On nights such as these it can feel as though football is choosing to remind you of its true nature. Which is, it turns out, the most gloriously perverse, slow-burn, 400‑miles‑from‑home, 10.15pm on a Tuesday, waving your arms in the air, gripped‑with‑final‑plot‑twist-ecstasy pursuit ever devised.
For Manchester United’s travelling support this game must have felt like a slow-motion strangulation. Your team have had two shots on target all night. They’re 1-0 down against relegation-haunted West Ham – 95 minutes have passed. Narratives are being muddled. Arcs of hope reined in.
