Ah the voices. In my head, broiling or brewing or maybe just a chemical reaction to the (breaking) toast or full-on sausage sarny issue swishing abart in me stomach. Should be writing on cricket – Glam and the boy Northeast. No! Goddabee United! Or maybe drop back into women’s cricket mode? Bouchier and the Shawly-Redemptive Amy Jones Not-Shanking-to-the-Circle thing? Or maybe the whole lot? Or more wisely (don’t be daft) *not writing at all* while everything remains a mess.

*Nips to kitchen. Pricks bangers.*

Hunger and too much sport. These are the great tormentors. Caffling-up our very souls, I tell you – or at least competing with the crap wifi to undermine our otherwise serene (s)elective processes. Eng Women in NZ. Town in the mire. Glammy in dreamland. Celtic-Rangers. Paree-Roubaix. United in hysterical disarray. Days – longer days! – melting into Eastery, chocolatey night and then back into febrile couch-surfing. Our choices once again cruelly undermined by a heathenfest of opportunity. What day is it, anyway? Did I really do all that chocolate?

Sometime in the last x hours I was watching England lose. Until 3 am closed in around me and then socials kicked in – or maybe sleep – until a rare, spirited spurt of seamlessly decent wifi made the Old Firm possible, then MU, then bits of Tottingham. And a nod or three hundred towards Lords. Via that cycling madness. So if you’ve landed here expecting ‘clarity’ best hold on tight.

The England Women tour of Kiwiville is done. Successful, largely, in the sense that both legs – T20 and 50 over – registered a W. (Hate or o-kaaay dislike that single-letter descriptor, by the way: surely insinuated in to Proper Sport by slick graph-competent anti-souls, yes?) Batting collapses still a concern but significant positives include the emergence of Bouchier as a rival or foil to Dunkley – she’s ‘classier’ and a better athlete – and further evidence that England simply have the quality to be more dynamic than ‘chasing pack’ nations like the White Ferns, *at this stage*. (I include that qualification a) to snuff out the dangers of International Incident and b) because it’s mischievously true). On.

Jones is the other story, I suppose. Viewed by many as the best keeper in the women’s game and a stylish and clean striker of the ball – can and does score relatively quickly at 6 or 7. But for me, historically scrambled faaar too often and therefore fortunate to have retained her place in the side: lack of genuine alternatives and her work behind the sticks have kept her in there. Now three fine knocks, in succession and under the cosh, have rendered the AJ Question irrelevant. She’s been lucky… but also brilliant on this tour.

Seen New Zealand live (over here) a certain amount over the last couple of years. They’re getting there; look generally competitive in the field and have bowlers in Amelia Kerr, Rowe and Tahuhu and the two Fern Icons Bates and Devine still provide quality. At times, however, their lack of dynamism was again painfully clear. This will be and should be their signal disappointment from this series: that they were *so obviously* unable to accelerate an innings. Sure, England take some credit for this – good bowling. But the White Ferns were consistently a bit lame when they had to be (had to be!) charging. They will provide the occasional upset but must find some boom, to compete.

Glam is 100 miles away from where I live, in the west of the west. This is my excuse for being a lame supporter. No chance would I go 250-odd to Lords for their opener, so I missed the historic knock from Northeast. Loved seeing posts from friends in the ground, on the Twitters. A total over 600 in the first wallop? We’ll take that – even if subsequent days ease to a ‘no-result’ scenario.

For the first time in living memory I watched a lump of the Old Firm Derby. Incredible and hilarious. And intense, as always. Sunday League defending (see more, below) but some thrilling attacks. *That noise* raised to traditionally awesome levels: scary, inspiring, violent, unforgiving. A wildish, drawn romp with a daftish lap of celebration led by the Rangers gaffer, who took performative misunderstanding to yet another high. #Legend.

And so to MU ‘Pool, via the Paris-Roubaix, which I vowed to watch right through, after the god that is van der Poel scarpered off with almost 60k to suffer. (I *did* watch right through, knowing that I’d miss a wee chunk of the shamateurs of Manchester). On cobbles, through mud and tunnels of deranged ‘supporters’, the World Champ blasted the rest into distant mediocrity, winning by three minutes, on his own, in a display of elite-level guts, control, power and discipline that your average Premier League footballer could neither comprehend nor match. This was a flawless execution: a stunning expression of superior, hard-won gifts. (Hope to god that he’s doing this clean).

Meanwhile at Old Trafford, United continued with their own distant mediocrity, being repeatedly exposed by this goodish but not Peak Scouse-level Liverpool. Sure, United had their moments, even in a first half where the visitors might have scored four, but for lack of completion from Diaz (this we expect?) and a strangely fuzzy Mo Salah. Garnacho had an early goal struck from the record but Klopp’s raging late in the half plainly reflected the mis-match and the threat of another massacre conspiring/unpeeling towards points shared or dropped.

So it turned out. Fernandes was surly, ineffective and repeatedly shockingly wasteful but he scored a worldie. Mainoo was in and out but he scored a worldie. Salah kicked the ball straight and with conviction once, from the penalty spot, for a late equaliser.

For United the issues run on, to the point where Ten Hag must and surely will go. He’s not entirely at fault for players being woefully slack at closing down/tracking/being watchful. But he is palpably responsible for team shape and the disciplines around that. His players are not good enough – most of them. The gaffer has not been smart or tough or inspiring enough to develop or deliver the matrix.

His side remain shapeless in nearly every sense. Non-negotiables remain un-ticked. They are a million miles – still – from producing performances. Any half-decent side can play through them at will.

Klopp was incandescent on 40 minutes because United were so pitifully vulnerable and yet somehow remained in the game. The home team’s three central defenders were constantly over-run, almost incredibly, both from the flanks and through the middle of the park, where Fernandes and Mainoo barely got a foot in. Diaz and Darwin Nunes pace and movement was killing them… but then not.

The stats spoke loudly again about how many strikes on goal Manchester United concede, week after week. Even if they were a fabulous side going forward, this just doesn’t work. (And they’re not).

Eighteen months ago Rashford may have been the most electrifying striker in Europe: now he’s in his own world of pain and disillusionment. Garnacho remains a prospect – Hojlund too. The midfield is so dysfunctional it’s hard to name it. There have been, no doubt, about eight zillion man-hours expended on the training ground about defending – and maybe particularly defending counter-attacks. And United are still absolutely shite at it. So I’ve been relatively supportive of Ten Hag. But now he must go… and the squad must be gutted all over again.