Avast, ye salt-crusted bilge-rats and armchair admirals! Gather 'round the grog barrel and lend an ear to Captain Iron Ink, for the winds of the North-West have shifted, and they smell of gunpowder and Blue-blooded tears. The great Theatre of Dreams stood tall amidst the swirling Manchester mist this Sabbath, serving as the rocky shoal upon which the Sky-Blue Armada—that glitterin’ fleet of the Bald Commodore, Pep—was finally broken. The Crimson Fleet of United didn't just win a skirmish; they delivered two broadsides to the hull that sent the most expensive navy in the world limping back to their oil-slicked harbor with their tails between their legs!

The battle began with the Sky-Blue Brigantines thinkin’ they owned the currents, passin' the ball like they were handin' out silk doilies at a Governor's ball. But the Red Devils were layin' in wait, sharpenin' their cutlasses in the shadows. The first strike came like a rogue wave—a lapse in judgment from the City’s navigator that allowed the United raiders to punch a hole straight through the midships. The roar from the stands was enough to crack the mizzenmast of any lesser vessel. The second blow, a late-game plunder that sealed the 2-0 fate, was the final nail in the coffin. It was a sight to behold: the Bald Commodore on the touchline, lookin’ like he’d just seen a ghost, or perhaps just realized he’d left his 1000 doubloons of tactical genius in his other pantaloons.

“I haven’t seen a drubbin’ this clinical since we marooned that mutinous cook in the doldrums,” cackled Quartermaster ‘No-Toes’ McGhee, leanin’ over the railing of the Stretford End. Even the high-and-mighty Lord Posh-Bottom of the East India Goal-Trading Company was forced to tip his powdered wig. “One must admire the sheer audacity of the Crimson Fleet,” the Lord was heard mutterin’ into his brandy. “They’ve disrupted the global spice trade! The market for Blue silk is crashin’, and I’ve half a mind to invest my remaining silver in Red canvas before the sun sets on the empire.”

The consequences of this naval disaster are ripple-effectin’ across the Seven Seas. With the Sky-Blue Armada's aura of invincibility scuppered, the trade routes of the Premier Strait are now infested with privateers. No longer can the City vessels sail through the mid-table waters without fear of a boarding party. Furthermore, word from the docks suggests that the The Royal Navy of the league table is lookin’ mighty nervous; their lead is shrinkin’ like a cheap wool coat in a monsoon. The black market for United flags has tripled in price overnight, and I’ve seen men trade their finest parrots just for a seat near the gallows where City’s pride now hangs.

Make no mistake, me hearties: this wasn't just a game of kick-ball. This was a statement written in salt and iron. The Red Devils have reclaimed their territorial waters, and the so-called ‘Centurions’ look more like cabin boys caught nappin’ on watch. If the Bald Commodore wants to reclaim his status as the Terror of the Mersey, he’ll need more than just a fat purse and a shiny dome; he’ll need a soul that can weather a Crimson storm. Until then, we drink to the victors! Lay on the oars and hoist the Red Jack, for Manchester is a harbor of fire once more!