Last Saturday was the 52nd anniversary of the Munich air crash. As I toasted the Babes with a large glass of malt (Highland Park 18 years, now that you ask), my girlfriend challenged me as to why I was remembering something that I couldn’t remember.

In simple terms, it’s fairly straightforward to transpose personal experience onto such intense embodiment of panache, youthfulness and strength, but that still doesn’t quite capture the significance: for Reds of my generation, the Babes never died, because we know them only as the eternal heroes of eternal tales that will last for eternity. Figments of our imagination and figures in our dreams, we grew up with the hope that someday they might come back so that, just once, we can watch them play.

This makes our relationship with them very different to that of our fathers. We can’t possibly conceive the trauma of leaving for school glowing after an important victory then coming home to find half the squad dead and the manager on the precipice. But it’s woven into our psyche nonetheless, just like the events passed down through other aspects of our identity.

So to me, for example, the Babes are a motif in the same way as the slaves in Egypt, the Zionist pioneers and those who had the misfortune to be in Eastern Europe in the 30s and 40s - all, of course, to varying degrees. And like most desperate times, each is synonymous with song. The Spinners’ memorial, ‘The Flowers of Manchester’, is one of the very first I can remember being touched by, although for years I thought the outside left was called David Peggalso.

The manner in which Matt Busby and Jimmy Murphy rebuilt the club in the aftermath of Munich makes its current predicament all the more mortifying and the delight taken by supporters of almost every other club equally unsurprising. It isn’t that we’re seeking sympathy - emphatically we are not - and I understand that people are riled by our numbers, cockiness and success. But when any club is jeopardised, it should be everybody’s problem. However much I enjoyed the footballing aspect to Leeds’ demise (and it was a lot), no set of supporters should have to suffer simply because the rules aren’t strong enough to prevent idiotic or rapacious ruination.

Portsmouth are another case in point, not just of monetary ruin but of what Arsene Wenger calls financial doping - spending artificial wealth or borrowing heavily in pursuit of success. And rather like its athletics equivalent, it’s not only dangerous but cheating.

Despite occupying bottom position, Portsmouth are nowhere near the worst side in the league. With the obvious exception of the unpleasant Jamie O’Hara, they’re not a team of donkeys, generally passing the ball quite nicely before contriving to miss any ensuing chances. Wobbling on the touchline like John Major’s Spitting Image puppet, you could see why Avram Grant might urgently need a massage.

With Scholes and Giggs both rested, United lacked imagination in the middle of the pitch, only threatening-ish in the opening period. Nonetheless, a collection of goals always seemed likely, and a couple duly arrived before half-time, the first via a short corner, incredibly enough. What a goal Berbatov’s was, holding off some admittedly pathetic challenges to fire into the bottom corner with characteristically laconic cool.

Even so, and despite an earlier scooped pass to Valencia that should also have resulted in a goal, there were still plenty of people criticising him afterwards. It’s not quite a ‘what have the Romans ever done for us?’ kind of deal, but neither is it far away - the game will be remembered for those two moments alone. What exactly is to discuss? The purest artist at Old Trafford since Veron, the prospect of seeing not just the brilliant but the unforeseeable is something that should exist every time United play. Even when it ends in disappointment, the anticipation is worth the frustration every time.

A niggling injury and the success of the 4-3-3 formation meant that, as expected, Berbatov was back on the bench at Villa - thanks to Martin O’Neill, no longer one of the better aways. Now a half-decent outfit, it suddenly costs 43 quid for a crap seat - far too much, even for one in the same section as Milky Milky, Napalm Death, Toni & Guy and other prominent United characters. Suddenly capable of attracting some support, the away allocation has been reduced too, and since last season - at O’Neill’s behest - the away section has been moved from behind the goal, a petty attempt to gain an advantage that reflects badly on his team and those purportedly there to cheer them on.

It’s impossible not to be needled by the loss of four points to Villa, given how the games have unfolded. Crucial this time was the careless waste of the first 19 minutes, United only waking up after going behind. Immediately and thereafter, they played with urgency and intent, the lack of celebration for the equaliser at least indicating that they were suitably annoyed with themselves.

Down to ten men soon after, the slow start arguably cost United victory, although they remained more likely winners. Villa will have known they’d likely still be out-passed, and were legitimately wary of being caught on the break, but are nonetheless shamed by playing like a bunch of eunuchs.

United’s chances of forcing the win probably ended with Giggs’s injury - all we can do now is wait for Fergie to rush him back for the Milan home game, in classic style. Although not playing particularly well, he was still the team’s most astute finder of space, and replacing him with Park would at least have enabled the most likely scorer to stay nearest to the goal. Instead, Rooney went to left midfield and Berbatov came on, receiving neither the service nor support he needed to make an impact, though I acknowledge that, on this occasion, it would’ve helped if he’d put himself about a bit more.

At least it looked strange seeing Rooney on the left, especially pleasing given that next week United play a Euro away. Let’s hope they go to Milan and play with enterprise and courage - the Babes certainly would have done.