Manchester United: Glory Or Nothing At All

My heart has worn Manchester United hues since my days of youth. My roots in London are superseded by an affair with Manchester United's aura and history.

The Busby Babes, a realm of tragic splendour. Duncan Edwards, a youthful titan cut down before his prime. The Holy Trinity—Best, Charlton, Law. Bryan Robson, robust yet brittle, dauntless in battle. The diminative dance Jesper Olsen. Roy Keane, a maestro of ferocity. The fraternal brilliance of Andy Cole and Dwight Yorke. Cristiano Ronaldo, Narcissus and Achilles squared. Alex Ferguson, the supreme architect of conquest through flair.

But today's tide? Regrettably, it ebbs. The present Manchester United finds itself woven into the tactical tapestry of a manager entrenched in defence, obsessed with points, who regards any loss as an unforgivable A Chelsea-esque façade donned in Manchester's hue—a stylistic marriage built on the wet sand of the manager’s spectacualrly overblown too easily wounded machismo.

Mourinho, the strategic maestro, is a serial victor.

Not an inch of him qualifies as a desirable Manchester United custodian.

As an ardent follower, I'd bid him farewell without qualms.

The future without Mourinho? Uncertain. Full of fret and doubt.

I’ll happilily take it.