There were few occasions last season when Michael Owen resembled a prospective Manchester United player. More often than not, the forward did not even appear worthy of Newcastle United, a club whose decline was mirrored by that of their record signing.

Theirs was always a cold embrace and now Owen finds himself in a different league; one where, in his opinion, he has always belonged. Some will disagree.

While Newcastle prepare for the grind of the Coca-Cola Championship and trips to towns and stadiums to which a younger generation of supporters will be strangers, Owen is set for the rarefied surroundings of Old Trafford. Neither party can believe their luck, although Owen’s latest move will perplex Newcastle fans as much as any aspect of their recent fall.

If, on the face of it, the transfer is startling, it is only because of the timing. Sir Alex Ferguson has a long-term affection for the striker and would have bid for him after the 2006 World Cup had Owen not succumbed to the sort of debilitating injury that scarred his spell at St James’ Park. In terms of precedent, Owen is now in a group comprising names such as Henrik Larsson and Teddy Sheringham.

His goalscoring statistics are self-evident; we do not need the embarrassing glossy brochure that Owen’s representatives compiled for interested parties this summer to reel off the 89 caps and 40 goals he has amassed for England. Like so much of his career, it is buried within the collective consciousness and yet this development confounds the evidence of thousands of pairs of eyes.

Owen, it should be recalled, was not only dropped by Chris Hughton towards the end of a campaign in which Newcastle were desperate for predatory prowess, but Alan Shearer also ultimately arrived at the same decision when he became manager. Whether through a combination of ailments and knocks or a simple loss of confidence, Owen was bereft of the sparkle and speed that once defined him.

It was accompanied by the outlook of a beaten man. Once effervescence personified, Owen wore an expression of fatigue or even lack of interest.

He was Newcastle’s captain, but would rarely — make that never — face the media after yet another crippling defeat. He said it was because his contract was always the main thrust of the conversation, but it felt like a shunning of responsibility.

It was not too long ago that Owen was being obliged to deny that, at the age of 29, he was giving serious thought to retiring from football. Deny it he did — and forcefully — but this is not one of the usual criteria that Ferguson searches for when he considers new signings and the episode, while erroneous, neatly illustrates the perception of gradual deterioration.

Newcastle’s mismanagement under Mike Ashley’s ownership was hardly Owen’s fault, nor can he be held culpable for Freddy Shepherd deciding to splurge £16.5 million on a vanity signing in a one-horse race. Yet the chief criticism of him is one that has surfaced numerous times. Where was the love? As nufc.com, the influential independent website put it, even the odious Joey Barton goes through the motions of kissing the badge.

Similar complaints were levelled when Owen left Anfield for Real Madrid and there may be those at Liverpool who felt that a rough form of justice was served when his toil in Spain was followed by those wilderness years on Gallowgate (albeit one that earned him the rich compensation of a £115,000 weekly wage). And now this; few would have bet on it, although Owen is fond of a flutter.

History has made fools of many of those who have laid wagers against Ferguson and perhaps he will reignite Owen. Newcastle is renowned for making mincemeat of footballers and Owen would not be the first to rediscover himself elsewhere, but nobody could have expected it to be at the home of the English champions. That is, nobody aside from him.