Show me an indication of a belief that any race is superior to another, or intolerance of any culture, nationality, religion, skin colour, gender, sexual orientation or any other damn thing, and you make an enemy of me for life.
That’s why I applauded Eric Cantona’s assault on that racist Palace sponge in 1995. That’s why I cheered Brendon Batson when, his ears assailed by a string of vile racial insults at Stockport in 1974, he lumped the loathsome perpetrator, Tony Coleman.
And that’s why I admire the dignified Raheem Sterling and his black England teammates for their restrained reaction to the cacophony of racial abuse pouring out of the Montenegrin skies.
We’ve come a long way, thank God, since the days when monkey chants filled the Abbey air whenever a black player touched the ball.
Yet I still hear knuckle-draggers complaining about the number of non-white, or even non-English, players in a team. I still hear stories about racist remarks being made on the Abbey terraces while stewards stand by in complicit silence.
Ah, these purveyors of filth will say, but it’s only banter.
Banter: oh, what a cartload of evil that seemingly innocuous term can conceal.
If you use racist language, you’re a racist, you don’t belong in civilised society and you’re a pus-filled boil on United’s face. Go home and fester in your midden.