"HOPE ye're thrashed," said the Everton fan.
"Porto? Ho, ho, ho," the West Ham man chipped in.
"You'll be murdered," added the Aston Villa representative.
"A tenner you'll be stuffed," bets the Liverpool man.
"5-0, Porto ... and that'll only be half-time," guaranteed the Leeds supporter.
And with those good wishes and fond farewells from acquaintances it was time to set off for Dublin Airport to join the hundreds - thousands - of Manchester-bound United fans. United in the face of adversity, United in the quarter-finals of the European Cup. United? The Grimsby Town of Europe.
"Well they are, aren't they," whispers fellow passenger Don, confidentially, on board the plane. "I mean you wouldn't admit that to the ABUs but, jaysus, they're brutal in Europe. By the way, do you know what ABU stands for?"
"Yeah, yeah - Anyone But United."
"No. All Below Us ... mind you, there's not many below us in Europe."
True enough. For most United fans under 30 the great disaster of the club's history was that 4-0 defeat in Barcelona. Then there were the hiccups against the mighty Rotor Volgograd ... Galatasaray ... Gothenburg... Torpedo Moscow. The Munich Disaster? "Did they stuff us too?"
We'd heard all the jokes. "What have a three-pin plug and Man U got in common? They're both useless in Europe." All-conquering in England but, undeniably, the Grimsby Town of Europe.
Wednesday's opposition? FC Porto. Gulp. While United were losing at home to Turkish giants Fenerbahce in the league stage of this season's competition Porto were beating AC Milan away. Could be a long night this.
Confidence levels, then, aren't exactly soaring as the plane careered down the runway in Dublin. They dip further when the `team-news-man' on board informs us that Keano probably won't be fit. ("And he'd terrify the livin' daylights out of them too.")
They dip further still when two Air Portugal planes are spotted on the tarmac in Manchester. Boos, hisses and threats to leave the planes on concrete blocks after stealing their wheels fill the air. But the temptation is resisted and everyone makes their way to the train station.
Piccadilly Station in the centre of Manchester. Pouring down with rain. "The Portuguese won't like this." "Jaysus they didn't mind it when they thrashed Ireland last year." "Oh yeah."
Three football fans with blue scarves are seen wandering around outside the station. Boo, hiss, Porto fans. "Na, they're Portsmouth fans." "Portsmouth? What the hell are they doing here?" "City are playing them at home tonight ... in a mid-table Nationwide Division One clash." Peels of laughter. "How many City fans does it take to change a light bulb?" "None - they're happy living in the shadows." "What happens when the opposition cross the halfway line at Maine Road? They score."
Time to board the Metrolink to Old Trafford. At the Piccadilly Gardens stop 13,573 native Mancunians board to give the tram that tinned-sardines feel (who said nobody from Manchester supports United?). For the entire 15-minute journey homage is paid to Roy Keane.
"Oh Roy Keane is magic, he wears a magic hat, and when he saw Old Trafford, he said I fancy that. He didn't sign for Arsenal, or Blackburn `cos they're shite - he signed for Man United, `cos they're bleeping dynamite," sing the lads.
After peeling ourselves out of the tram at the Old Trafford station we follow the native Mancunians down the Warwick Road (or Sir Matt Busby Way, as they've renamed it). Keano posters, flags, hats, t-shirts on sale everywhere. We pass the other Old Trafford, home of Lancashire County Cricket Club. "Wonder are there any Porto fans in there waiting for the match to begin?" Much chuckling.
Then we arrive at the real Old Trafford. Goosebumps. One of the Dublin Reds gets down on his knees and bows before his Mecca. When he gets up his knees are soaked, but he doesn't mind.
The queues for the Megastore and Superstore are longer than most clubs get at their turnstiles. You can almost hear the tills ringing. (Welcome to Manchester United plc). Meanwhile, the concourse in front of the stadium sounds like the Ilac Centre on a Saturday afternoon Irish accents everywhere.
Right. Tier Three of the extremely tall North Stand. The notice on the turnstile warns that if you suffer from vertigo Tier Three of the extremely tall North Stand mightn't be the best place to sit. It adds that there are 10 levels of stairs to climb. Sharp intake of breath... finally there. God. On a clear day you could see the Rock of Cashel from here.
The PA man announces the teams. There's a hush. Ronny Johnsen's name is greeted by groans of sheer dejection all around the ground. It's not that they particularly dislike Ronny, it's just his presence in the team means there's no Keano. The hundreds of Irish tricolours in the stands, with Keano's face in the middle, are lowered to half mast and a deep depression sets in. Grown men slouch in their seats and bury their faces in their hands.
THE sight of Eric, with freshly starched upright collar leading the team out raises the spirits and the French tricolours are raised to full mast. (At least Keano'll be back for the second leg when they need to win by six clear goals).
A minute gone. Andy Cole gives the ball away. Porto attack. For a very long couple of seconds David May is left marking three Porto players in his own penalty area. This is not good. David May usually has trouble marking one opponent. Pallister to the rescue.
The deafening "not-one-of-those-nights-again" silence is interrupted by the whoops of approval from the tiny Porto presence in the crowd. "Come in a taxi, you must have come in a taxi," is the best the nervous home fans can come up with.
Second minute. Andy Cole gives the ball away ... again. "He gets the ball, he scores a goal, Andy, Andy Cole," sing the United fans as if they actually believe it. The truth is they don't. Not anymore anyway. They do their best for him - if he even manages to pass to a player in a red shirt he gets a rapturous round of applause but when Eric gets on the ball the whole stadium stands up - when Andy gets possess ion everyone sits down again. Expectations of Andy are no longer high.
Twenty-second minute. A David Beckham cross from the left. A Gary Pallister header. Goalie saves but ace goalpoacher David May is there to score from the rebound. Ooooh, me ear drums.
It's amazing who you find yourself hugging in circumstances like this. On Wednesday night it was the lad sitting beside me who'd been downing pints of Boddington's Bitter since the Saturday before.
By the time Eric scored in the 34th minute, me and Mr Boddington were nearly picking wallpaper for the house we were about to purchase together. United two up in a European match? Janie, you'd bond with anyone on a night like this.
Nobody was getting cocky though. Tearfully ecstatic yes, but cocky, no. Too many veterans of those Rotor Volgograd and Galatasaray catastrophes in Tier Three to get carried away.
Half-time. Famous (?) Manchester United fans Simon and Yasmin Le Bon present the prizes in the raffle on the pitch but the real entertainment comes with the half-time scores. "Southampton 0, Everton 2." "He's going down, he's going down, Souness is going down," sing the Tier Three lads of the former Liverpool and current Southampton man.
"And in the Nationwide Division One - Manchester City 0, Portsmouth 0." "Whooooo. City are back, City are back, hello," chant the lads, genuinely surprised by City's half-time clean sheet.
Second half. Porto look like they want to go home. When one of the players grazes the corner flag with a long-range effort the crowd can't contain itself any longer. "Are you City, are you City, are you City in disguise," they sing merrily.
Sixtieth minute. Cantona plays the ball up the line 19 Cole. Everyone sits down again. But wait. Cole plays it through to Ryan Giggs. GOOOAAAAL. Tier Three nearly falls off Tier Two. Me and Mr Boddington name the day.
Oooh, 53,000 voices make one hell of a choir. "Cantona, Superstar, got more medals than Shearrar. Are you watching, are you watching, are you watching Liverpool.
Eightieth minute. Ronny Johnsen, doing a mighty fine Keano impression, plays it through to Cantona. On to Cole. Everyone sits down ... again. He scores. He scores. He got the ball and he actually scored a goal. "By heck, I've seen it all chuck
Colic scored," screams Mr Boddington as we tied the knot.
Now Tier Three feels the time has come to introduce a new song to Old Trafford - well, one that hasn't been heard since 1968. "We shall not, we shall not be moved, we shall not, we shall not be moved, just like a team that's gonna win the Yoropeen Cup, we shall not be moved." Dancing in the aisles, they've never seen anything like it. Four-nil ... count them Dessie Cahill.
Full-time whistle. Tier Three rocks on its hinges, again. Hugs and kisses all round (and they were Just the stewards). The choir sang all the way out of the ground. "Que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be, we're going to Puzzled looks all round. "Where's the Yoropeen Cup final this year?" "Don't know, don't care but I'll be there," says Mr Boddington.
Back at Manchester Airport. "Thank you very much for a lovely day," says the Dublin Red to the women at the boarding gate (as he tried to squeeze his 14 bags of duty free through the gap).
Eerie silence on the plane going home punctuated by the occasional, disbelieving, `Jeeeesus'. Then someone begins whistling the French national anthem. Then "Jeeeesus" again. Then: "I can't wait to go in to work tomorrow." "Must give the Dessie Cahill Show a bell on Friday."
The electronic message-board at the arrival gate in Dublin greeted. Ah, but there is a God and, as the throngs leaving Old Trafford on Wednesday night sang, he wears number seven on his back. us all. "I HATE MAN UNITED," it said. Chuckles all round.
Another interesting message awaits on the answering machine at home. "I've not quite given up but after that I'm SERIOUSLY TEMPTED," said the Liverpool fan who, some months ago, chirpily promised an all-expenses-paid trip to the European Cup final if United made it. "I'M CONVINCED THERE IS NO GOD," he added in a close-to-tears kind of way.
