TOTTENHAM 1, MANCHESTER UNITED 3

AS Paul Scholes trooped down the tunnel in that indifferent way of his, Sir Alex Ferguson summoned Wayne Rooney to the touchline.

He wanted a quiet word in his shell-like.

Half an hour to go, son, Scholesy's off for another couple of those joke tackles, time for your two-man impression.

Rooney duly obliged.

After Scholes was dismissed, United were not down to 10 men. They simply had nine plus Rooney.

And if my football maths is half-decent, that equals 11.

At a time when Spurs had theoretical numerical advantage, Rooney brought a wonderful save out of Carlo Cudicini, hit a post and scored a stunning goal to kill any fanciful idea of a Tottenham comeback.

And this after treading down more Wembley turf than a U2 audience only three days ago.

This correspondent has exhausted his reserve of Rooney superlatives. So we'll leave it at remarkable.

And perhaps dwell longer on the throwback nature of this absorbing contest.

This is supposed to be a brave new era for Spurs . . . instead, this was all about United's brave, old world.

Represented by Ryan Giggs, a 35-year-old who keeps finding fresh funds of enthusiasm.

Represented by the reunited partnership of Rio Ferdinand and Nemanja Vidic, who waged a brutal war against Tottenham's potent attack.

Represented by the old-fashioned ethics of the champions - hard work and honesty embodied by Darren Fletcher.

It was a re-issuing of United's intent and values.

The news from that other argument between North London and Manchester reverberated around White Hart Lane. It was a result that carried more significance than a mere excuse for Spurs supporters to revel in Arsenal misfortune.

There is not exactly a hammering on the gates of Big Foursville but the rumbling threat grows louder and more menacing by the week.

Even the nature of Chelsea's dramatic victory at the Britannia Stadium suggested there is a welcome air of vulnerability surrounding the elite quartet.

And it is not just those at Eastlands who are positioned to take advantage.

This was marker Saturday. City laid down theirs. This was Tottenham's opportunity.

And, inside a minute, Jermain Defoe dropped his with a resounding thud.

The man who has had a spot of undeserved bother in his car opted for a bicycle this time . . . the kick variety.

This was Ferdinand's first competitive start of the season - and his welcome was to feel the breeze on his face from Defoe's silver slipper.

It bypassed Rio's chin and connected with an eighth goal in eight games for club and country.

Nemanja Vidic claimed that his clearing header - which presented the overhead opening for Defoe - had been illegally weakened by Peter Crouch's whirring limbs.

He might have had a point. But Vidic has hardly been an advert for legality since he arrived in the Premier League, so sympathy has to be scant.

There was also a case - if you happened to be a high-quality killjoy - for suggesting Defoe's aerial volley represented dangerous play.

But forget danger and Crouch, this was simply a consummate piece of skill - executed with the bravura and bullishness of a striker who feels a brave new world opening up for him.

Since his mid-teens, Defoe has always worn the look of a boy/man unsettled.

Finally, he looks comfortable. Not comfortable in a complacent way. Comfortable that he belongs at a rarefied level.

You suspect he needs to be loved. And 'Arry loves him.

He might have loved him even more had he got on the end of a Crouch cross that carried a bit too much adrenalin during Tottenham's effervescent start.

Make no mistake. For a spell, the champions were rattled.

To be fair, it doesn't take much to rattle Patrice Evra's cage. His fuse is shorter than Aaron Lennon.

And when Vedran Corluka was just a touch too keen in the tackle, the Frenchman responded with a sly kick of the Croat's back and then a gentle headbutt for good measure.

Not what Fergie, or Rooney for that matter, would call a headbutt but contact all the same.

Referee Andre Marriner turned a blind eye. Maybe his Christian name suggests some French heritage.

It all certainly helped intensify an already-cracking atmosphere - one laced with venom towards Dimitar Berbatov.

Considering his general ineffectiveness since the £30million move to Old Trafford, you would think Tottenham's ire against the Bulgarian might have been soothed somewhat.

And the last thing you want to do is to encourage Berbatov out of his customary torpor.

But that is what abuse tends to do. And Berbatov was a pivotal figure in United's comeback.

He gave Carlo Cudicini a strenuous workout and when the Italian was not providing the obstacle, Sebastien Bassong was on hand to hack one off the line.

But Berbatov can claim a hand in the equaliser - albeit one not as generous as that offered by Wilson Palacios.

The lauding of Palacios - based, it seems, on his dominance of a Liverpool midfield that was badly exposed - has been premature.

This was a performance littered with distinctly unintelligent infringements.

And one of them - a particularly senseless offence against Berbatov, rightly punished even though he made little or no contact with the United striker - led to a throwback goal from Giggs. Rooney stepped over, the captain struck one into the top corner.

Actually, struck is inadequate. In fact, he didn't even hit it or curl it. He persuaded it.

For an hour against Arsenal the other week, Giggs looked wearily ready to make the transition to occasionally-playing elder statesman.

And then he inspired United's unlikely victory. The fact is that Giggs remains a more reliable option than the likes of Nani and Antonio Valencia.

Than Anderson, even - a Brazilian by passport only.

Or at least so it seemed until he registered his first Manchester United goal.

It wasn't exactly the purest of South American strikes but it was meaty enough to beat Cudicini after Scholes' miscued shot had been partially cleared.

And, suddenly, United were in control of a game that threatened to swamp them in the opening exchanges.

That is what champions do. And the opposition look as though they don't know how they do it. Spurs manager Redknapp at least realised one of the key contributing factors to the reversal in fortune.

Palacios was relieved of duty and his replacement Jermaine Jenas had an immediate impact, giving Ben Foster the chance to show there are some heroics to go with the hype.

And with a Crouch header unnerving the crossbar, United were being eased out of their comfort zone.

Tackling is not a comfort zone for Scholes. And a late sliding example of the many we have seen over two decades - this one putting Defoe on the turf - earned him his first booking.

But he was unfortunate to collect a second when his collision with Tom Huddlestone seemed an unavoidable accident.

That Scholes and his team-mates took the decision with a certain degree of restraint is a credit to them.

Even Ferguson limited himself to a short, mild explosion. More sparkler than rocket.

Whisper it quietly but maybe he is calming down. Or maybe he just knew that 10 of his team could still control this game.

They did. And then some.

Because, as I said, it wasn't really 10.

Rooney slipped into overdrive, barrelling on to a Fletcher pass, sending substitute Alan Hutton one way and then the other and then nutmegging Cudicini.

No wonder he slid on to his backside in celebration.

Even Rooney must have needed a rest.

He was soon up, of course, and threatened to cap his, er, enjoyable week with another goal.

It didn't matter that Cudicini denied him.

Rooney, Giggs and the other guys who know how to win titles had thoroughly demoralised Spurs.

And normal service - United ruthlessly efficient, Spurs flattering to deceive - had been restored.

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