Dressed up in Stone Island shirts and Doc Martens, clinging to ticket stubs, clinging to the vain hope that they will something this night, they trudge into the stadium, under the floodlights, preparing for it all to rush over. You hear "that new centre-back is shite, where they playin' that young striker, saw 'im play up at Forest, fuck me, he's got pace." The field, green and alight, glazed over with a fine dusting of an afternoon sprinkle, glows like epic, sparkling field. In the stands, three-thousand black and white clad supporters are seperated from a jeering red and white mob by a partition of policeman, in some places 10 wide, keeping order. In the West Stand, the policeman are in full riot gear. This could be a battleground. It has been in the past, that Boxing Day in 1977 when the crowd erupted into violence never seen. Inner-City Jibbers and Toon Army factions battling over the terraces for supremacy. Tonight, former Crew leaders sit with their son's, Lacoste polo shirts and Burberry caps covering up old tatoos of dying Liverpool fans and the crest of the club they still hold the most loyal of allegiance to. The crews are just a ghost now, of course. No Inter City Firm, no Headhunters, no Zulu Crew, not anymore. They've all gone now and grown up and realized charging into crowds with machetes and hacking off limbs isn't necessarily the best way to go about business, and that getting a dart stuck in your head is never going to feel good. So tonight, when Shearer runs out the tunnel in his black and white, everyone knowing full-well he would've one a shite's eye more trophies and honours at United, give him a boo. But don't sing the song in which Shearer get's his bollocks cut off by a hacksaw. Tonight, its the FA Cup, Beckham's running out on the right, Giggs on the left, Yorke and Cole up front, Jip Jaap Stam and Ronny Johnsen in the back, Neville and Neville, Scholes and Keano in the middle. And Smeichs in goal, tall, blonde, unforgiving. The relentless attack gives great pace to the match, Yorke scores a great individual goal early on, the Stretford End is in raptures. Then just before the half hour mark, Cole is sent into the box with a fantastic weighted ball by Giggs, he controls it with one touch, flicks it over Robert Lee, then rifles a brilliant right-footed blast past Shay Given. Sir Bobby is livid. His trenchcoat down to his shoes, he screams Cockney obscenities. The half is called with the crowd buzzing with general abboration, basking in the glow of a 2-nil lead so early in the match. At half-time, in confidence, Sir Alex puts on Ole Gunnar Solksjaer, the baby-faced assassin, later of Barcelona fame. But the half doesn't go well, sixty-six minutes on, Shearer gets a ball from young Kieron Dyer, so glorious that Shearer will later attest to its Gazza-like similarities. Shearer flicks the ball past Johnsen, stumbles, but with the far outside of his right boot, catches the bottom of the ball and lofts in a fantastic goal to Smeichel's outstretched left-glove. It doesn't look good for the Reds, Guiv'arch comes close, so does Gary Speed. And again, its Shearer, Alan Fucking Shearer, recieving a splendid through ball from the aforementioned Welshman, he runs on to it, stops to evade Gaz Nev, then slides the ball past the Great Dane, its all tied up, and theres eighty-five minutes gone. Its now stoppage time. Out of nothing, United attack, against the flow of play. Keano and Giggs connect for some creative passes. Giggs on the far left sends a cross field ball for Beckham. Which he traps well, spreading Robert Lee. The gap the ball made is enough for Solksjaer, and he bursts into the space, calling for the ball, he recieves the ball, pulls a trick on Titus Bramble, evades his outstretched right boot, skips into the box with defenders closing in. He looks up, back peals, executes a perfect rilouette, then looks up once more. Off the side of his boot, he lofts a fantastic ball for the far corner. Running on is Dwight Yorke, his head connecting with the ball, right into the bottom corner. Yorke runs to the Stretford End. "Get the fuck up!" he screams, and they do! He is mobbed by team-mates, even Jaap Stam runs forward for this one. Manchester United 3 Newcastle United 2. Aaaaah, when the boys in the Red played like that!