For more than fifteen years, philosophers have been vexed by what it was that Meatloaf wouldn’t do for love, but the reality is that he was deluding himself; if he’d really been serious, then "that" wouldn’t exist. Such is the price of true love, such is its distinction from self-interested love.

Many United supporters now find themselves in a similar quandary. Unfairly, perhaps, given the countless ruined relationships, lost jobs, missed parties and decimated bank accounts, but nonetheless "that" time may well have arrived.

This week, a consortium of wealthy Reds announced an intention to buy the club, the endgame that ownership be transferred to the fans. But seeking to buy United and actually buying United are two very different things; if, as expected, the Glazers refuse to sell, they’ll need to be forced. With no other financial squeezes obviously available, it may well turn out that the only way of getting rid is to boycott Old Trafford.

Although we’ve been here before, circumstances are different now, the motivation effect rather than principle. In 2005, people stopped going because they refused to let the Glazers buy United with their money, but in 2010 it’ll be to secure the future of the club for eternity. And the beauty is that it wouldn’t entail any missed games – if no one renewed, they’d be gone faster than their foreskins.

Enter the Red Knights. Lame moniker, admittedly, but should they pull this off, they’ll deserve to join Sir Gawain, Sir Galahad and the rest of the boys, and no doubt the Lady of the Lake would be eager to show her gratitude too.

As ever, in that context football hardly seems relevant, except, of course, that of course it is, and what an excellent week it’s been. February felt too early in the season to want City to win, but then, with a little help from our old friend Hilario, they beat Chelsea and suddenly it very much wasn’t. How absolutely delicious; even when they get it right, they get it wrong. D’oh! At least they were compensated the following day, when Dennis Tueart was presented with the BBC’s award for best ever League Cup goal. I do very much hope he enjoyed the game, even if it wasn’t as good as the 1986 Full Members Cup Final classic.

Neither did the pre-match fun end there, the teams revealed alternately amidst soldiers and flags, Villa’s announcer compounding the embarrassment by handing each player a nickname that’d shame even the thickest dartist. However the house resident soon outdid him, variously reminding us of the teams, match and score; but another example of how officialdom considers us all morons.

Although we’d all like every game to be watched by screaming nutters, the United end was as low-key as you’d expect, plenty leaving before the trophy was presented. If nothing else, though, it was worth staying to see it lifted by the wonderful Patrice Evra, well on the way to becoming a genuine red legend. The best left back in the world according to most unbiased judges, since very early in his time at United, he’s spoken with passion and eloquence about who and what the club represents, usually in magically unhinged style. Most recently, he revealed tacit support for the anti-Glazer protest, until now a position stated only by Cantona and Solskjaer; high-class company indeed.

With Rooney not starting the game, a lot of creative responsibility rested with Berbatov, typically disregarding the pre-match pomposity by standing out of line during the introductions. Maverick non-conformity or self-indulgent apathy depending on your bent, he had a splendid game, as did Owen in the time he was on. Say what you like about his first touch, hamstrings, height, vision, scouseness and character – and I really do mean that - but he’s always scored in big games, and if he stood near Berbatov for any length of time, he’d get a whole lot more.

The football in the first half was actually quite decent and by far the best I’ve seen at Wembley, 70 quid lower tier seats way better than the 90 quidders I’ve been mugged for in the past. Although Villa started well, United gradually took over, Carrick showing some uncharacteristic but very pleasing aggression, and Park and Fletcher also influential.

Things were duller after the interval, the second 45 spent waiting for United to score, which they duly did; Valencia is now better at locating Rooney’s head than his hair. It was just unfortunate that when he repeated the trick moments later, his NBF hit the post, saving Villa fans ten painful minutes of certain defeat.

The major controversy of the game was Phil Dowd’s decision not to send Vidic off for his foul on Agbonlahor, another player with a nickname on the back of his shirt; until his unique hat-trick of impregnations, he was plain old Gabby Agbonla. You do, though, have to wonder what Vidic thought he was doing - after getting away with an initial shirt-pull that prompted a slip and a check, a block rather than a tackle would probably have sufficed and even if not, Agbonlahor wouldn’t necessarily have beaten Kusczak.

Although it was the referee rather than the law found wanting here, the provision that stipulates dismissal on the denial of a goalscoring opportunity could do with a tweak. It was instituted to stop the "professional foul" – a situation in which a defender prevents a likely goal without attempting to play the ball – but punishes those who make legitimate efforts at prevention more harshly than is fair. If the referees could be trusted, it’d make far more sense to show a red card only if there was no genuine attempt at a tackle, or if the attempt was reckless with no chance of success.

To finish this week, three very special winners of the Barry Ferguson, honoured for remarkably hypocritical disses but of oh so deserving causes. First is Jamie O’Hara, for decking Michael Brown, then Craig Bellamy after a magnificent slating of "JT", and, finally, Rafael Benitez for his criticism of Sam Allardyce.

So, through gritted teeth, congratulations to all; it just goes to show, hatred isn’t blind. Neither should love be.