David Moyes's face has now experienced the fate for which it looks like it was designed. The deep grooves of grief in his brow, his sunken, woeful eyes and dry parched lips, a perspicacious sculpture carved in anticipation of this slap of indignity.
Sir Alex Ferguson's selection of the "chosen one" now looks less like John the Baptist heralding Christ and more like what I would do if invited to select my ex's next partner; the mendacious dispatch of a castrated chump to grimly jiggle with futile pumps upon Man United's bone-dry, trophy-bare mound. Moyes, a name that, let's face it, sounds like a Yiddish word for eunuch, has endured 317 days of celibacy, while Everton, his former paramour under the beguiling matador Roberto Martínez, are, likely to claim the final Champions League place.
Old Trafford, once the theatre of dreams, is now the setting for a tragedy of unfulfilled expectations. The Glazers must've expected that they were getting a wee, ginger, fledgling Ferguson; Moyes surely imagined that the great day had come after years of stability and prudence at Goodison Park, frugally guarding the Toffees, he was finally to be given the reins of the all-conquering devils. The expectations of the United players I query. Perhaps a dressing room of potent alphas for decades rendered beta, shackled by the Bordeaux-stained Uncle Joe, sensed that the new incumbent would not be so ferocious with the boot-kicking and the hair-drying and, like over-parented teens suddenly in the care of a clammy-palmed au pair, decided to kick up a bit of a fuss.
And now, from this truculent gaggle of malcontents, Ryan Giggs has emerged to lead United into the anti-climactic damp spasm that concludes this season of dismal failure. Giggs, whose untapped managerial prowess evaded Ferguson when he was asked to nominate a successor, the nearest approximation of an Anfield boot-room appointment considered instead to be the translucent Moyes, a pale imitation of himself, so pale in fact his impotent palpitations could be witnessed on a vascular level as United throbbed to a final flaccid loss at Goodison Park.
There is something ominous about the power shift that seems to be occurring as the two great, red dynasties of the north again appear to be exchanging destinies, the Liver bird once more upon its perch, the devils cast once more into hell. These cities locked in grievous conflict since the Mancs burrowed a canal to bypass Liverpool's docks, in the footballing deck these rival reds, the hearts of Liverpool and diamonds of Manchester, can never share the power.
In all likelihood Ferguson's immediate successor could never be more than a peppery sorbet to cleanse the palate after decades of glorious indulgence. Now the job of following Sir Alex is done and the far more favourable position of Moyes's heir is vacant. Any son of a great man knows a margin is required, some respite from the preceding magnificence. For a moment Manchester United, the board, owners, players and fans, were willing to yield so wholeheartedly to the myth of Ferguson's greatness that they believed he could endow with a benevolent swipe of his claymore, greatness upon his "chosen one".
Moyes's potency was dependent on Ferguson's patronage. It appears though that Ferguson's personal mythology superseded his tribal ties and he nominated not an heir who could carry on his legacy but one who would stumble and stoop and in so doing add greater emphasis to his own already staggering achievements. Perhaps Ferguson, the master manager and great socialist, recorded his only real failure subsequent to his tenure.
After all, what is it that we're cheering for on our sofas or in the stands? What causes the heart to soar and the eyes to tear? The players and managers move on when the time comes or the money goes. The chairmen and the boards drift with the Dow Jones, even the sanctity of the space, the pasture of the green cathedral can be turfed up and re-badged as Emirates or Etihad.
What is it then that is United? Who do we sing those songs for? In whose name do we curse or chant? It is the union itself that is sacred. Every single component of the game is a commodity. The players, the pitches, the shirts, the gel they put in their hair. But no one can pay me to support another team.
No oligarch can bring me to The Bridge or wring out the claret and blue from my veins.
Way down deep in our folk memory, deeper than the canal that bypassed Liverpool, deeper than the spilled blood between Millwall and West Ham or Celtic and Rangers, in a place we cannot name, in words that cannot be spoken, only sung, we know, we know that we are one. Great men leave and lesser men fall but the game, the game belongs to us all.