Danny Baker on Twitter: “Relax Premier League. Have a snootful of champagne and remember you’ll all be safe back in your hype bubble again soon…”

The Abbey Stadium, home of Cambridge United, is ten minutes walk from my flat. It’s not your average walk to a professional football club. I once witnessed, at the height of the BSE scare, Cardiff City fans singing “You’re Mad And You Know You Are” at the herd of cows grazing on Coldham’s Common. Plenty of cows, then, but no hype bubble. At least, not until the draw for the fourth round of the FA Cup pitted Cambridge at home to the mighty Manchester United.

Reward for getting this far in the FA Cup. Reward for still existing. Reward for those who have put money and time and heart and soul into ensuring that existence. Reward for the fans.

Am I a Cambridge fan? Fair-weather, maybe, but I suppose I am. I’ve certainly attended enough games over the years. I came to Cambridge United at a good time. My first football-watching experiences had been across town at Cambridge City. Ian Ladley, a colleague of my old man, played in goal. He left, and dad and I started going to the Abbey – York City in 1989 my first game. Chris Turner was still manager then, and little did we know the adventure that John Beck was about to take us on.

I was too young to appreciate that the football wasn’t great, that some of the gamesmanship went a bit too far.  As far as I was concerned, Cambridge were winning. Even at Wembley, where I waved my inflatable banana with the best of them at the Play Off Final. Back-to-back promotions, fairytale FA Cup runs, and on to the brink of promotion to the inaugural Premier League.

That 1992 Play Off semi-final against Leicester was the high-water mark. Roy McFarland arrested the decline with an attractive side in the late 1990s, but my dad – a regular at the Baseball Ground in the 70s – stopped going when Roy Mac got the sack. I swapped the Habbin for the Newmarket Road End, and watched Cambridge slip out of the league in 2005. It has not been an easy road back to the league, and after the second Conference Play Off Final defeat, I found myself going more infrequently – to the point where Boxing Day (and the lure of my pal Colin’s turkey sandwiches) has become my annual visit to the Abbey. There was a point in the build up to the Man U game – when getting a ticket appeared to be contingent on buying a rest-of-season ticket – when I was resigned to not going.

But I did go. And I’m so glad I did. Grateful to RBS, too, for sending my pal James to work in India, meaning I could buy his ticket. Back in the Habbin, too. In the event, bang in line with the edge of the penalty area at the South Stand End. The end where Cambridge attacked valiantly in the first half, and defended heroically in the second. Before that, back to the Habbin. Back to 1990. Back to wearing an itchy retro Cambridge United shirt, playing for the all-conquering Morley Memorial Primary School. Back to Cambridge Crusaders, training on Saturday mornings, playing on Sundays. Back to epic next-goal-wins games at the rec. Back to full houses under lights at the Abbey. Back to Dion Dublin living round the corner. Back to football being life, and life being so alive.

Back to Friday.

It was like Christmas Eve. I woke up at three in the morning. Fortunately, I could turn to Test Match Special to lull me back to sleep. I may have been dreaming, but I think Moeen Ali hit three consecutive sixes. Posters in the windows, “UNITED” scraped in the frost on a car windscreen – I walked to work in high spirits. Whatever happened, it was going to be a I Was There moment. I went and bought a beanie hat from the club shop.

There’s nothing like the buzz of a crowd before a big sporting occasion. The thought that tonight could be our night, that we could burst that hype bubble.

Could we?

The first half does nothing to dispel the notion. Man U are ponderous in possession, and it’s all being played in front of a packed Cambridge defence all too happy to let Phil Jones keep giving it away. Not that the U’s are content to just park the bus. Ryan Donaldson carries the fight (and the ball), Tom Elliott puts himself about, and corners are causing havoc. Josh Coulson comes agonisingly close to heading home after one such goalmouth scramble.

Could we?

The pattern of the second half is quickly established, and there’s no doubting that the Cambridge bus is now well and truly parked. Man U up the pace a little, but still no cutting edge. Why is Phil Jones taking corners? Keep concentrating. Keep the shape. Keep your nerve. Keep making saves like that, Chris Dunn. Falcao looked bound to score. How long to go? I don’t want to know. The crowd’s a 12th man. The weather is fast becoming a 13th. Van Persie’s on, and Van Persie must … no, he’s blazed over.

Could we?

If Man U had the ball in front of Cambridge in the first half, they have it on the outsides in the second. But the only telling cross that comes in flashes across a strangely vacant six yard box. Luke Chadwick comes on for a fitting appearance, and Cambridge seem to gain strength, daring to pass rather than clear. Donaldson whips in a wicked cross that Jones does well to divert for a corner.

Could we?

No. But neither can they. Cheerio, cheerio, cheerio. Three minutes of injury time. Dunn, in the Cambridge goal, punches forcefully away. And saves the following volley. It’s hacked away. Anywhere’ll do.

Can’t be much longer. Just keep it in the corner. Woah, Nelson! Where’s that header going? It’s ok. Final whistle’s gone. Nil-nil. Against Manchester f***ing United. Fancy a trip to Old Trafford…?

Nobody can blame Alan Pardew for leaving Newcastle. It is a miracle that he lasted so long and has walked away on his own terms. Nor can anyone blame him for going to Crystal Palace, although there is a general feeling that he is taking a step down – that Newcastle are a bigger club than Palace. They should be, if history and a sold-out St James’ Park mean anything, but do the ambitions of the two clubs really differ?

Sure, the Premier League is competitive. Just look at the results: Burnley can come from two down to draw at Manchester City, money hasn’t distorted the competition at all. Or has it? How many teams can realistically start a season as title-contenders? For that matter, how many can aim for a Champions League spot with any credibility? Chelsea and the Manchester clubs have divvied out the title for the last decade. Arsenal have always contrived to finish in the top four. Who’s to say the status quo won’t prevail again this year?

The tragedy, last year, of Steven Gerrard’s slip against Chelsea, followed by Liverpool’s collective slip at Palace, was the sense that it was his last chance to win the Premier League. Every time I see Stevie G’s furrowed brow, I’m reminded of it, and perhaps it was Liverpool’s last chance, too. The comparison with post-Bale Spurs is an obvious one, but no less true, and Liverpool without Suarez are back with Spurs as outsiders for Champions League qualification.

What of the rest? What of Newcastle? Sure, they can beat Chelsea a few weeks ago – Pardew even took them to a fifth-placed finish a couple of years ago – but where are they going? What are their ambitions? Mid-table, and trouser the cash. Hard to get excited about that. And forget about the romance of the cup. We’re playing the reserves, not wanting to jeopardise our chances of finishing 10th again. Likewise, we don’t want the hassle that Europa League qualification would bring. Not only is there no chance of winning anything, there’s no chance of keeping the likes of Yohan Cabaye, of building a team, when the asset-strippers hover like vultures. It’s amazing that St James’ Park sells out every game.

Newcastle have come to personify all that is wrong with the Premier League. Perhaps it’s because Newcastle make no pretences – helped by Mike Ashley’s image – that football as a game has been supplanted by football as a business. It makes economic sense to accept that without mega-rich owners, a global sponsorship reach, a cash-cow of a stadium, it is impossible to become a consistent Champions League club. So why not settle for the very lucrative life of a consistent Premier League club? But where’s the romance in that? And when do we start getting bored?  Newcastle are not alone in this position of managed stasis. Southampton, for all the excellent work being done in youth development and the fact they currently sit fourth, are just as much of a selling club. As are Swansea, for all that they play decent football, and Everton, for all that they always find a way of punching above their weight.

What about Palace? Where are they going? What are their ambitions? The same as Newcastle: treading water. That ambition might have been more easily achieved at Newcastle, but it will be less of a ball-ache at Palace. Pardew will be treading water at his local pool, fans won’t be trying to drown him, and the owner won’t be selling armbands at Sports Direct.

Who would want the Newcastle job is less clear. Who is desperate enough to want to work with his hands tied, and who is cheap enough for Ashley?