There was no shotgun shack or beautiful automobile, but racing along a gangway in front of the Milan fans celebrating United’s third goal, arms flailing and shrieking like a braking train, I suddenly found myself asking a question made famous by Talking Heads: how did I get here? This was quickly followed by two more of my own: what am I doing, and how am I still alive? Sadly, I’ll never know the answer to any; such is the price of the Champions League.

Repeated visits to the same cities impose no obligation to sightsee, entertainment sought instead in the twin pleasures of good food and good drink. If the former is easily found, the latter is perhaps too easily found, and raises problems of its own; how to measure the precise amount of red wine that will sustain a warming buzz until after the post-match lock-in? Someone may have happened upon the formula, but it is most assuredly not me.

Losing my mates en route to the ground I somehow managed to wander into the curva sud, helpfully identifying my allegiance with a green and gold scarf. Exactly what happened next is unclear, the first half passing in something of a blur, and my only real memory is of being foxed by the perennially cunning interval into thinking the game was over.

Anyway, that turned out not to be the case, and I passed the second 45 standing on the aforementioned gangway, where I was offered no biscuits. Supervised by a steward and various home fans I befriended, people were nonetheless surprisingly affable given my unrestrained goonery, though it would be disingenuous of me not to mention that by this time I’d detected a mysterious ache in the jaw area; my osso bucco must’ve been less tender than I thought.

Despite the recently-improved European record, there remain very few away wins against decent outfits during the Fergie years; two in Turin, with nods towards Montpellier and Legia Warsaw if we’re being exceptionally generous. Fergie trying to play tactics has been probably the major cause of the struggles, and Tuesday was no exception, rejigging the midfield an entirely unnecessary measure. Even so, on this occasion the fault lay far more with the players, their play soft, tepid and sloppy, like a turd sandwich.

With so many culpable it’d be harsh to single out individuals, though Fergie felt no such indecision, subjecting Jonny Evans to a classic public mapoleh whilst everyone else enjoyed the equaliser. His malaise was hard to understand, given the composed way he handled last season’s game at Inter, so it’s tempting to put his indecision down to having to cover for the far less likeable and well-off-the-pace Ferdinand.

Although Scholes’ goal involved a significant element of luck, coming at the end of a quick and incisive move you’d expect him to finish, it wasn’t quite the fluke suggested by Leonardo after the game. But it did provide United with the impetus to impose themselves in the proper manner thereafter, Fletcher dominating midfield with another display of aggression and intelligence.

Of course the headlines went again to Wayne Rooney, hotter than Flasheart’s pants and even more prolific, despatching two more of the headers that I criticised him for missing but a few weeks ago. Sulking through the first half and deciding that Nani was to blame after he was caught on his heels by a couple of pretty decent crosses, the second was a different story, his pace, strength and movement way too much for a very lame defence.

Amusingly, as United left the San Siro in glorious victory, City were busy struggling to a draw against ten-man Stoke. After so many years of consummate and perpetual failure, it was no shock to hear that they’re contemplating a different sport, reportedly considering an investment in one of the new IPL cricket franchises. This also explained what Patrick Vieira was up to, getting in some early practice by taking aim at Glenn Whelan’s middle stump.

The IPL is the very zenith of sport’s defilement by business, taking place for no reason other than its ability to generate cash for people who already have plenty, at the expense of genuine competition at the same time. Thus it was fitting the story broke the same week we heard of Premier League plans to allocate the final Champions League spot via a play-off, a measure that would no doubt please the desperates at Wastelands.

On my very first Euro away – the 3-3 at Barcelona in 1999 – United fans were singing “we’re here coz we won f**k all”, poking fun at a tournament claiming to be for champions but inviting participation from runners up. This too was a ruse to make more money, but at least there was the consolation of a sporting angle – a competition featuring league winners alone could be sure only of having the best teams from the previous season. So despite the motivation, standards improved as a result, whereas admitting the seventh placed team would achieve quite the reverse.

Of course the proposal has been dressed up as serving the interests of fairness, but if that were really of interest then a salary cap, combined with a transfer cap, would be far more effective. This would allow teams to retain the advantages legitimately acquired over years of success and support, at the same time as preventing the distortion of the game by the likes of Chelsea, City, and, in a slightly different way, Real Madrid.

But then that would restrict how much money could be made, which would never do; far better to protect the vested interests, regardless of what it means for the integrity of the competition. The NFL is a case in point; because an equal league makes more money, every step is taken to artificially arrange one. It may be less predictable, but winning the Superbowl is almost a rota, and there’s not much glory in that.

The inspiration, both in sport and in life, might be the idea of being the best, but the challenge is fairly making the most of whatever abilities have been unfairly allocated. Otherwise, we’re missing the point of Talking Heads’ question.