If you can't be intense, be ruthless. If you can't be ruthless, don't elect not to intense. Any boxer worth their salt, a belt winner, sees an opponent stumbling around groggily as an opportunity. Bang. Bang. Job done.

Knock 'em out first and only then, once the bell has sounded, offer an arm out and help them up. Don't dance around out of reach, spar aimlessly for a while, thus allowing sufficient recovery time for them to swing back. They just might hurt you, after all.

Or, in other words, don't spend a season bemoaning the unavailability of key personnel only to, at a critical juncture, leave, by design, a gaggle of them sat on their well-defined arses for an hour. Don't point - fairly enough - to being hamstrung to such an extent that you cannot be what you identify as, only to abandon said identify when it presents itself again.

Or, in other words, Eddie Howe got this one wrong. That's ok. He's allowed to get things wrong. It's frustrating as owt, and it might well leave a few of us with half a dozen or so spare Thursdays come winter. But the hope is that, on reflection (and honestly, not much of it should be required), Howe accepts he erred. He strayed too far in caution's direction.

Manchester United are not a good team. They have some decent players, but they are not a consistently passable top-six side. A glance at their effing goal difference proves that.

And they had a makeshift defence, an ageing centre half who, for all his nous, can do nowt about his legs. And next to him? An ageing midfielder who, while possessing undoubted quality, is essentially on a highly lucrative farewell tour.

For five glorious minutes, United went at them. Full throttle. The other united couldn't cope. Anthony Gordon tucked in an equaliser and Alex Isak should have nudged us ahead. You'd have wagered decent sums on him scoring, but an equal amount says he's not shaken off that virus.

Perhaps, then, that's why the lack of press was noticeable. It was ideal for Man U, though, just want they wanted. A game played out at barely more than walking pace.

They had a plan, and it largely worked. No striker but a little nuisance playing in and around our central defenders. Still, Tripps, just step up man.

Opportunities went begging, too. Sean Longstaff and Bruno both were guilty. As the former trotted off late on, one portly chap bellowed "Passenger. Again". Astute? Maybe, but the same bloke screamed simply "euthanasia" when a red shirted body went down needing treatment, so not sure how much notice should be given to his observations.

There's also the fact that some of Howe's non starters are just returning. But this is the time to gamble - if picking your starting goalkeeper, centre half, central midfielder and a winger (choice of two) is your idea of edgy, anyway. Who gives a hoot if they're too sore to board a needless long haul flight for an idiotic commercial exercise, that, frankly, borders on farcical.

Martin Dubravka is a funny one. It's not that he is always particularly at fault. But there's something non tangible about it - Newcastle United are just a better team with Nick Pope in it. Ditto Joelinton, Schar, Barnes.

The feeling here, then, is much less anger, more disappointment. After year after painful year of heading to Old Trafford hoping against hope to burgle something here, steal a little luck there, you watch this game and simply think "how are we not beating these?" "How might we finish below these?". Chelsea, too. We've all watched on and laughed at the absolute chaos and calamity of those two clubs this season. We also could realistically end Sunday peering up at both.

A disaster? Perhaps that's a tad hyperbolic, but the Conny League helps neither attract the best, nor retain the best. Let's cross that bridge when we get there.

Sam Dalling