Right now, it feels like no one really understands me, except Natalie Imbruglia.

Tomorrow morning, Manchester United, a team I have followed since birth, will play Tottenham Hotspur in the Europa League final. Manchester United, a team that has given me so many historical highs (and a few more recent lows), have a shot at European glory. Manchester United, the team that binds together me, my father, my brother, and my son, are just one game away from delivering us collective ecstasy.

And yet, I’m torn. More than torn, I’m all out of faith. Admittedly, I am not lying naked on the floor, but honestly, I’m not far off because the naked truth is this: I love Manchester United, but I don’t want them to win.

Before you throw up your hands in outrage, please know that whatever names you’re calling me, my brother has already beaten you to it. Traitor! Sure. Shit bloke! OK, fine. Fair-weather fan! Well, hold on a minute.

The reasons for my alleged betrayal are twofold: practical and emotional. Let’s unpack.

Me in Manchester United gear the last time we were any good (1999).

It is precisely because of my long-running love for Manchester United that I can look beyond the short-term sugar hit that comes with winning the Europa League and appreciate that it is not in our........

© The Age