You know what they say? If you're building a theatre, you might as well make it a theatre of dreams, because sometimes dreams are all we have. Ah, Old Trafford. Always a special joy - they're always at the centre of things - unless of course you expect wi-fi. Still, they don't have it at the San Siro either.
Manchester United's FA Cup tie with Crawley Town is an evening kick off, so it's a civilised start, a late finish and the opportunity to discover that Toddington services northbound now has not one, not two, not three but four branches of Costa. There may be a greater concentration of company stores in a smaller setting anywhere in the world, but it would break the laws of physics.
Coffee still swishing, I get to Old Trafford early, feel momentarily sorry for those poor BBC employees who're being forced to move to Manchester - house prices being what they are, they'll never be able to afford to move back - and have 20 minutes to read a book. Antony Beevor's Stalingrad since you ask. It's a bit blokily boy's own, his writing could be less clunky, there's much too much detailing of military tactics, but it's an astonishing saga, it's often beautifully sold and could it really be over 50,000 Soviet citizens helped the Germans? The evidence is compelling.
I know people sneer at United and their fans in, um, Crawley, but much as I could never actually support them, I have soft spot for them. Right now, there are big clubs - Arsenal, Chelsea, Liverpool, Manchester City, at a push Tottenham Hotspur, at a bigger push Newcastle United - and then, several steps up the ladder, there is Manchester United. And they aspire to swashbuckle, it's in their DNA. Like it or not, they're the standard bearers for British - not even just English - football and when you think of "United" who do you think of? Southend? Leeds? Sheffield? Oxford? Exactly...
And Old Trafford is fantastic. It's more cathedral than theatre, for all the rebuilding you can still sense the presence of the Munich dead, of Busby and of Best. It dominates the region like Ceausescu's Palace Of The Parliament and there's the unmistakeable sense that something important happens here, a sense you don't get at, say, the Reebok. Except when Manchester United are the visitors.
And, you'll doubtless be saddened to know that the hackfood is awful: some kind of curry-based slop I couldn't bring myself to taste and a grim choice of pie: chicken balti or cheese and onion I also spurned. I don't know much about anything but I do know about pies and neither chicken balti nor cheese and onion are suitable to be regarded as pie fillings. I console myself with tea.
And just when you're thinking that United and her majesty's press may not be the easiest of bedfellows (although God knows why given the easy ride Sir Alex Ferguson gets during and after his media briefings), the wifi-free (as opposed to free wifi) problem is annoying, not least since getting a mobile signal out is dificult and the hackbox itself is too small. Between visits I forget this, but it's built for Nobby Stiles rather than Jim Holton. And the TV screens are on the blink. Pah. I don't care. Bring it on.
Ridley of the MOS and Tongue of the I/IOS are here, but it's not a chatty day. Late kick offs mean early deadlines. This means I'll do 880 words on the final whistle; another 800 including managerial quotes for the second edition, which in itself is difficult since Ferguson as ever doesn't turn up and Crawley's rude Steve Evans is over an hour late. Afterwards, there's talk that Crawley's PR has gone home straight after the match, ruining what should have been the most important media moment of his/her career, but I don't know whether that's true or not. Then as I'm doing the second edition stuff, I'll do another 400-word quotes piece. The adrenaline surge is fantastic - that's one of the reasons why I love it - although I'm not the only one to get twitchy while Evans dallies. Everything gets done of course and of course it's on time. But, as I said, it's not a day to chat.
The match is weirdness itself. United's reserves look in control, but they're not swashbuckling and at some point Ferguson is surely going to have to admit he's erred with Bebe, Gabriel Obertan and possibly Javier Hernandez (stopping calling himself "Chicharito" on his shirt might be a start). At half-time two people from broadsheets disappear to watch the game in the hackroom warmth on television. I can see their point, but for all the extra detail they get, their bigger picture - and surely their reporting - is diminished.
Amazingly Crawley's mixture of rejects ne'er-do-wells and hopefuls take control in the second half. Pablo Mills and Kyle McFadzean are as good a centre back pairing as any I've seen this season and with a bit of luck they might have equalised Wes Brown's first half header instead of hitting the bar and departing in a coach with what looked like dreadfully uncomfortable leather seats with their dignity intact and byzantine finances boosted.
Ferguson's not turning up is against some regulation or other, but the press (yep, myself included) no longer mention we've pilfered his quotes from MUTV. And, as noted, Steve Evans takes an eternity. Red of face but suspiciously blond of hair, he blathers on about how great Ferguson is, but makes better points about how his team can reach the Football League next season. I'm sure they will - their FA Cup run has helped rather than hindered his team's league form - and surely it's better Crawley than AFC Wimbledon. Apparently Evans turned down a whopping Christmas bid from a Championship team for McFadzean: he may not be able to resist when whoever it was (no idea I'm afraid, but they were doubtless northern) come knocking again with more serious money. And surely they will.
Laptop off, it's late but the drive home is a delight. It must have been like this in the '50s: empty motorways (I know there weren't really motorways then, but dream with me), few lorries and the sense of space that only driving in the smaller hours - or driving in the US - brings.
That night I dream of being invited to the Brits by John Cleese. We're seated at Peter Ustinov's table.

Playlist
The Masterplan
Oasis
Possibly their finest moment, but sticking it on a B-side was proof that even at such an eary stage of their career, Noel Gallagher's judgement was fatally flawed. They'd never be so adventurous again.
On: Stop The Clocks, Big Brother, 2006