Will ratboy be amongst them, with his Biro-pen drawn moustache inciting his followers to join in the polystyrene revolution? Will he stand on the pulpit and deliver his own 'I have a dream' speech to the hordes of inarticulate, dribbling, borderline-cretinous simpletons who follow that club? With their well-worn zebra pants with the baggy, heavily-soiled crotch that looks like a miniature piss-stained Arc de triumph?
And will ratboy be accompanied by his brother, who has just returned from an ill-fated trip to Switzerland where he'd hoped to have an operation to have the bolt removed from his neck?
Let them have their tired little 'protests,' let them stamp their feet in an act of petty solidarity, because all the while they are trying desperately hard to become relevant within the footballing world, the Glazers will also be marching as one - to the nearest bank.