I'm always happy to admit it when I'm wrong. All of my friends will tell you I'm magnanimous to a fault. And how wonderful to be wrong on this occasion. Gloriously, beautifully, rip-roaringly wrong. There were a few omens, such as the young scally lurking outside the chip shop at midday in a Tevez shirt ('Is he 32 years old, Dad?' asked my daughter. He wasn't) asking how much for a chip muffin, clearly unaware that such things are not known in north London. As he left the shop, I asked him:
'Who's gonna win?'
He didn't turn towards me, just sauntered off, and all he said in reply was:
Then, I discovered that the match tickets I had turned down were for the Rags' end anyway, so even that little downer was not really a downer after all. My fears in the first 25 minutes were not to be realised as we gradually began to boss the match. Kompany was again the all-action hero, and Hart was playing his Shropshire best to deny Lord Berba his goal.
And then there was Yaya... nutmegging Van Der Sar. Rio was clearly getting leggy, and Vidic was looking punch drunk. Who needs Tevez, eh?
But things - as Professor Brian Cox and his mates used to say - could only get better, and the truly beautiful sight of ginger seeing red was laid before me, topped off by Balo's fabulous bit of baiting (yet again, the morning papers are reproducing Ferdinand's bloody tweets. What a sack of fucking shit that is) made them look like the bunch of tossers they are. All in all, a feast fit for a king.