In the early hours of Sunday morning I woke up in the middle of a horrible nightmare. I had been going about my usual business…everything was normal…except…like a Liquorice Allsort commercial of old…everyone had gone Bertie. Every person I met, my girlfriend, her mum, my folks, my mates…all were wearing Man United shirts and all had giant Liquorice Allsorts for heads. The world hadn’t gone Bertie…it’d gone Bertie INNIT…and I was the last human being left. I was chased past the Wetherspoons in Ruislip Manor by shambling morons…”Innit…innit…” they chanted after me as I ran like Veronica Cartwright at the end of The Invasion of the Body Snatchers…the trees on the avenues were dying, suburban gardens were filled with alien pods and Leonard Nimoy’s ears…I tripped on the steps of the tube station and suddenly I was trapped…a wall of red AIG shirts all around me…”You hate US don’t you?...you hate US because you’re jealous…you hate US because we’re successful innit?...”

I wake up in a panic…the room is a little unfamiliar…my girlfriend’s not here…I need to check she hasn’t got a pink Liqourice Allsort for a head. Phew it was just a nightmare…now I remember. Kate’s in Birmingham on a hen-do. I’m staying at my mum and dad’s place because I went to a reunion of sorts with some old schoolfriends at the Vine last night. I think I’m safe…

The band played a gig later that night so I was somewhat distracted for the rest of Sunday. Firstly by the buzz of playing live and then by lots of beer…but the dream stayed with me…or at least part of it did. A lot of the detail fades…dreams are thin memories when you're back in the real world. But the words of Man United fans were still there, mainly I think because they don’t just say stupid things in dreams…it’s all the time. In the office, in the pub, on blogs, on the streets.

It set me to thinking…do I really hate Manchester United?

And you know what? I don’t think I do. It was a revelation. Every fibre of my being should hate Manchester United Football Club…what was happening to me? Had my body really been snatched and my mind with it? I rubbed my cheeks to make sure no blue hundreds and thousands dropped off.

You see…I have a genuine respect for the team (hair-gelled Portuguese tumbler aside), and their achievements. They are sometimes good to watch and sometimes like watching Germany grind out a result; doing just what is necessary to win, to put points on the board or to progress to the next stage. I can’t hate them for that.

Sure, sometimes they get more than their fair share of decisions from the officials. That much is true. But if referees are influenced by the barracking of the players or by baiting in the media by Ferguson then that’s a problem with the referees not Manchester United…God knows referees cannot be influenced by crowd noise at the Old Trafford Library…unless it’s from the away supporters of course.

Then there’s Alex Ferguson. Yes I do have a genuine dislike for anyone with a title that insists you use it…but that’s not enough to make me hate Sir Alex any more than I hate that other belligerent little arsehole Sir Alan Sugar who also insists on being called ‘Sir Alan’ in the self-serving bollocks that serves as entertainment for passive proles. Besides…when I watch Alex Ferguson…no matter how much shit he talks…I just keep looking at that big pink face and the nose with its network of alizarin, iron oxide, scarlet and vermillion capillaries - like a Jackson Pollack work with the yellow and blue switched off – and you can’t help thinking “Aw bless him…let him talk shit…that liver isn't going to last forever is it?” I used to feel the same when watching Chesney Hawkes videos…it pisses you off for a bit and then you realise that somewhere deep within that mole lie the secret DNA codes to a melanin time-bomb…and you just can’t hate him.

So it’s not the team. Not the manager…what is it?...the success?…well no…how can it be? As I said above I have a genuine respect for the team and their achievements…and also…Liverpool are more successful…do I really want Liverpool to have had the same level of success as Man United? Therefore to have won one less league title and two less European cups? Doesn’t make sense does it? I didn’t hate the Arsenal team that went through a Premier League season unbeaten with what must be classed as the best season-long performance in the English top-flight for generations…sure Pires fell over a bit…well A LOT…but I didn’t hate them. Barcelona currently play the BEST football on the planet…I don’t hate watching them…I love it.

Then it hits you…the ‘AHA’ moment…It’s not Manchester United Football Club I hate…It’s Manchester United fans. Sorry let me correct that sentence so that Manchester United fans can understand it.

It’s Manchester United fans…innit.

I’m in my mid thirties…in that time I must have met thousands of Manchester United fans. I’m wracking my brains right now to think of any that I could either watch a football match with, or hold a conversation about football with.

Mmmmm…there’s David “Orv” Keane (RIP), John Gott…er…maybe Weymouth…maybe Nicholls…and I’m stuck.

Sure every club has its twat fans. I’m sometimes stuck behind them at Loftus Road or at the Emirates…or stuck next to nouveau Chelsea in the pub…and yes the odd bitter LFC bore…but for sheer, unadulterated, patentable fuckheadness…Man United fans must take the biscuit innit. If you took 100 fans of every team in the world and divided them into ‘normal’ and ‘cock’…everyone else would have between 7 and 10 cocks. The Man United group would have 99 cocks and 1 normal fan. It’s frightening…

So I try to avoid anyone in the AIG uniform where possible. You’ve only got a one-in-a-hundred chance of an intelligent conversation. Everyone who knows anything about football can spot a Man United fan even if they’re not in AIG. They arrived at the pub in a car that had a personalised number plate. They’re the ones shouting abuse at the screen every – and I mean EVERY – time a decision doesn’t go their way. They clap at TV screens for mysterious reasons that the rest of us can’t fathom…like throw ins or balls into the box that no-one gets on the end of. They cheer loudly when the ball rolls into the net and everyone else heard the whistle or saw the flag 20 seconds ago…they keep cheering and everyone else points, laughs and shouts: “SIDDOWN!!” And they sulk. If their team loses they sulk and make up excuses. Then finally…unable to put up with the banter…they crack…straining to hold back the tears…they finally go Bertie innit.

“EVERYONE WANTS TO BEAT US COZ WE’RE THE BIGGEST AND THE BEST IN THE WORLD INNIT…YOU HATE US…YOU HATE US BECAUSE YOU’RE JEALOUS OF OUR SUCCESS INNIT…”

Aw bless…lets chat shall we?

ME: “By what means would you quantify being the ‘best club in the world’ as you put it?”

MUFI (Man U Fan Innit): “We’re the world champions innit”

ME: “Ah you mean you currently hold the World Club Championship after defeating the best that Ecuador had to offer. You do realise that this trophy is seen as a bit of a joke if you’re not South American don’t you? Liverpool refused to take part in the 70s; Brian Clough twice sent reserve squads; In the 1980s when Liverpool played Independiente, the game was played on sand and not grass. That’s how prestigious this tournament is”

MUFI: “Whatever man innit…we’re the best in the world”

ME: “Wicked this is like talking to a child…so between 2001 and 2005 all teams were joint  best in the world? Hillingdon Borough were joint best team in the world for four years running? Brilliant…that’s cheered me up no end.”

MUFI: “Whatever man innit… we're the best in the world...most successful club in the world innit...you hate us because we're successful”

ME:  “Er…let’s get something straight before we carry on shall we? I don’t hate you because you’re successful. I dislike you because you are a twat. YOU are not successful. YOU did not make any contribution to Manchester United’s success at all. All YOU did was choose to be a fan of the team that was winning, it’s like saying you support America in wars and then saying: ‘WE certainly showed those Iraqi civilians’. I am not jealous of YOU, I am currently the happiest man in the world that I am not YOU…understand? Secondly…if I was going to be jealous of another team’s success on the world stage then why would I chose a team that – by your own judgement criteria – is at best joint seventh in the world?”

MUFI: “What man innit?”

ME: “If I was jealous of anyone it would be Madrid, Boca Juniors, Nacional, Penarol, Sao Paulo or Milan who have all been world champions more than Manchester United...you are at best, joint 7th in the world along with Porto, Santos, Bayern, Inter, Ajax, Juve and Independiente.”

MUFI: “Whatever man innit…you’re jealous of our success in Europe” (Yep…I genuinely have had this reply before from a Man United follower…stop laughing)

ME: *Fighting back giggles* “Well not really...you're behind Madrid, Milan, Liverpool, Bayern and Ajax for the big one...you were one dodgy slip in a penalty shootout from still being level with Notts Forest…I can’t recollect ever being particularly jealous of Notts Forest”

MUFI: “Biggest and best innit...WE'VE won the league the most times ever, most successful British club ever....innit”

ME: “Do you mean in England? Rangers have 51 league titles, Celtic have 42, Liverpool have 18…Man United have 17…they’re not just NOT the most successful team in the UK…they’re not even the most successful in England.”

MUFI: “That’s all history man innit…we’re biggest and best innit”

ME: “But most of your trophies are in the past also, as in 16 of your league titles…two of your European Cups…you’re not making much sense mate…tell you what…you’re right…football began in 1993…you’re the biggest and best innit.”

MUFI: “I knew it innit…best and BIGGEST…a money making MACHINE innit”

ME: “mmmm…such a strange thing to be proud of…”

MUFI: “BIGGEST AND BE…”

ME: “Let me stop you there.” *and I walk off*

So there you have it. I don’t hate Manchester United…I don’t even really hate their fans…I think they’re fucking hilarious. The best thing about it is that a genuine Man United fan with self respect, dignity, honesty and integrity could read this blog and not be offended as they would know immediately that I wasn’t talking about them.

The rest can go fuck themselves.

Innit.

I hold my hands up and proudly consider myself a very loyal Liverpool fan. I reserve the term ‘supporter’ for a person that goes to a club week in, week out to see their club. My brother has a season ticket at Loftus Road…he is a long suffering QPR supporter. I have seen Liverpool in the flesh barely a dozen times and mainly at London grounds…Highbury, the Emirates, White Hart Lane, Loftus Road, Selhurst Park and Stamford Bridge…hence I consider myself a fan rather than a supporter. You are not a supporter if you buy a shirt. You are not a supporter if you go to a handful of games at Old Trafford a season. You are a fan.

This misnomer does not necessarily mean that the fan is any less knowledgeable, nor any less passionate. In the year of our lord 2009…an invention called television brings football into our homes and pubs like it was on tap. You no longer have to crowd onto on a rickety wooden terrace and sit on your father’s shoulders at your local club, you can choose who you support and - with the help of another invention called the internet - watch every game they play. I am a massive critic of Man U fans who support them because they win and know nothing about football. So I myself am totally open to criticism having been born in 1974 and being a ‘London Scouser’. Bring it on.

As I grew up, Kevin Keegan was my hero. He was my hero because my brother gave me a rub down action transfer kit when I was 3 or 4. If you don’t know what that is then it was basically a card picture of a football pitch that you then placed individual players onto in the places you wanted them by rubbing the separate transfer sheet with a pencil…it was like Letraset but with pictures. They were ace…in the set he gave me Keegan was in Liverpool red although I believe it was the same year he went to Hamburg. The Liverpool red made a lasting impression on me…and for a while I simply supported whatever team played in red I could see on TV, be it Liverpool, Arsenal or Aberdeen…as long as Keegan wasn’t on the other team (this meant that in 1980 I supported Hamburg against Notts Forest!)

The first football match I watched all the way through on TV was in May 1979, the FA cup final between Arsenal and Man Utd…I was four (and a half) and for some reason I didn’t support the team in red and went for Arsenal yellow. When my brother asked why I just remember saying: “I – just – don’t – like – them”…it makes sense when you’re a kid.

For whatever reason I couldn’t get my Keegan transfers out of my head. I used to draw action pictures of imaginary football matches with a curly-permed Keegan scoring all 8 goals past a hapless Pat Jennings.

On the 28^th October 1979 my dad took me and my brother to what was my first ever game. My dad grew up in Southall and used to cycle to White City to watch QPR when he was a kid. My brother followed as a QPR supporter…I was harder to convince. The game I saw at Loftus Road that day is now the stuff of Legend. QPR 7 Burnley 0. Burnley played in yellow that day. I kicked the guy in front of me 7 times…more than 7 times. I was hooked.

“So you’re a QPR supporter now eh?” My dad asked as we walked back through the estate.

“Yeah…I’m gonna come every week” I replied wide eyed.

“Er…you can’t come every week” He replied “You can only go when I go…maybe twice or three times a season”

I was mortified. “What about Liverpool? Can I go and watch them every week” I asked imploringly. “No” Came the answer curtly.

If QPR were in division 2 and Liverpool were in division 1…AND I wasn’t able to go to either on my own…I may just as well support Liverpool. It made perfect sense to me. I never looked back. The 80s were good. Life since has been tough.

In the TV age…it’s true more than ever.