all their territorial dominance, United mustered very few chances. A trio of Fletcher, Anderson and Carrick simply doesn’t offer sufficient attacking threat, as we saw in the Chelsea game; if the formation is to work properly, it can bear only two of them, along with either Giggs or Rooney.

What it can do without is Carrick, in whom I’ve finally lost patience; a good player, but not good enough often enough when it’s required the most. The sale of Saha robbed him of the pace up front that makes the most of his ability to spot an early pass, but that’s nowhere near sufficient excuse for his regular insipidity.

So as is now regular, United monopolised possession with a grim, ponderous turgidity that would make AS Byatt proud, constantly stumped by what to do around the area that Subbuteo veterans will know as the shooting line. Simply by virtue of being another body, the introduction of Owen improved matters, weleasing Wooney, and his combination play with Giggs and Evra down United’s left was the most likely source of an equaliser.

Scholes’s belated arrival also helped. Although it’s now impossible to predict when he’ll control a game from the start, his ability to come on and move the ball cleverly and quickly highlights the deficiencies of those initially charged with the task, the round-the-corner pass to Rooney no longer the only alternative to knocking it wide.

And so to Carlos Tevez. It was obvious when he left that he’d score against United, and judging by his celebrations, he was preoccupied with showing how much being kicked out stung rather than sharing the moment with his new temporary friends. This was partly a reaction to things said by Gary Neville, who then capped a week of oblivious self-embarrassment by lamely swearing in response. The FA, apparently, are “investigating”, whatever that means; looking at a picture hardly requires the sleuthing skills of Philip Marlowe. It’d be refreshing if they censured him for using a single finger like a teenage American girl, but you can’t rely on anyone to maintain standards these days.

This episode had been preceded by some comments relating to the debt, on which he offered the following helpful insight:

“We’re always very well protected and we never get involved in the financial side of things… as players we never get involved in those things; our job is purely on the pitch and we allow people who are paid to do jobs in other areas of the club to do their job. It’s nothing to do with us at all.”

What a relief! The players are well protected! Well, Gary, you horrible, selfish little man, I’m glad that you’re alright, and that you consider United’s ruination to be none of your business. I never thought I’d find myself deferring to Carlos Tevez’s turn of phrase, but “boot-licking moron” is pretty much perfect.

It isn’t that we ever expected any help from the players who, Solskjaer and Cantona apart, have sauntered along as though there’s nothing amiss. However the least they can do is keep their mouths shut.

Perhaps this week’s starkest reminder of the liability came during Satuday’s game against Burnley, when, in a double substitution, the numbers 7 and 32 were introduced. A year ago that would have meant Ronaldo and Tevez, but it now signifies Owen, and, as Fergie calls him, “the boy Mame Diouf”. Pleasingly, the former had a perfect view of the latter scoring his first United goal, his inability to force any semblance of a smile precisely indicative of the attitude that has endeared him to no one.

Talking of endearing people, John Terry appeared back on the radar this week, discussing the toilet habits that are but a single fascinating facet of this fascinating man. Of course we already know a bit about this from his public cup-urination trick, but we must be grateful to him for filling another hole in our knowledge by letting us know that he always uses the same dressing room stone:

“For some reason I could only go there. And the foreign lads don’t really get why I’m waiting behind them when there’s plenty of spaces elsewhere!”

Yes, your stage fright must be totally incomprehensible to those born outside the UK, particularly those who suffered for it in Moscow. I wonder if they can bring themselves to look at you.