The mood in the dressing room was as bad as it had ever been. Wazza had gone to swing on his tire, refusing to communicate even with his usual grunts; Vidic was still pumped up from the game and was repeatedly headbutting the wall, making dents in the plaster; and Anderson was once again comfort-eating, as he had been since his half-time substitution. Nobody could bring themselves to look at the door, terrified at what they knew would soon emerge through it.
Sure enough, a gigantic purple nose with a man attached to it entered the room. Sir Alex was apoplectic.
“What the fucking hell was that? You lot are a bunch of shit! Ye aren’t worth the fucking shirt!”
No-one met his gaze; they knew he was looking for a target. His eyes swept over Ashley Young, who was utilising his talent for hiding when it really matters, and Rio, who immediately Tweeted his despair to his legions of followers in broken English. Fergie whirled round to vent his rage on his captain, but Evra was not at his assigned peg, but about twenty yards further up the dressing room. Then he found his target; the young Spaniard De Gea hadn’t seen him enter. Fergie picked up a discarded boot and hurled it at the goalkeeper, who dropped it.
“What the fuck were ye doin’ out there, laddie? A blind fisherman could catch more than you!”
There was a snigger from the left; it was a mistake.
“”What the fuck are ye laughing at, Welbeck? Just ‘cos your strike partner looks like Shrek doesnae mean ye have to play like Donkey!” Turning away from the now crying England international Ferguson focussed his gaze upon Nani, who hurled himself to the floor feigning injury. “Ah, get up, you silly twat! You were really fucking bad out there! God, I’m fed up with the lot of you! I’m having to put Jonesy in more positions than a porn star just to cover your sorry arses! Fuck yez all!”
With that, Ferguson stormed out of the room, pausing only to slap a now moonwalking Nani across the back of the head. Sheepishly, Mike Phelan entered and smiled at the assembled players.