Here is a kingdom that has feasted too long, drinking deep of debt and glory until the treasury lies bare. Now enters a new lord with iron purse strings who would prune the court, sending servants away and stripping honours from even a conquering general like Sir Alex. To the crowd in the pit it will look a cruel business, for they know the stewards by name and have grown old with them at the gates of Old Trafford. Yet a realm that spends gold it does not have will in time find its banners torn down, and then there will be no theatre left in which to play out its dreams. If these cuts truly fall first upon the waste and privilege at the top, and only lastly upon the hands that labour, they may be remembered as harsh mercy rather than villainy. But if the knives slice only downward, sparing the princes while the commoners bleed, then this act will be written as tragedy and the new ruler as just another usurper.