Blue moon goes down a treat at lunch…then rises at teatime semi.

Henry’s Wine Bar on Piccadilly was a great place to gather our strength for the big match.  We had taken Shanks’s Pony round the Streets of London. Grace had never been to the big, big city before so we had to see the Eye, a Captain Jack Sparrow look-a-like and some guy stood up a ladder escaping from chains and padlocks. Then we crossed the bridge to get a closer look at the seat of government, and the big clock and we were thinking about going into Westminster Abbey but the queue was too long and they wanted 16 quid a head. Clearly no-one has told them that my Fathers House is not to be made a place of merchandise?

So what was left but to sit outside Henry’s, enjoy a very pleasant steak club sandwich and down the Blue Moon.  It was cloudy to look at but tasted like nectar. To be fair it would not have mattered what it tasted like. It just seemed to be the right thing to do on the day the other blue moon was due to rise over Wembley Stadium.

The best team in the land, and the only football team to come from Manchester were about to end the treble hopes of the London Reds. “This city is yours, this city is yours, we’re going home now, this city is yours”, rang round that half of the national stadium that was dressed in sky blue as the defeated red army scurried hastily away.  Someone pointed out the fact that they are not good losers but that’s probably because they have not had as much practice at it as us.

I think that victory marks the point in history where we will look back and say the worm turned.  For twenty minutes it looked like the trophyless misery might continue for another year but when the Silva Spaniard picked up the game by the scruff of its neck hope began to rise in the hearts of the blue clad tribe. The half ended all square and a different team came out after the tea break. They took their time. I thought they weren’t coming but when they did appear all those good things we expect and hope for were more apparent. Like commitment, drive, passion, precision passing and the vital ingredient from Toure Yaya.  The GOAL.

The girls were so excited. “I hate this game” one of them said as she hoped we would desperately hang on to the end, and then the extra 5 minutes that’s customary when Fergie is in attendance, even if he is banned from the touchline and conducting his orchestra electronically from the stands.  Unusually for me there were no nerves at all at that point. I could see they were a spent force. Scholes had left in disgrace after trying to emulate former Kung Fu heroes. All they had left to do was spit their dummies out because Super Mario flashed his badge toward the stand long vacated by the now distraught red army. Calm down Mr Anderson. Never mind Rio, go home and tweet, it’ll make you feel better. But get used to this. The Blue Moon is rising.