In a major coup for your favourite Manchester United website, we have managed to secure an EXCLUSIVE interview with one of the main protaganists in Sunday’s post-derby tunnel brawl: the carton of milk that may or may not have been thrown at Jose Mourinho.
the Busby Babe: Hello!
the Carton of Milk: Hello.
tBB: So, get up to anything interesting at the weekend?
tCoM: [laughs] Oh, it's been crazy. You never what you're going to get, out there on tunnel duty. But it's safe to say I didn't expect to end up in a … what's that tabloid word?
tBB: Brawl? Scuffle? Fracas?
tCoM: Fracas — that's the one. Not what I was thinking would happen when they took me from the fridge.
tBB: Before we get into all of that, a little background. There are millions of pints of milk in this country. How did you end up working in football?
tCoM: To be honest, it's kind of the same path that most footballers take. Every pint of milk dreams about a big job like this, but you need to work hard at it, get yourself to the front of the fridge at exactly the right time, and probably get a bit lucky as well. If somebody from one of the big supermarkets thinks you fit in at a big club, you're in with a shot. If not, you'll end up in a suburban fridge somewhere, doing drudge cereal work.
tBB: And you were one of the lucky ones.
tCoM: Yes indeed. Got signed up at a young age by Ocado, who eventually sent me on to Old Trafford.
tBB: And that leads us to the weekend, which should have been your big day. Are you disappointed it didn't pass off smoothly?
tCoM: A little. You spends days in the fridge psyching yourself up to do your job, you know? Doing your visualisations, working out last-minute strategic adjustments, getting yourself into the right frame of mind. Making predictions: will Nicolas Otamendi have milk in his tea? And then — bang! All of a sudden you're flying through the air.
tBB: So. How much detail are you able to give us of what actually happened?
tCoM: Not too much, I'm afraid. Partly because there's still the possibility that the police will end up getting involved, but mostly because I didn't actually see too much. It all went very quickly. One moment I was sat there minding my own business, chatting to the sugar sachets about my plans for the evening. Then there was some shouting, and then I was airborne.
tBB: Did you hit Jose Mourinho?
tCoM: I ... can't confirm or deny that.
tBB: Did you see who threw you?
tCoM: No. Not clearly. I've been told who it was, of course — I had a good long chat with some biscuits that saw everything. But I don't want to go repeating rumours.
tBB: Okay. So what else did you see?
tCoM: Well. After I was down there on the floor, I was a little woozy. And I was leaking everywhere, which was kind of distracting. But I saw … let's see. I'll have to be a little vague, you understand. No names. I can tell you about the weapons, though.
tCoM: Yes. Big, old, medieval weapons. A couple of two-handed swords, at least, and a spear. I don't where they came from. The spear was on fire. At least two United players were on horseback.
tBB: Horseback …
tCoM: Yes, definitely. They were sharing a horse, mind. Also there was war paint on most of City's players. God knows where they got it from.
tCoM: By the end, one of United's central defenders was wearing nothing but a policeman's helmet. He was screaming, but I don't think it was from pain.
tCoM: Eventually everything calmed down and somebody picked me up, wiped me down, and cleaned up the mess. The damage wasn't too severe, thankfully, and I was back in the fridge by the evening.
tBB: And did you manage to get yourself together for a follow-up appearance?
tCoM: Yes. Luckily, my best before date was fine, and so I worked a marketing board meeting this morning. Not like working a match, of course, but a gig’s a gig. Better to contribute, than to end up one of those poor, sad, slightly cheese-like fools you see. They sit there in the fridge for days on end, unloved and unwanted, before ending their careers being poured down the sink.
tBB: Still, you know what they say. There's no use cry—
tCoM: No. Don't.
tBB: … sorry.
tCoM: You have no idea how many times I've heard that since Sunday.
tBB: Of course. Sorry.
tCoM: [sighs] It's fine. Thanks.