At the end of yet another wretched defeat, the Manchester United players decided what they would do was walk round the stadium, applauding the supporters. As they trudged wearily past the Stretford End at the culmination of what can only be described as a lap of dishonour, the response from those who had just witnessed a performance even more pitiful than the midweek calamity in Como, was loud, long and pointed. They booed the lot of them. This was not an isolated reaction. This was not a couple of grumps getting shirty. Everyone left in the stand was bound together in one thing: indignation.

In more than 50 years following United I had never witnessed anything like it. This is a fanbase that had long prided itself on never turning on the players. Whatever the misery on view, they have never before so publicly vented their displeasure. They might rage on social media, but in the stadium they regard it as their job collectively to back the team. After Manchester City won 6-1 here, the applause for the players as they made their way off the pitch was heartfelt. I was in the Stretford End when Jürgen Klopp’s Liverpool inflicted a 5-0 defeat and there was something rather uplifting in the way the few left behind – and it was very few – cheered their boys.

But this time there was no such sympathy. There was just anger, a fury at a group of players pretending, with their performative diffidence, that it hurt them as much as it did the supporters.

And it is hard to argue the booers did not have a point. Sure, they spent most of the second half venting their spleen at those they regard as principally at fault for the wretched decline of the club they love: the owners. They understand whoever comes in to replace Carrick will have to work in what has become undoubtedly the worst-run club in the Premier League, and good luck to whoever takes on the reins. But that did not mean the fans could not make their feelings known about these players.

This was as abject a performance from a team in red as anyone can have witnessed in a generation. Carrick, a man who, like Ole Gunnar Solskjaer before him, appears still enchanted by the magical past of a club floundering in the miserable present, had told his players they needed to step up. He talked ahead of kick-off of humility and hard work. And his players subsequently delivered neither. A team bereft of confidence, lacking coherence and togetherness they may be. But, as Sunday’s hopeless effort demonstrated, there is something more about them: they have come to redefine the term second rate. It was, as we will no doubt discover in the next 24 hours, the kind of performance that chucks a manager under the bus.

It was, moreover, a performance from a team bereft of, for want of a better word, charm. No one in the stadium rooted for them out of affection or respect. There was no one in red who could lift the fans, raise their pulse, lift them from their seats. More to the point, with Kobbie Mainoo injured, there was no one to associate with, no one who, having hailed from the same streets, might be said to share their affection for the club. Only when the young home-grown product Shea Lacey trotted on as a ceremonial substitute with five minutes to go, was there any suggestion of a connection between this team and the fans. It was, tellingly, the only time a home player was cheered all afternoon.

What these fans know is that whoever replaces Carrick will have the same portfolio of failure to try to mould into something plausible. True, Eddie Howe might be able to organise a better press. Sure, Antonio Conte might have the team running harder. And yes, Julian Nagelsmann could develop a midfield that might actually be able to retain possession. But ultimately whoever it is will be working not with Ballon d’Or contenders or potential Premier League champions. They will be working with Diogo Dalot, Mason Mount and Joshua Zirkzee, the all too telling evidence of headlong institutional failure.