I awake to Radio 3. The alarm clock used to be set to Classic FM but sometimes they play Mozart. Nothing too stimulating so early in the morning, please!
After dressing immaculately I take the stairs in a regal manner before encountering my first roadblock of the day. Toast. The concept is so simple yet fraught with risk.
The bread can come out burnt or underdone and the great van Gaal has no tolerance for such gambles.
Despite spending a fortune in the summer on the best toaster available – they wanted £200 so I offered £300! – I waste precious van Gaal time just standing there, holding the two slices in my majestic lion hands, hovered over the damn machine. If I let go I leave it to chance. I do not let go.
Eating muesli instead I text something abusive to Giggs. This has become a morning ritual since the simian buffoon thinks the big job is his and it is amusing because he has no clue who is sending the hate. Only van Gaal has van Gaal’s number.
[ffc-gal cat=”manchester-united” no=”5″]
It can backfire. Yesterday he responded with ‘Bruv. How many times do I have to say it? I am sorry’.
With the bowl washed thoroughly I read more criticism in the newspapers from the Ferguson groupies, then I stride for the door. Training awaits.
I am at my happiest in my car. The roof was custom-made to accommodate my magnificent forehead and the speedometer is fixed at 30mph.
Traffic beep as they attempt to pass but we all reach our destination in the end.
Feeling briefly fanciful I seek out something MOR on the stereo. Coldplay. Safe, solid, successful Coldplay. Bliss. An unnecessary guitar solo however sours my mood.
At the Aon Training Centre I spy Anthony Martial attempt a new trick he presumably learnt from YouTube. Thirty laps for him. He nods obediently, but not before nonchalantly firing in a shot from 25-yards. Fifty laps!
From nowhere a ball donks me on the head and I turn to see Rooney much further down the pitch practising intently on his five-yard passing. He waves an apology then returns to his toil, his tongue sticking out from the side of his mouth, and balls flying north, east, south and west. He will start this Saturday.
Phil Jones trots past, clutching a hamstring strain incurred from warming up then holding his hand that is sprained from clutching his hamstring. Carrick follows sometime later, unable to keep up with his jogging partner.
With the authoritative voice of a deity I round up the troops and inform them that this is a special day. Today no videos. Today no positional work. Today we play a practice game. Behind me, Mata snuffles back his tears of joy while Young throws himself to the ground believing we are already underway.
I prowl the touchline. A king. A god.
Five minutes in and I curse my leniency. Depay finds space on the edge of the box and attempts to drill a shot into the far corner. Just twenty yards behind him is Blind in – how do you British say? – acres.
“No more!” I bellow with a mighty wrath. “If you’re going to act like children then fun-time is over”.
The players groan but fall into their lines. Defence and midfield with a ball apiece. Pass, pass, pass, pass, pass.
It is four in the afternoon and I’m in a press conference among minions and fleas who dare question the stupendous van Gaal.
The latest batch of comments from the Ferguson groupies is naturally brought up and this time it is Dwight Yorke, a man who won a treble and scored lots of goals but nobody ever mentions his through ball I witnessed first-hand in 1998 that failed to reach a team-mate. Respect due – zero.
Do these collection of fools not realise what van Gaal is aspiring for? Do they not understand the achievement unparalleled that will soon be in the grasp of my meaty palm? One hundred per cent possession. A match of no incident, no drama, where the opposition fail to sully our precious stats even once. Then the world will rightfully be mine.
I cackle on the inside, imagining the creeping, crawling volte-face from the braying hordes who want their silly adventures. I can almost hear their mumbled apologies when that glorious perfect game arrives.
Home. Back to Nil-Nil, my loyal hound, who is hungry and wants his supper. Retrieving the Pedigree Chum from the sparse cupboard I briefly contemplate the tin opener but therein risk lies. A cutting edge. Accidents can happen.
So instead I place the tin in his bowl and pound my muscular thighs up the stairs as I head for my fortunate bed.
I can hear him now. Gnawing on the tin. Keep at it Nil-Nil, my boy. You’ll get there in the end.