An Old Trafford Christmas Carol

It’s coming up to the two hundredth anniversary of Charles Dickens’ birth and it’s nearly Christmas. So this year’s Christmas Dispatch was easy. Say hello, to a famous old curmudgeon…

As the dying embers of the fire crackled and hissed, Ebenezer Ferguson clasped his gnarled hands around a flagon of whiskey and took another sip. Pinched of cheek and red of nose, he sat awaiting the fast-approaching hour of twelve; the night before Christmas morn. An hour before he had received a visitation from a spectre. His former partner, Brian Kiddisworth had miraculously emerged from an ethereal dimension to reproach and warn him to mend the error of his ways. Kiddisworth had betrayed his mentor years previously and the two men had not exchanged a passing pleasantry for the remainder of Kiddisworth’s time on Earth. Ebenezer Ferguson had cared not a jot. He had become hardened of heart and allowed personal feuds to destroy what aspects of humanity still remained within him.

But now, having seen this transparent ghoul his mind was cast back to happier days when both men had worshipped at the altar of Old Trafford. It was too late for Kiddisworth, but the ghost had made clear to the old miser that he was to be given a final chance to save his soul. Before the clock struck twelve, he would be transported to three different times: the past, the present and the future. If he failed to take heed of these warnings, Ferguson would be lost forever more. He took another sip of whiskey and allowed his heavy eyelids a moment’s respite.

Upon opening them, Ebenezer Ferguson was no longer safely ensconced in his homestead, but many, many miles away in what appeared to be an opulent structure somewhere in the New World. The building had been left to rack and ruin. Cobwebs were strewn across the ceiling and staircase. Ebenezer could hear faint sobs emanating from the upper level, so with a sharp intake of breath he resolved to ascend the stairs, leaving imprints in the dust as he made his way to its source. Along the staircase there were a series of portraits. Some askew, others having suffered the ravages of hungry moths. Each painting was of the same person. Hair, beautifully coiffed in every piece but ever-changing throughout the years. Ebenezer immediately knew who the subject was and as he approached the sliver of light from the bedroom, the old man caught a glimpse of Master Beckhamsham for the first time in decades.

His beauty had decayed significantly but there remained the vestiges of the person Ebenezer had once loved more than his own son. Beckhamsham could not see him and as his tears formed puddles on the ground, Ebenezer heard him mutter, “Why? Why did you let me go?” And then, with a careworn fragility, he took hold of a hand-mirror from his decrepit dressing table and ran his skeletal fingers across the prominent scar that rested above his left eyebrow. A scar, whose origin lay with Ebenezer. With a sharp intake of breath, Ebenezer knew he was to blame for the ruin of this man’s life and he turned away. The past was too difficult a time to re-live.

Upon turning, Ebenezer now found himself in the present. It was a world in which he had become complacent and bloated on success. Ebenezer had built his enterprise up from nothing over a period of twenty years and he was unwilling to share his spoils with any of the other prominent industrialists of the era. Residing as he did in the north of the country, he was unaware of the conspiring taking place in the south from a gang of rivals; united in their lust for power and willing to overlook their own personal loathing of each other in order to vanquish their foe. Removed from his cocoon, Ebenezer was now presented with a window of vision into their machinations.

In the corner of an old inn, he saw Old ‘Arry ‘Fagan’ Redknapp, dispensing notes of cash into brown paper bags and disseminating them to his minions with the intention of receiving the benefits of cheap labour and relaxed attitudes to the tenets of law from the official channels of authority. Next to him, rubbing his hands and cackling maniacally was The Artful Professor Wenger, raising his gang of street urchins up to raid and pilfer from unknowing individuals. And finally, there was the newcomer, Oliver Villas-Boas; an unknown quantity but ever so hungry for success. As all three men whispered, Ebenezer Ferguson knew that his unrivalled dominance was finally being challenged. He had to look away.

But as he did so, he merely descended further into his metaphysical abyss. He was in a future in which his best of times had vanished forever. It was the worst of times. Back in what he would have formerly called the safe environs of Newton Heath, Ebenezer stood on a patch of land where his theatre of dreams once bestrode triumphantly across the surrounding area. No more. What took its place with a factory dedicated to producing garments to be worn by the followers of his foe. A giant bronze statue of Mancini The Great could be spied over rooftops. Ebenezer beckoned over an urchin and asked him if he knew where Old Trafford had gone. The child looked blankly up at him and conveyed a degree of ignorance. “Have you never heard of Ebenezer Ferguson?” the old man exclaimed. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, sir. Sorry. Can you spare a shilling or two? I’m saving for a Balotelli shirt.” Ebenezer’s heart sank when it dawned upon him that he was now living in a tale of one City. His endeavours would come to nothing, if he did not act with haste.

With a start, Ebenezer Ferguson awoke. He was safely returned to his homestead but he had undergone a significant, spiritual change. He knew what he must do. He opened his curtains and looked upon the world as if for the first time. It was Christmas morning and the sun shone down on the crisp, white snow. His hand moved across to pick up his phone. The January sales were looming. He dialled his benefactor’s number. “Mr Glazer? Merry Christmas, Sir. I have an idea. I’d get your chequebook ready”.

And with that, Ebenezer Ferguson saved his soul.