For 6 years, Christiano Ronaldo was my husband, but he left me for someone with a bigger bust….
If Manchester United were a metaphor, I could wax poetic in a river of cliches and tropes. I could wallow in self satisfying nostalgia, drinking champagne on the deck of the titanic. I could indulge my cerebral cortex with thoughts of Greek tragedies, of Midas and his golden touch. I could turn everything to gold, just by thinking at it.
If Manchester United, were, say, the portrait of Dorian Gray, looking back out upon the world as it grows older and it is spared the inexorable pedantry that is the inevitable-ness of aging, and her tortuously more seductive cousin, change, then i could continue what for me, and other fans my age, (i say fans but we have become dependents, all of us, sucking air in the memory of Ferguson’s teat) has become a form of comfortably numb.
Those not stricken with our particular disease, they call it smugness, and we don’t really care. Call it what you want, Manchester United are not a metaphor, aging is inexorably pedantic, and the only universal constant is change. Success is a fickle mistress, and she has sought greener, younger pastures.
I can still wax poetic. I am still a dreamer. I can fondly remember Clive Tyldesley utter that Mancunian primal scream “man utd have reached the promised land” on that balmy summer day. just like it was a dream.
summer was burgeoning out of the wanton thighs of spring, treble suns shining just on the horizon. I myself burgeoning, coming out of my own spring, entering my own summer, i grew tits the year man utd won the treble.
now that is a memory i want to hold on to.
However, it is not quite the bustiest of my lusty Man united dreams. For six years, Christiano ronaldo was my husband.
You laugh and you snicker, but you also luxuriated in his silky hair and seductive moves. you also screamed “christttttttttttttiiiiiiiiiannnnnnnoooooooo rooooooonaldo” in your sluttiest voice when he/we scored. right up in the top corner of the net. I think they call it the G spot, because it is so hard to find. a postage stamp.
And then he committed the cruelest of all sins. He left us for a better model. A prettier model. A more exotic model. a model with bigger tits. He left you too. And we cried, but we sucked some more at Ferguson’s teat and we were calmed. Everything was still gold? wasnt it? you promised, king Midas.
And everything was ok! Manchester United went on to win many more trophies, including their 20th, forever making us “one better than those scousers over at Anfield”
Sure, louis Suarez could bite a man or two, but we were too busy licking milk and honey off the face of Robin Van Persie to care. And I still flagellated myself to fading memories of cr7. and so did you. Smug? you betcha, Winners? yeah! We could back it up.
But we all have our demons, and change is the only constant. And change came to Old Trafford, and no amount of exorcism can rid us of the pox. No amount of denial can make a ship unsinkable. Dorian Gray is a sad old man, who needs to buy a mirror.
Dorian Gray is he who shall not be named. well ok, change, thy name is moyes. Please Sir Alex, can I have some Moyes? surely, Jose Mourihno understands that sentiment.
If we had a mirror, we would see ourselves for how we truly are. We might see that our “Juan Mata boobjob” did not make us look younger, it just made us need a bigger bra. we’d see that Nemanja Vidic just stood us up at the alter. And we thought we had him hooked, and to think, it’s too late for a morning after pill..
If Manchester United were a metaphor, maybe that mirror, that portrait of Dorian Gray, would look familiarly like me.