The Good Ship United

Wayne makes his escape

The first sign of trouble was Ashley Young hitting the deck. Of course, as Robin knew, this on its own was not remarkable; but there was something about the anguished screams of his colleague that suggested all, this time, was really not well. It was then that he felt it. A great shudder as an iceberg carved a chasm in the hull of the Good Ship United, knocking the hapless crew to the deck. As Robin picked himself up he saw water flooding the ship below, as fires broke out all around him. Young had toppled theatrically into the ocean and, with a look of complete serenity, sank meekly into the waves below. The ship was going down; United was sinking. Robin looked in despair in the chaos around him, desperately hoping for a hero in the darkness. Rooney, however, had jumped ship at the first sign of trouble, and could be seen paddling rapidly away in the distance. Robin would have to be the hero himself. He would have to shoulder responsibility now.

Mr. Glazer, the new owner of the grand old ship, was nowhere to be seen. Truth be told he boarded it less and less often these days; he had no real interest in the sea. Yet, if he had known in that moment that the United was slipping under the waves he would have smiled. He cared not for the boat or its crew, but just his profit-margin, and he knew that his insurance would cover him and more. Indeed, his faithful man-servant Ed Woodward had already ensured that the United was profitable, selling small die cast models of the ship to the Orient where they were high in demand. There would be other boats for Mr. Glazer, and what a story this would make! Maybe he could even make a film of it. Michael Carrick toiled alone in the engine room. In truth he had been on his own for years, the management too miserly to give him the support he needed, convinced his skills were all that were needed. There had been Fletch of course, now confined to hospital quarters, and the brief return of the aging Scholes to lend a hand below deck, but by and large Michael had been tasked with manfully running the huge vessel alone. His new Belgian lackey had promised much, but had never got to grips with the bigger boat. As the berg hit he had flailed and stumbled, cracking his head on an overhanging beam and contriving to drown in no more than a foot of water. He lay there motionless now, his enormous mane bobbing up and down as Michael ran to and fro, now almost up to his neck in water. He too would soon be overcome, drowned with no support, but for now he did his best. He was no labourer, he was an artist never given the right team to shine. But battle away he did as the water crept ever higher, fighting to his last breath for the good of all. Tom Cleverley, meanwhile, had accidentally locked himself in the supply closet.

The captain stood motionless at the helm. How had it come to this? He had such a simple life before. He had manned a small ferry crossing before the call came from the good ship United. It hadn’t been glamorous work but he had done it well, chugging along day after day in some parochial backwater. Admittedly his little boat never won much acclaim, but he ran it well on a tight budget. Yes, some had said he had stalled it more than often in his later years, some accused him of lacking adventure and never letting the engines go full steam ahead, but he made sure its creaking hull was never in danger of giving way. When summoned to the United he left his little dinghy with a heavy heart and glanced up to the behemoth awaiting him. He was just a ferryboat captain, now in charge of the grandest ship in the land, navigating the most choppy of waters. Moyes sighed. He missed his simple little boat.

The captain’s solemn serenity didn’t mirror the chaos on deck. Robin was marshalling the crew as best he could, but in truth it looked a lost cause. Phil Jones and Jonny Evans stood in the midst of the carnage trying to put out the growing fires, but they would soon be overwhelmed; Jonny with his bespoke and quiet extinguisher and Phil carrying an enormous tankard of water on his back were buying no more than time. Shinji could probably have helped, but the management had deemed him unworthy of an extinguisher just yet, so he sat motionless on a bench at the side of the deck unable to use the vast skills at his disposable, gently sobbing at the carnage around him. As the flames lapped at Phil he let out a bloodcurdling scream, his face contorted in agony. Robin cried out for Valencia and Nani to help, and looking up startled they scrambled at breakneck pace down the flanks of the ship towards the roaring blaze. Predictably they overcooked it, failing to decelerate in time and, as Robin looked on in despair, they toppled over the railing on the far side of the deck and into the waiting sea.

Rio had seen all this, but never let it put him off his playing. In the corner he, Nemanja and Ryan still struck up a tune on their strings, Rio’s violin mournfully lamenting the passing of the great boat. They would play as it went down, that was understood; it was all they knew how to do. Pausing briefly Rio lay down his instrument and looked at his bandmates, tears heavy in his eyes. “Gentlemen”, he said, “it has been an honour playing with you”. They sat in silence for a moment before Ryan started up a final refrain on his cello, the waves now lapping at their feet. In the distance Rooney could be seen on his tiny lifeboat. He had turned back to the United, decided against abandoning it. But then he changed his mind again, and again, and again. In his confusion he simply paddled in a circle a few hundred yards from the wreckage, his modest mind unable to decide just what to do.

It was then, when all hope was lost, that Robin spotted it. A tiny speck on the horizon, growing bigger and bigger with each passing moment. He darted to the bridge and put a telescope to his eye. What he saw lifted his heavy heart. It was a boat! A gleaming steel frigate, steaming straight for the United. At its helm stood as skinny Belgian. Or perhaps he was Albanian, or even Kosovan. Whatever he was, as Jack Wilshere would later note, he certainly wasn’t English. Either way this lanky teenager had come to the rescue, the SS Januzaj had arrived! Admittedly it wouldn’t be able to carry all of them, but there was a chance that the crew of the United could be saved, and that was all Robin needed. He stormed into the Captain’s quarters. “Captain Moyes”, he screamed, “Captain Moyes Adnan is here! We are saved”. The captain stood in silence, his back to Robin as he looked out at the wreckage below. It was then that Robin realised. “Captain”, he whispered, “Captain no-one blames you. You don’t need to go down with the ship”. Silence. “Captain. Please. For the love of god man, please, will you join us?” Moyes looked up, and turned slowly to Robin, he eyes filled not with fire but darkness. He said nothing.