Manchester United have perfected the art of firing the wrong man for the right reasons.
Michael Carrick is finished. He knows it. The players know it. The poor bastards still paying to watch this traveling circus know it. One Premier League win, thirty goals conceded across all competitions, and a club with the financial muscle of a small nation sitting in the relegation zone. There is no defense for it. Carrick has failed, and he deserves to go.
But here’s the part that should make every United supporter absolutely fucking furious.
The men who hired him are apparently flying to Monaco to discuss firing him.
Monaco. Of course it’s Monaco.
While the supporters endure another international break contemplating the possibility of Championship football, Sir Jim Ratcliffe, Omar Berrada, and Jason Wilcox are gathering in a Mediterranean playground to decide which poor bastard gets handed the keys to this burning building next.
You couldn’t invent a more perfect metaphor for the modern Manchester United.
Carrick deserves his share of the blame. His tactics have been naive, his team selections baffling, and his inability to organize a defense utterly unforgivable. But who appointed him? Who evaluated the squad? Who approved the recruitment strategy? Who sold supporters another grand vision of a footballing renaissance?
The same men now preparing to wash their hands of the consequences.
Jason Wilcox, the supposed architect of United’s footballing identity. Omar Berrada, the executive charged with restoring the club’s institutional competence. And Ratcliffe, the billionaire savior who arrived promising to end the dysfunction of the Glazer era, only to oversee a different flavor of the same rotten product.
The Glazers, naturally, remain comfortably positioned above the wreckage, collecting the benefits of ownership while the institution beneath them rots.
What, precisely, has any of this leadership earned the right to manage?
United are not suffering from a managerial problem. They’re suffering from an organizational cancer that has metastasized through every level of the football club. Managers come and go. Recruitment philosophies change with the weather. Players arrive with enormous price tags and leave as expensive disappointments. Every failure is explained away as part of a long-term project that somehow never survives contact with reality.
And every time the wheels fall off, the ownership identifies another convenient corpse to throw beneath the bus.
Now comes the familiar parade. Pochettino. Howe. Nagelsmann. Another celebrated name, another expensive contract, another press conference stuffed with hollow promises about standards, culture, and returning Manchester United to the summit of European football.
Spare me the fucking theater.
You cannot build a winning institution when failure carries consequences for everyone except the people running it.
Fire Carrick. Absolutely.
But Wilcox should follow him out the door. Berrada should be answering for this catastrophe, not supervising its cleanup. Ratcliffe should be forced to confront the extraordinary gulf between what he promised and what he has delivered. And the Glazers should have been driven out of this club years ago.
The entire football operation needs gutting, from the boardroom to the training ground.
Because Manchester United don’t need another manager to save them.
They need an ownership and executive structure worthy of the institution they’ve spent thirteen years dismantling.
Until that happens, the next manager is simply another dead man walking.
And the executioners will still be sitting comfortably in Monaco.
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