The rags were fuck all before the Premier League money rescued them, and they're fuck all now that we're all playing on a level playing field.
If you are given more money than any other club in the history of the game, if you are constantly being given refereeing decisions that defy logic but are of considerable assistance to the one club, and if your manager is a snarling, uncouth, foul-mouthed bully who is allowed to do what he likes and say what he likes, allowed to choose which referee he personally will allow to take charge of all his games, and your financial dominance over the rest of the league means you can cherry-pick all the best players home and abroad, it would be criminal if you DIDN'T win almost everything on offer.
Fast forward a few years and see how things have changed: other clubs now have immense wealth and power, they can now have more than just a say as to which players go where and why. The Premier league is no longer one club's domain, they have serious opposition.
And just look at that one club now. Just look at how far they have fallen, how far down the pecking order they have plummeted to.
And the man who single-handedly caused this fall from grace sits there today, arms folded in a hollow gesture of defiance, scowling at the bitter memory of a failed court battle over a racing horse, a battle that ultimately delivered the club over to the Glazers
An octogenarian with a history of alcohol abuse who would rather sit in the grim surroundings of the club he once managed than sit at home with hearth and wife. A man who seemingly has no reason to exist other that to stalk the empty corridors of a football stadium where once he was exalted as a God, a new Messiah for Sky's plastic empire, fawned over by the likes of Richard Keyes and Martin Tyler.
Meanwhile, the very club this man publicly insulted on a regular basis is now leading the way. The best football seen in this country, ever. The absolute best players that have ever participated in the sport, the most loyal fans to observe and appreciate this wondrous style of play, the club that has smashed nearly all records, the Centurions, arguably far superior to the Barca sides from years gone by. The club that continues to rub salt in to the very wounds of the Glaswegian Führer who once sneered so disdainfully at his 'noisy neighbours.'
It won't be a bunker in Berlin for this particular demagogue, it'll be a disused bus shelter in a lay-by somewhere, empty Jack Daniels bottles at his feet.
