MANCHESTER UNITED

‘If only one person thinks I’m the best player in the world, that’s good enough for me.’

GEORGE BEST

‘There is a mystique and romance about United that no other club can match.’

JOSE MOURINHO

‘A way from home our fans are fantastic. But at home they have a few drinks and probably the prawn sandwiches …’

ROY KEANE Man United captain, complaining about quiet fans at Old Trafford

As it happens, Roy, the prawn sandwiches at Old Trafford aren’t all that. The Marie-Rose sauce is a bit thin and they are light on cucumber for that contrasting crunch.*

I’ll tell you what is amazing at Old Trafford: the balti pie. It was the first place I had one, and if I had a hat, I would take it off to the genius who came up with the idea of putting a chicken curry hotter than volcanic lava into a thin pie crust. I’m convinced whoever it was must own a chain of dry cleaners because the first thing you say when you bite into one is ‘holy mother, this is good’, and the second is ‘oh, it’s all over my shirt’. And my God, the heat! I’m convinced that’s why Man United fans are so quiet at home games, most of them have scalded their tongue on the way in.

So, Manchester United. Look away now, City and Liverpool fans, while I say that Manchester United are still the most famous English football club in the world. From their early days (wearing yellow and green) as Newton Heath to the international sympathy over the Munich Air Disaster in 1958, which robbed them of a golden generation of talent, through to being the first English club to win the European Cup in 1968, then winning everything in the 1990s, United have become a truly global brand.

I pause here to acknowledge, on the advice of my cousins in Glasgow, that the first British club to win the European Cup were Celtic in 1967. The irony being that not one of that team would actually consider themselves British.

It used to be said of Man United that if an explorer travelled to the deepest depths of the Amazon rainforest and discovered an unknown tribe, the chief would probably greet him by saying, ‘How’s Bobby Charlton getting on?’ Bobby, of course, was not only arguably the most famous player in the world, he was also the most famous bald man in the world – only don’t tell him that. He genuinely seemed to think that combing those three strands of hair over his head had us all fooled: ‘Ooh, here comes that hippy Bobby Charlton.’

And Bobby was the recipient of what is still my favourite leaving present ever. After 20 years, 758 appearances and 249 goals, he played his last game for Manchester United away at Chelsea in April 1973. Before the game, the Chelsea players lined up to applaud him and handed one of the finest footballers to grace our game – a silver cigarette case. And he was delighted! Turned out that not only did one of the finest footballers to grace our game smoke like a trooper, he also enjoyed a quick fag at half-time. The past really is a different country.

Now, the more observant among you will have noticed, probably to your disappointment, that so far I haven’t told you how much I hate Man United. I would guess that for every one Man U fan who loves them, there are a hundred fans of other clubs who really cannot stand them. Maybe because they kept winning things for decades under Sir Alex Ferguson, maybe because a recent lack of success hasn’t led to a corresponding lack of media coverage, or maybe because of that global branding they chase so relentlessly. Does your club have an official soft drinks partner in Nigeria? United does. Hello Chivita! Any sign of your team getting an official global mattress partner? Hi there MLily!

I understand that Palace may be negotiating a two-for-one chicken deal with their official Thornton Heath partner branch of Morley’s, but we have neither an official coffee partner nor an official hotel loyalty partner. Way to go Mellita and Marriott (I believe Mellita and Marriott were also a famous knife-throwing act in the 1960s).

So, about the not hating them thing. Let me tell you about a recurring dream I have. In this dream I walk slowly and anxiously down a long anonymous corridor. As I pass each door I check the numbers, slowing down as I come to the one I seek but don’t wish to enter. I pause, rehearsing the words I need to say out loud to a room full of strangers so I can begin this battle. Through the glass panel I can see a semi-circle of men and women, leaning forward intently to catch the words of the group leader. Suddenly, a middle-aged man stands up and says something I cannot hear. There is applause and he is hugged by everyone. Many of them are in tears.

It’s now or never. In a moment that will be me accepting the love and sympathy I will need to get through this. I push the door open, take a deep breath and whisper: ‘Hello, my name is Kevin and I don’t hate Man United.’

Silence. No applause. No hugs. Maybe it was because I whispered. I say it again. ‘I don’t hate Man United.’ Still nothing. Eventually, the group leader looks up awkwardly and says: ‘I’m sorry, Kevin, this is AA. You need IDHMU next door.’ Subconscious Kevin wonders briefly why I chose AA, then the cat from Shrek turns up demanding to play Scrabble and I wake up in a cold sweat.

So, there you have it. God help me. I don’t hate Manchester United anywhere enough. ‘What?!’ I hear you say. ‘But you’re a Palace fan, you must hate them, what about Eric Cantona?’ Well, obviously I hate that overrated twat, but I just can’t bring myself to waste valuable energy hating them. Look, I don’t like United. Of course I don’t, I’m a civilised human being, but I just don’t despise them as much as some of you do.

In fact, I’ve always been intrigued by the reasons people choose United over City. I asked top football journalist Jim White why he was a red nut and not a blue one. ‘Well, there are traditional red and blue areas of town. United are dominant in Salford and Wythenshawe, whereas City are big in outlying parts like Oldham.’ Nice subtle dig, there, Jim. City fans are all from out of town. ‘But, it’s still largely driven by family. You support who your dad supports. My dad didn’t like football but was happy for me to go on my own and, to be honest, I was seduced by the glamour and seeing the Stretford End in full voice. I went to City occasionally with mates, but the Kippax just wasn’t as exciting. I was won over by fan culture.’

Tony Wilson would understand. He was a Manchester TV presenter obsessed with his city and responsible for Factory Music and the Hacienda (I just know you’re the sort of indie hipster that won’t need that explaining). He knew I was a proud Londoner and used to drive me up the wall by holding me up against an actual wall to tell me London was shit and had never produced any decent music. From my position up the wall I would yell ‘David Bowie, the Kinks, the Clash, Madness’, and he would yell back ‘all shit’. But when it came to his theory that Man U were the biggest, most famous football club ever, ever, ever in the whole world, my response was always ‘well, yeah, could be.’

My mum supported them, which didn’t help. Well, not supported them as such: she mainly fancied Tommy Docherty, their manager in the seventies, and I mean really fancied. To such an extent that when I interviewed him years later, I didn’t know whether to call him ‘Tommy’ or ‘Dad’. I loved my mum, so as a kid I didn’t think it was right to laugh at Man United when they were shit, or hate them when they were good. That took some discipline, but like I say, she was my mum; and I hadn’t learnt to cook yet.

To make matters worse, when Alex Ferguson took over, she decided she really fancied him as well. Which was even more disconcerting, but explains why my actual dad hates Man United as much as my mum liked them.

Obviously, by this time I could cook, but I still loved my mum and decided that if an unrequited love for Fergie was getting her out of bed in the morning, then I’d leave her to her dream that an angry red-faced football manager would one day sweep her off her feet and whisk her away for a scalding hot balti pie. (Yes, we do have weird dreams in our family.)

But it’s not because of one brilliant woman that I can’t share the absolute hatred they seem to inspire across the world. It’s because of one brilliant man. A tiny, glamorous, insecure waif of a man whose sole job, it seemed to me, was to humiliate hard-tackling thugs by gliding past them, through them or over them with the ball tied to his feet by magic. George Best was, still is and forever will be my footballing idol. I adored him.

He played in the first ever Palace game I saw (well, according to my dad; see the chapter on Crystal Palace for that still unresolved mystery) and to this day I remember the low murmur that went round the entire crowd when he got the ball – accompanied by actual screaming from the girls in the crowd. It was genuinely exciting; it was also an early reminder that most of the rest of my life was going to be relatively free of murmuring or screaming. Forget Pelé, forget Eusébio, forget Maradona. I am the person who thinks he is the best player in the world.

And, oh, those goal celebrations. Please, just for a moment, put this book down and type ‘George Best, lob, Tottenham’ into your search engine. Then glory in the chip that somehow eludes eight defenders to find its way into the top corner. Then laugh with glee at the celebration. One man, arm half-raised, standing and smiling at his own temerity.

For me, that represents my childhood love of football – a game that back then was in reality often slow, brutal and tedious – but in my head was that goal, in every game, every Saturday of every week. George played for many clubs, but close your eyes and you can only see him in red. So he, my friends, is why I can’t fully cross that bridge from ‘don’t like’ to ‘hate’.

Oh, plus Joy Division and the Smiths are still my favourite bands. Really, grandad? You amaze us.

Why You Shouldn’t Support Them

■ Relentless global expansion.

■ Palace have been in two FA Cup finals. We’ve lost them both. To Man United.

■ The roof of my mouth is still missing two layers of skin from that balti pie.