Spreadsheet FC

Man United used to win. That’s Man U. Manchester United. The team used to play with strength, clarity, fire. The players knew what they were doing. The club too. Unfortunately this may no longer be the case. ‘Glory is fleeting, but obscurity is forever,’ as Napoleon warned.

To think that Old Trafford was the heart of something vast and dynamic. You felt it on the pitch, in the vocal cords of fans, through the crowded global networks. Now, chunks fall from the stadium roof. The crowd still comes but they’re singing from memory rather than hope. Okay, it’s still theatre. But the dreams have changed. The present script is pure F. Scott Fitzgerald: ‘So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.’

The majority American owners—the Glazers—live in dark grey suits under glossy green palm trees. They show themselves rarely. It’s unclear they even like football. They likely talk of revenue, growth, partners. Not goals. Not trophies. Not heart. Numbers, always numbers. Totals. Margins. Multiples. They don’t speak of football.

They bought the club with debt in 2005 since when they have taken out more than they’ve built. Shirts still sell. The brand expands. But the team—not entirely surplus to requirements—is diminishing. Just as wages are high and ideas seem muddled. A friend said to me last week, ‘Well, they own it. They can do whatever they want. Could turn it into a biscuit factory and sack the players if they liked. Fans forget they’re not shareholders.’ And then: ‘Of course, owners who don’t respect fans will lose money eventually. It’s a pathetic little dance, really. On both sides.’

Using the club as collateral was certainly not what the club was for. Through its roots, it was always the people’s game, for the people. As Albert Camus reminds us: ‘All that I know most surely about morality and obligations, I owe to football.’ Or as Raymond Williams said: ‘To be truly radical is to make hope possible, rather than despair convincing.’ Well, there’s a risk here of despair having been made convincing.

In recent years, a lot of longtime staff have been released. Not executives. Not suits, though former head of footballing operations Dave Brailsford stepped back last week. No, the kit men and women. The coaches. The lifeblood. The ones who carried bags, laundered shirts, kept things human. They stood in the tunnel when the trophies came—shiny and bright—and stood there—silent and strong—when they didn’t. Many were told, without fanfare, they didn’t help the bottom line. And so, they were made to leave.

When Sir Jim Ratcliffe arrived, there was something like belief again. Even if detractors said he was a secret Chelsea fan. He paid over a billion pounds for slightly more than a quarter stake in the Manchester club, saying he came for the football. But then, more people were fired. The same corporate decisions. The same disbelief. The same silent exits. People were obliged to wonder if anything had changed at all.

Then came present Portuguese manager Rúben Amorim. He brought new ideas. A playing system. A belief. He is, by all accounts, a remarkable human being. When United reached the Europa Conference League Final in May 2025, Amorim paid—personally—for some of the staff to join him. Those who were going to be left behind by last-minute cost-cutting. (They used to travel—now they were expendable.) It was a small act. But it spoke volumes. The club is rich. The manager shouldn’t have to do this. But he did. Because someone had to care.

Today, Amorim needs players who fit his game—who can run, press, think, jink, move. He crouches on the touchline like former Leeds maestro Bielsa, a quiet tactician in a loud world. His system is elegant. Sharp. It can be beautiful. Just not yet. That’s in part because the present squad is too slow. Too scattered. The jigsaw puzzle was left out in the rain.

The club is rich, we’re always told, but there’s no money. Go figure. Amorim cannot buy what he needs. No one dares suggest he do what the Glazers do and borrow against the club. Every transfer window feels like a compromise. A gamble. A vision that neither competes nor completes.

So they must sell some players. But who? I certainly hope it’s not genuinely gentlemanly local boy Kobbie Mainoo. I could cope with Argentinian Alejandro Garnacho going.

But who else?

Bruno Fernandes is captain. He creates. He burns. But some say he burns too hot. Too erratic. Too individual. The team needs calm. Saudi club Al-Hilal reportedly offered £200 million for him. Perhaps it was time. Perhaps it would ache. But he turned it down.

Marcus Rashford? He once ran like tomorrow. He spoke with grace. His charity work transcended football. But something shifted. He seems distant now. He went on loan to Villa. He may never come back—not as he was.

Jadon Sancho cost a fortune. What began as a falling-out with Ten Hag eventually sent him on loan to Chelsea. He did little—until a flicker, then a goal in that Conference League final. But it was too late. He’s back at United again. Technically speaking. What does he symbolise other than confusion?

Antony cost even more. He was supposed to be the electric eel. A nightmare for defenders. But the spark never caught. At United, he ran, spun, shouted—but delivered little. A pet project. A misplaced faith. Even if Spanish club Real Betis, where he is on loan, choose to keep him, and where he is happy, it is another blind alley.

As for letting Scott McTominay go to Naples. What were they thinking of?

 And then there was Ravel Morrison. Far more talented than most. Sir Alex Ferguson said as much. A player who reminded many of Gascoigne—before the fall. But it didn’t work. Too much chaos, not enough care. Now his name lingers only as a warning. Not every gift survives the system.

‘It is not down in any map; true places never are,’ wrote Herman Melville. Manchester United was always more than a place. More than a club. It was the memory of Munich, the recovery of Busby and Charlton. It was Best and Law. It was Sir Alex and the Class of ’92. Grit and grace. And belief.

And now?

The fans still come. The fans still sing. But they know. Something needs fixed. They’re sold crypto schemes. Dragged on far-flung tours. Asked to pay more to feel less. They want football. But are handed business plans. To be great again, United must remember who it is. Not just a brand. Not just a stock. But a club. With people. With dreams. With memory. With care. With a future.

In short, some of us want to be that child again sitting inches from the TV screen as Bobby Charlton held aloft the European Cup. Some of us want to enshrine the success after the Munich Air Disaster as a permanent rebuttal to death.

Or as R. S. Thomas wrote: ‘We look for the language that was ourselves.’ Until we get that again—and admittedly it’s a tall order—victories will be thin on the ground. Joy will feel thinner. Pride will be borrowed. Why, it’s almost as though they couldn’t sell the soul, so they ignored it.

As Bowie sang: ‘All you’ve got to do is win.’

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