Last few days on the perch...

On they march, the relentless rabble. The well drilled. The successful. With the barbaric Lord Ferguson at the front, he points and screams to the crowd from his battle chariot, flags and bunting draped across its sides like utterly despondent memories of colour. They are blood red. Passion red. Successful red.­

The chant goes up. 19... 19... 19...

The crowds sway and bulge like an apocalyptic tide, peppered by decorative and tattered flags, themselves veterans of many vicious battles. Huge vocal storm breakers crash and thunder as the procession trundles by. A hairs breath of lightning splits the sky so fine it almost didn’t exist. Its momentary white blue startles the carrion birds that perch upon Ruud Van Nistlerooys ornate shoulder armour. They squawk and flutter mangily upward with beady eyes already back on their landing. The Dutch scavenger absentmindedly acknowledges the crowd and walks onward.

19... 19... 19...

Carried by four men, sitting regally in an ornate wooden throne, is the Frenchman Cantona. He stares straight ahead, his eyes almost burdened by the adulation of the crowd. And there stides the warrior Keane, a look of fury barely restrained on his face as he ignores the masses and keeps a careful hand on his broadsword.

19... 19... 19...

A flock of doves converge in a fluttering mass and pull back to reveal the Prince Beckham on his dazzling white stallion. Bowing low to the crowd with foppish hat in hand, he sparkles onward. Untold amounts of fair maidens swoon. Silently strolling behind him is a stoic Denis Irwin, allowing himself a pleasant wave to the adoring hordes every now and then.

19... 19... 19...

A bristling Wayne Rooney walks, arms outstretched soaking up the adulation. His eyes closed tight, a horrendous red devil tattooed across his bare chest. Beads of perspiration glisten across his muscular form. He stops and spits a towering curling flame into the darkening sky. It dances and writhes like the enraged spirit of decades of inferiority.

19... 19... 19...

The sky is souring, like an octopus shot its ink into a cloudy pint of milk. This darkness emerges and grows and grows, forking ahead of the Manchester victory procession, veining its way toward its destination. Merseyside.