By The Red Devil Ranter
Fred – King of Running in Circles
You thought I’d start with a legend? Nah. We begin with Fred the Forlorn.
Did he give 100%? Yes.
Was 87% of it in the wrong direction? Also yes.
But say what you want, he pressed like a man trying to defuse a bomb with no training and
actually had some decent runs under Ole.
Ranter memory: That screamer vs Spurs. I nearly choked on a lukewarm Carling. Thought he’d
turned a corner. Turns out it was a cul-de-sac.
Ángel Di María – Parisian Spy on Loan
He arrived. He nutmegged people. He scored a chip so sexy against Leicester I had to delete
my browser history
Then he bought a house in Cheshire, got burgled, and mentally packed for PSG faster than you
can say “Ligue 1 tax.”
Ranter memory: That glorious outside-of-the-boot assist vs Leicester.
Also: literally refusing to look happy ever again. Cheers, Ángel. Hope Paris was worth it. Spoiler:
it was.
Lisandro Martínez – The Butcher of Buenos Arrogance
5’9” and has eaten every Premier League striker alive.
He’s a centre-back who tackles like it’s personal and stares at you like you insulted his mother’s
empanadas.
Ranter memory: When he body-checked Salah into next week and Old Trafford roared like the
actual Theatre of Dreams.
Height? Optional. Passion? Mandatory.
Antonio Valencia – Human Tank with Right-Boot Cannons
Yes, he’s from Ecuador. No, you don’t skip him on a South American list unless you want a
two-footed challenge.
The man reinvented himself from direct winger to wall of muscle right-back. His crosses?
Occasionally wayward. His thighs? Sculpted by the gods.
Ranter memory: That absolute missile against Everton that nearly tore the net in half.
Couldn’t cross a road some days, but when he hit it… it stayed hit.
Carlos Tevez – The Glorious Betrayal
Oh Carlos. You beautiful, relentless, shaggy-haired bulldog.
You ran. You fought. You scored vital goals.
You gave us that night in Moscow.
And then you became Judas in Sky Blue.
City put him on a billboard like a Bond villain and we all aged 20 years.
Ranter memory: That backheel vs Inter. The energy. The snarl. The relentless pressing.
He was built for us. He was us. And then he wasn’t.
Still hurts. Like hearing your ex won the lottery and married your neighbour.
The South American Samba-soap Summary
They came. They conquered. Some combusted.
South Americans at United have been fireworks in a biscuit tin, explosive, messy, occasionally
glorious.
We had heart (Lisandro), heartbreak (Tevez), and the eternal riddle that was Fred.
Now… let’s pray Cunha doesn’t ghost us in 2027 and sign for Real Madrid wearing a cowboy
hat.
