“Attack, attack, attack!” roared Old Trafford, but Manchester United did not attack. Perhaps they tried to attack. To be honest, it wasn’t easy to know what they were trying to do. It is possible it was attacking. But they did not attack.

Attack, attack, attack.

Under David Moyes, Manchester United attacked. They often attacked badly, and usually through the medium of crosses to the exclusion of all else, but it was attacking. There was a plan, even if it was dull and predictable.

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Attack, attack, attack.

Under Louis van Gaal, Manchester United attacked. They often attacked in a way that would excite only the most purist of Dutchmen, retaining possession with a risk-averse monotony that brought the very term “attacking” to semantic crisis, but it was attacking. There was a plan, even if it was dull and predictable.

Attack, attack, attack.

It was, after all, only Valencia, who lie 14th in Spain, and had failed to win in the league this season until Saturday. Attack them, pressure them, blow them away in the way Manchester United have always done at home. But José Mourinho’s Manchester United did not attack.

Attack, attack, attack.

It was the refrain that undermined Van Gaal. Perhaps at first it was possible to sympathise with a manager frustrated by those who could not share his sophisticated conception of the game, but by the end it was the equivalent of the boy pointing out the emperor was wearing no clothes.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Marcus Rashford gave no sense of being part of a cohesive unit against Valencia. Photograph: Quality Sport Images/Getty Images

It’s a chant that evokes United’s glory days. It echoed around Wembley in 1968 when United beat Benfica to win the European Cup. Even at 1-0 up late in the second half that humid night, there was an urge not just to win, but to remain true to Matt Busby’s ethos in doing so. Looked at coldly, it might perhaps be acknowledged that Alex Ferguson’s teams did not always attack, but in troubled times details fall easily to narratives of a golden past.

And that’s why it’s so powerful, that’s why Paul Pogba’s use of the phrase after the 1-1 draw against Wolves was so significant. This wasn’t a frustrated player casually wondering if his side might be more expansive; it was somebody who spent three years at the club in his teens weaponising its past to point out the incongruity of the present manager in the Old Trafford dugout. To reinvoke the old gag, Busby told his players to go out and enjoy themselves; Mourinho tells his to go out and make sure nobody enjoys themselves.

Attack, attack, attack.

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So why did they not attack? It is, of course, never Mourinho’s fault. “We tried to play,” he said, “but in some crucial positions in the building up phase we don’t have the technical quality to build from the back.”

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To which the obvious question is: whose fault is that? It was Mourinho who signed Eric Bailly; Mourinho who picked Chris Smalling over another £30m centre-back he had signed, Victor Lindelöf (not, you suspect, that he would have helped); Mourinho who opted not to replace Luke Shaw and Antonio Valencia while sneering at Manchester City last summer for shelling £130m on three full-backs. Besides, three of that four played under Van Gaal, when United did nothing other than build up from the back, constantly refining the foundations and never quite getting to the ground floor.

But it’s possible to attack without great ball-playing defenders. Most league clubs manage it every week. Romelu Lukaku is a very fine and very mobile target man who cost £75m. Among the players, he has been perhaps Mourinho’s staunchest advocate this season, but he spent most of Tuesday night wandering around listlessly being shouted at by Pogba.

Alexis Sánchez? Occasional bursts of energy but no obvious purpose.

Marcus Rashford? Clear endeavour and menace in threatening positions but no sense of being part of a cohesive unit.

Pogba? A player adrift in a world of contradiction, torn between – on the one hand – his natural instinct and clearly expressed belief that United need to play more on the front foot, and on the other the knowledge that every slip will be taken as evidence that Mourinho was right all along. He has become the raging embodiment of United’s internal tensions.

The result is a mess, awkward pauses stitched together by discordant notes, a team without fluency or rhythm or pattern, or seemingly even a plan.

“Attack, attack, attack!” roared Old Trafford, but Manchester United could not attack.