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EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW: we meet the main protagonist of the Old Trafford brawl

Our connection in the tunnel spills all the juicy details from Manchester United’s scrap with City.

Farmers Protest Over Milk Prices Photo by Patrik Stollarz/Getty Images

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.

tBB: Weapons?!

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.

tBB: Okay.

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.

tBB: Right.

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: ...

tCoM: ...

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.

tBB: Thanks.