There are three effects that make the demand curve slope upwards, and United tickets have segued their way through them all over the last twenty years. First an addiction, next a status maximiser, and then a giffen good – something you purchase because you've no choice.

But now, demand is plummeting faster than Alexander Lemming; in the week preceding the Westairmfrewnfrew game, the club desperately hawked seats to anyone they'd ever heard of, and at a discount; once upon a time a much-coveted privilege, now no better than a ruddy tulip.

It's not that tickets shouldn't be cheaper – of course they should be – but as a principle, not because of market forces. The apathy is both depressing and encouraging.

Tuesday's game followed a very disappointing effort at Everton the previous Saturday. Driving along the incongruously named Queens Drive and Maiden Lane an hour before kick off, there was already some trepidation in the car amongst the less rational – despite decent recent history, this was a game United always lost when we were kids, and the clear, sunny conditions made for decidedly un-United weather.

Walking towards the ground, the first local we encountered commented that we looked like United fans, good. With Liverpool supporters so repugnant, it's easy to forget that Evertonians aren't far removed, something given the old F5 by their behaviour on the way out of Wembley last season.

Despite sticking you down the side of the pitch, Goodison remains one of better away trips, less plastic than most. Stood opposite the Swarfega hoarding that might be the world's most redundant advert, we were also directly behind one of the thoughtfully positioned pillars.

By the end, it would've done for there to be a few more.

The music played over the PA at football grounds nowadays is a typically soul-defiling mix of phoney pop and one-paced dronethems, but there was still a shock in store pre-match. If all it takes to get a record deal is a peculiar set of siblings, then, ladies and gentlemen, without further ado I give you Garil.

For a time it wasn't too bad seeing the older half lead the team out – local boy, yadda yadda – but it's never really been enough. The captain of Manchester United must be scary, cool, or both, and a bumfluff moustache doesn't quite do it. In addition, Rafael needs games, not a rest, and after a display in Milan that was both chastening and encouraging, it's hard to see what's gained by leaving him out.

In the event, Neville was perhaps United's least bad defender, though the team started well and deservedly took the lead. The ease with which Valencia continually ran by Leighton Baines made a mockery of his claims to the England spot, suddenly vacant after the international retirement of Wayne Bridge. Bridge told us this week that he has "thought long and hard about his position". Wayne, I'm sure there have been a lot of long, hard...er...er...thoughts, some of them about position - maybe as many as 34.

Anyway, it looked briefly as though a relaxing afternoon was on the cards, before Bilyladetinov found a brilliant goal out of nowhere, and United never rediscovered their rhythm. As Jamie Redknapp has taught us, goals literally change games.

Although the subsidence was lame, credit to Everton, who are miles better than Villa, Spurs and City. Their midfielders manipulate ball and space intelligently, and they all ran backwards and forwards faster and in greater numbers that United. The second and third goals weren't exactly imminent when they arrived, except for the fact that they arrived, but both were likelier than one at the other end, the scoring combo of hair and tatt an additional whack in the goolies.

With United's victories of late arriving via 4-3-3, it might have helped for them to retain the same shape, though it was reasonable to compensate Berbatov for his consequential but undeserved omission. But even if he was the reason for the change in formation, he was also the team's most threatening attacker, and with Rooney quiet, subbing the next most likely scorer (after own goals) was never going to help, even if there was wisdom in the introduction of Scholes. The listless Carrick – a player who very rarely gets it right when others don't – would have been better told to sit at the side.

The midweek game was always likely to be easier. Westairmfrewnfrew's new owners, Sullivan and Gold, are the latest ideologues to come out in favour of a salary cap; I wonder if they'd be as keen on a limit levied on the earnings of pornographers. Tactfully alerting their players of an impending pay cut via the media, apparently these measures are necessary because the club are skinter than they thought. Well perhaps they should've done their due diligence properly then.

As far as the game went, United picked up the tempo well after a slow start. Lax in not knocking in a few more goals, at least the hiatus between the second and third allowed for a truly hilarious rendition of "we're gonna win fray toe". I'm not sure whether fray toe is a game, a condition or a pie, but I am sure that whenever United play a London club, I cringe with hope that I don't sound like they do.

With Tuesday's game being so winnable, on balance Fergie was probably right to rest a few players, hopefully ready to hand Villa what would be a very well-deserved beating on Sunday. This latest contribution to the Football League and presumably FA's mortgage is costing me seventy sheets, for only the second-tier price-band - a mess they're sensibly exacerbating by bidding for a World Cup Haiti's got more chance of hosting. Still, I suppose funding incompetence beats funding avarice.