As we plunge headlong into the stinking marshes of the Interlull, we at least are attired in the waterproofs of victory over Newton Heath this Sunday last. Typically overconfident, a hubris embodied by the hilarious predictions of the Manchester United Twitter following. They were, as followers of my twitter account will know, were surmising that victory was theirs, it was just a matter of precisely what the margin would be. One can imagine how faces dropped in the United heartland of Guildford when Orwell and Saunders started dancing through their ranks at will. Within the time it took to make and consume a decent Martini and smoke a Sobranie Black Russian, our foes had been comprehensively obliterated. I know this for a fact because that is precisely what I was doing at the time.