CHARLES LAMB maintained that there were two races of men, the borrowers and the lenders. In these less genteel times men - and that includes women - are divided into MANUS and ABUS: those of us who follow the greatest club side in the world, and the deprived "anything buts" who snipe jealously from without.
The two warlike tribes can be found on a match day exchanging ritual insults in front of the local Sky Sports magic lantern. Everyone can get a ticket for the Theatre of Dreams, Old Trafford, Manchester. It's indeed a magical place, full of memories and tradition, abounding in the wisdom and good humour born of watching truly great United teams and of experiencing so many years of abject failure; this book, sadly, does no justice to the magic and is devoid of wisdom or good humour.
As a journalist who has covered the Northern Ireland troubles, Moore tells his own story in tandem with the story of Manchester United. The account of his own life is quite banal: he was deprived by his parents of the chance to play professional football; as a journalist, he was present when bombs went off in Belfast; he interviewed the loyalist killer Michael Stone.
The two strands of his story are yoked violently together with sentences such as these: "As Michael Stone launched his murderous attack, United were riding high in the league"; "22 [sic] people died in three car bomb explosions in rush hour Dublin ... To make matters worse, Manchester United had just completed the most humiliating season in their history." There seems to be a lack of perspective here. Even for fanatical United fans, alter all, it's only a game.
Violence is at the core of the book. Moore sympathises with the terrace yob: "[The fans] deliberately set out to taunt visiting spectators. So what, that was part of the joy of being there." Joy? It's a far cry from the welcoming family atmosphere of, for example, Shelbourne's Tolka Park.
Moore is, of course, reflecting a certain undesirable reality; many visitors to Old Trafford will, like myself, have seen the tactful "Hang the Heysel Murderers" banners displayed by the United faithful when Liverpool came visiting, and experienced the stoning of Liverpool coaches as they left Manchester.
But Moore's description of opposing (Everton this time) fans as "sad Scouse bastards" is pathetic. He even, while with his 10 year old son, gives them a proud two fingered salute. What would gentleman Bobby Charlton, or the great Sir Matt, say?
The reader interested in football rather than violence will search for accounts of epic United games; there are few. Even that most memorable night, the 1968 European Cup triumph, is skipped over. We get reasonable accounts of the 1977 and 1985 FA Cup finals and of the 1968 win over Real Madrid, but that's about it. (Like many United supporters around the world, Moore cannot get to Old Trafford very often - and I suppose Watching United on the Telly wouldn't be such a catchy title). The wilderness years of the 1970s and 1980s are glossed over; those United fans on the bus who sang "we'll win f... all again this year" after a home cup defeat by Coventry must wait for their epitaph to be written.
Theatre of Dreams has been hyped as the Man. U equivalent of Nick Hornby's Fever Pitch, but where Hornby is gentle, even elegiac, about his passion for Arsenal, Moore is ranting and unpleasant. Fever Pitch recognises that the lot of the true football fan is one of long periods of frustration punctuated by the occasional triumph. Hornby - alas, he followed United for three weeks as a youngster before deserting for the Gunners - scored an early goal in the lads' literary league and it's still, I regret to admit: Arsenal 1, Manchester United 0.
