Christmas is supposed to be about comfort, ritual, the soft tyranny of tradition. The same songs in the same order; the same relatives with the same jokes; the same turkey, dry as a committee meeting, rescued only by gravy and mercy. Supporting Manchester United, lately, feels like eating that turkey anyway, chewing dutifully, smiling for the family photo, pretending you are not already thinking about the leftovers, pretending you did not see the score coming an hour before the first whistle.
Villa Park served up a familiar plate, 2–1, a loss with enough spirit to keep the faithful warm for the walk back to the car. Spirit is the mulled wine of football; it goes down easy, makes your cheeks pink, convinces you that everything is fine, even as the cold keeps biting. “We played well,” we say, like a prayer, like a man promising he will quit smoking after the holidays.
Now comes Boxing Day, and with it Newcastle, the boogey team, the uninvited guest who shows up early, eats all the pigs in blankets, and somehow leaves with your best bottle of Scotch. They arrive with that northern appetite, a press that feels like a bouncer’s hand on your shoulder, and the kind of chaos that turns a tidy living room into a house party. They do not care if the table is set. They flip it.
And United, God bless them, stumble into this like a slightly hungover poet in a borrowed suit, trying to look noble while the seams strain. There is a particular holiday misery in injuries, too; Bruno Fernandes, the man who drags the sleigh when the reindeer go missing, reportedly sidelined. It is like discovering your sharpest kitchen knife has snapped in half right before the feast. You can still cook; you can still eat; but you will feel the absence with every awkward cut.
This is the part of the season where clubs reveal their true pantry. Do you have depth, or do you have vibes? Do you have players who relish the ugly work, or do you have a collection of talented diners waiting to be served? At Christmas, the kitchen does not care about your reputation. The oven is hot, the clock is cruel, and the guests want dinner now.
There is, if we are honest, something strangely perfect about United in December. The lights look good, the songs sound familiar, and the whole thing teeters between romance and farce. Old Trafford under winter sky has that bruised beauty, that stained cathedral feeling, like a great restaurant past its prime where the menu is shorter than it used to be, but the right dish still can make you close your eyes and remember why you fell in love.
So here is the cheeky holiday wish, not for miracles, not for perfect football, not for a new striker delivered down the chimney. Just for a bit of nastiness; the good kind. For United to stop being polite at their own table. For someone, anyone, to take the first bite like they mean it, to win the second ball, to relish the scrap, to turn Boxing Day into something more than an annual discomfort.
Serve it hot. No apologies. No leftovers.
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