In truth, though, I think my burning animosity toward Alex Ferguson has dimmed in the last couple of years. I crossed the bridge, a while back, and found myself in a land of make-believe where I don't get abnormally twisted out shape, mentally or, thankfully, otherwise, after the results of matches. It's a land where the inhabitants regularly bury their heads in sand dunes. Quite comfortable. I recommend it. Looking back, I find myself laughing at those fits I'd throw in the car on the way to watch a match. Fist pumps, foul language and general assertions projected forth through songs that'd twist my vocals and warm 'em for a day of shouting.
Meh. Whatever. And yes, as before, that's the 'meh' of gross indifference. Call it maturity but, more likely, I finally swallowed the pill I've been trying to hid in my own food for years ... winning doesn't matter, man. You've heard me say it before. Whatever, more on that another time. Really. (No, really, I promise.)
What matters is that as my lust (no better word) for winning and distaste for all opposition (save my friends, Liverpool - recall, this is a friendly entente.), has waned, so too has my desire to kick Ferguson square in the jaw. Ok, in his nuts too.
Still, somethings never change. And with the derby (Liverpool v. Manchester United tussle this weekend for their rightful place atop The Perch. I hear it's a horrible place to call home. People keep trying to knock you off and all that. Quite prefer a nice medium-sized living space with plenty of wall space to hang reminders of past success. Says the Arsenal supporter.) nigh, I must again share. Hatred wanes, what does not wane, however, is my stubborn belief that Ferguson is a habitual and premeditated abuser of human rights. Once more with gusto ...
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