Football - Fifteen Years On

When football was invented in 1992 by a brave, visionary group of television executives, none of them could possibly have foreseen the juncture at which we now find ourselves, on the cusp of the sixteenth season of what those founding fathers lovingly called 'the Premiership'.

Looking back on those days is like watching footage of the Wright Brothers first successful flight: how did this unlikely contraption, firstly, stay airborne, and then, eventually, soar?

Back in 1992 most of the early footballers were actually British or Irish, and all the clubs were owned by British people - sounds ridiculous, I know, but check the record books if you don't believe me.

Quite how the humble but ambitious TV men persuaded millions to watch what must have been horrifyingly unsophisticated football, practised by podgy, ale-quaffing Brits rather than lithe, pasta-slurping foreigners is unfathomable now.

But here we are, 15 years later, and this thing called football is better than ever. We know this because the TV people (now called Sky) are paying £1.314 billion of lovely cash to show it to us, and other TV people called Setanta are paying £392 million to show us even more of it, and people from foreign places (where the footballers come from) are paying £625 million to show it to other people from foreign places (presumably so they can learn how to be footballers when they grow up).

Some people - you can't please everyone! - don't like how great football is now. They think it's a bad thing that, say, Pol Pot, could, of an afternoon, after a morning spent pottering around massacring a few hundred thousand bourgeois intellectuals, fetch up with his life savings and buy himself an Everton or a Derby County.

A bad thing? They wouldn't be saying that when Pol Pot's investment secures a tidy little £16 million deal with add-ons for Steed Malbranque!

Some people - honestly, I know, but we live in a democracy, what can you do? - don't like how all the lovely footballers get all the lovely cash. Duh, hello? Have you seen Footballers Cribs? How could you possibly expect Robbie Savage to maintain that wonderful home on anything less than £40,000 a week?

Could Sheree Murphy have had that 360 degree mirror in her downstairs toilet on an Emmerdale salary, without Harry Kewell chipping in with the few quid for housekeeping?

Some of these people - were Pol Pot's methods so wrong? - even think that the TV people put too much football on, which is ridiculous, given that a) as we know, the TV people invented football, you cricket-loving pinkos, so they can do what they like!.....and b) have you seen the telly lately? It's rubbish! Even Big Brother is crap this year. And it's either that or bloody CSI! More football please!

Yes indeed, fifteen years on from the birth of football, and what a fine young adolescent it has become! Not surly, irresponsible, strange-smelling, pock-marked with unsightly boils, vaguely repulsive and utterly self-centred like many other adolescents at all.

Oh no, not at all.

The TSA Premiership Awards

It's another gala night at the Borris-in-Ossory Hilton for the TSA Premiership Awards in association with Johnnie Onion Rings (FIFA's official corn snack partner). See the glittering procession of guests, the great and the good....here's David May....is that Stig Inge Bjornebye? Look, getting out of the limo, it's Nelson Vivas! Fingers crossed for Linvoy Primus too!

Without further ado....

The Oddjob Award for Best Evil Henchman
Once again, none did his master's bidding quite so well as Richard Keys this year. The furry fella imparts the information that the Premiership is the best league in the world with dogmatic certainty, his eyes blazing like an Islamic fundamentalist looking forward to all those virgins.

The highlight? During the prematch studio chuntering a few weeks back, David Platt made reference to his transfer to Italy in 1991. "Back then Italy was the place to be," said the man who looks like an off-camera magician is just about to make egg appear out of his mouth, "although of course now the Premiership is on a par."

"B-b-b-better, don't you mean, surely?" blurted Keys nearly freaking out at the sacrilege of it.

"Good work Richard," came the Aussie growl in his earpiece, perhaps.

The Dog & Duck Award for Best Sunday League Player
Michael Ball of Manchester City, whose stamp on Christiano Ronaldo, while attracting the scorn and condemnation of the cosseted Premiership community, drew breathless admiration from park football hatchet men everywhere. The timing, the audacity...beautiful.

The McGyver Award For Making Something Out of Nothing
Steve Coppell's newly promoted Reading were hotly fancied to return from whence they came, having made few improvements to the squad which had won the Championship last season.

Fools, didn't they know that, in order to be a proper Premiership club, you must engage superagent Pini Zahavi to source for you £20m worth of surly Venezuelan strikers, injury-prone veteran Italian defenders and Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink? What did they think they were playing at with these Sidwells and Shoreys and Doyles and such? Oh.

The Niall Quinn Award for Making Robbie Keane Look Good
Dimitar Berbatov was one of the big successes of the season, a magnificient talent whose form is sure to elicit some hefty tests of Tottenham's contention that they are not a 'selling club' come the transfer bazaar.

As well as dazzling in his own right with his control, vision and poise, he formed a profitable partnership with Ireland's own Robbie Keane. Keane is much like a sheepdog (with roughly the same footballing intelligence). Left to his own devices he might drive your flock over a cliff. But under the control of a wise farmer, he can be whistled and yelped at sufficiently to get even the most stubborn ewe into the, er, thing with the fences around it.

Much like Sunderland's magic carpet-riding chairman in his latter days as Ireland's beanpole get-out, Berbatov's expert reading of the game meant that the Bulgarian had brains enough for both of Tottenham's strikers.

The Drunken Uncle at a Wedding Award for Bad Celebrating
Alex Ferguson had plenty to celebrate this year, his team achieving what he regards as his greatest Premiership title victory. However, his reaction to most of his team's goals is familiar to anyone who has ever been embarassed by an aged relative's dancing. Two little fist pumps, then a skip forward, and another one and - oh dear, I think you'd better have a sit down.

Compare that to his dynamic celebration of Steve Bruce's winner against Sheffield Wednesday in that crucial victory on the run-in to 1993 title, and then tell me his powers aren't waning.

Best Gatecrashers
Any viewing of a Watford or Sheffield United game brought to mind those moments at parties when everyone realises that the two tramps playing air guitar to Bohemian Rhapsody are not actually "friends of John's" at all: "How the hell did they get in here?"

The Neville Chamberlain Award for Services to International Relations.
Carlos Tevez arrived at West Ham, along with Javier Mascherano, to a mildly perplexed but generally positive reaction. Then everything went pear-shaped for the Hammers. Why? Because of the two Argie blokes they just signed innit? Everyfing was awwwight before they went and came 'ere, with their foreign ways!

Thankfully Tevez did not understand a word of what the Alf Garnetts were saying, and soon became the driving force behind the Hammers revival (the small matter of the complete illegality of his registration notwithstanding), dragging the club to safety despite 'im being foreign an' all.

The Life of Brian Award for Mistaken Messiah
Aston Villa fans thought they'd probably be looking forward to the Champions League around now. Maybe not the title just yet, that would come. Martin O'Neill you know - he's a messiah isn't he? If he got Leicester into Europe, and Celtic to a UEFA Cup final, then surely Villa could expect the loaves and fishes pretty sharpish.

Then came that point in the season when it was noted that O'Neill had only garnered a single point more than dear old, unlamented David O'Leary. Seems even Martin O'Neill can't turn Villa around just like that. He's not a miracle-worker after all.

The Bobby Ewing Award for Comeback of the Season
Paul Scholes struggles with injury, including a worrisome eye problem, seemed to spell the demise of one of the modern English game's foremost attacking midfielders. The sight, then, of the ginger magician quietly orchestrating Manchester United's sweetest movements as if he'd never been away was pleasing to all but the most rancidly prejudiced anti-Unitedista.

He even contributed an update to The Bradford Volley, with an even more spectacular effort against Aston Villa. And he still can't tackle.

Premiership: Endgame III

To the darkest pits of doom, then! Hear the screams of the damned, writhing in the agony of perpetual Championship football! See how they wail in torment at the loss of lucrative Premiership television revenues!

Ah, the benefits of Catholic education.

First into the fiery depths are Watford. Aidy Boothroyd's battlers are one side who will accept relegation manfully, completing as it does a trajectory that seemed unlikely when the manager took over in March 2005.

The then 34-year-old and utterly unheralded former Leeds first team coach saved the club from relegation to the third rung in his opening weeks in the job - achievement enough, thank you very much - then took the side on an extraordinary odyssey that culminated in a promotion play-off win over Leeds.

To be fair, Watford have rarely looked like a Premiership club, especially following the sale of Ashley Young in January. Their football has been more Turf Moor than Old Trafford, for one thing. But the Hornets have never been easily beat, which, considering they've lost on 18 occasions, suggests an almost superhuman stubbornness, and a fair portion of spirit. They will brush relegation off easier than others.

West Ham could learn a thing or two about boring old things like spirit and character from Watford. For most of this season they have been a profound disgrace, poster boys for the worst of modern football culture. That any hopes of their redemption were sparked by an Argentinian who has not the foggiest idea what any of his teammates are saying to him seems strangely apt.

They had embarked on a three-game winning run prior to last Saturday's loss to Sheffield United, but, as Alan Curbishley sighed, "the vital games we have had since I came to the club we have lost. We have not done enough against the teams around us. That's been our big problem." The 1-0 win over Arsenal was of less value than a win over Sheffield United would have been.

West Ham's five remaining opponents are Chelsea, Everton, Wigan away, Bolton and Manchester United. The most boundless East End optimist would struggle to find much more than three or four points out of that lot, far less the nine or ten they would need to survive.


Four others cower grimly in avoidance of the remaining bullet: Charlton (32 pts), Sheffield United (34), Fulham (35) and Wigan Athletic (35). At this stage we look for the teams that have imbibed Doctor Redknapp's Patented Rejuvenating Momemtum Potion. Of the last six games played by all four, Charlton appear to have the greatest semblance of a head of steam, with eight points won.



Fulham only took 3 points from the 18 on offer, which puts huge pressure on manager Chris Cole- oh, you got there first Mohamed. On the other hand, Sheffield United are the only side of the four to have recorded a win in their last three games, that being the comprehensive beating of West Ham last Saturday.



Neil Warnock has the look of a man who'd enjoy the bare-fist brawl of a relegation battle, and the Sheffield United's remaining four fixtures including three games against fellow strugglers (Charlton (a), Watford (h), Wigan (h)) and one against midtable autopilots (Aston Villa (a)). It might be tighter than an unemployed steelworker's g-string, but they'll be alright.



Wigan too should just about make it, if they beat West Ham at home on April 28th and get a point out of their other fixtures (Liverpool (a), Middlesbrough (h) and Sheffield United (a)).



That leaves Fulham and Charlton. It may go down to goal difference, but, if he keeps the Fulham job, Lawrie Sanchez should be seeing plenty of his Northern Ireland charges next season - in the Championship.

Premiership: Endgame II

Judging by the queue of clubs jostling for position at the upper end of the Premiership's also-rans, the prospect of feeling the cold steel of a carabiniero's baton is not enough to deter England's middleweight sides from dreaming of a European adventure next season.

With Chelsea and Manchester United's providing the entertainment at the F.A.'s overdue and overpriced housewarming bash on May 19th, three UEFA Cup places are cast amongst the Premiership middle order, like breadcrusts in the direction of so many ravenous, mangy pigeons.

The Lord Said "Go Fourth"
First thing's first though, and the final Champions League spot about which there is any modicum of doubt. Arsenal's victory over Bolton at the weekend surely secures that prized fourth place for the north London dilettantes, and victory in their game in hand over Manchester City tonight would shut the entry door to English football's most jealously guarded clique.

All the same, the degree to which Arsenal's season has deflated is illustrated by the very fact that the workaday likes of Bolton and Everton are sniffing about the treasured passageway to Europe's elite at all. Much for Arsene to ruminate on in the months ahead.

UEFA Lot to Look Forward To
Five clubs eye up those three UEFA Cup places: Bolton and Everton, flicking through magazines in the departure lounge on 54 points each; Portsmouth and Spurs queuing at check-in on 49 points; Reading have their eyes on the duty free at 48.

Lucky for Everton that they have those points stowed away; they must play both Manchester United (home) and Chelsea (away) before the season is out. They'll require at least four points from their trip to West Ham and the visit of Portsmouth to Goodison to earn the right to exit Europe ignominiously before the leaves have left the autumnal trees.

Spurs have a game in hand on the others, with four of their five remaining games against bottom half teams. Although they must welcome Arsenal to the Lane on Saturday, they would appear to have the quality to take care of business sufficiently. Indeed, although an away point at Wigan will attract little attention in the clubs annals, their response to going behind on three separate occasions, in the aftermath of a disappointing European exit, demonstrated an admirable character often found absent in the club.

Bolton can inflict serious harm on Reading's hopes of a happy ending to their fairytale season when the two sides meet at the Reebok on Saturday. The general notion that Reading's extraordinary campaign will peter out politely might prove misplaced if they can survive Lancashire undefeated; they host Newcastle and Watford, then travel to Blackburn on the last day, all games against sides with nothing but win bonuses to play for.

Portsmouth followed up their victory over Manchester United last Saturday with a loss at Watford, typical of their curate's egg of a season. An aptitude for upsets would serve them well in the run-in, facing as they do Liverpool and Arsenal, as well as away trips to Everton and Aston Villa. It's a menu designed to choke a side of Portsmouth's inconsistency, and the accession of Bolton, Everton and Spurs into the UEFA Cup will be the result.

Tomorrow : What Lies Beneath: The Relegation Battle

Premiership: Endgame

If it was a movie the hero would be preparing to enter the enemy fortress, defuse the nuclear bomb and get off with the girl. If it was a meal the diners would be loosening belts and perusing the dessert menu. If it was a political regime the leader would be fretting about his legacy. As it's the climax of the Premiership season that we await, let's get clairvoyant on it....

Title Tussle
By Jiminy, I think we've got a thrilling title race on our hands!
For the first time since the 1999 denouement (when a Manchester United win over Spurs gave them the first leg of that treble you may have subsequently heard of, on occasion) we could see the destiny of football's most lucre-laden league decided on its last day.

Supposing Chelsea and United maintain their current status (United three points, and three goals, to the good) until the two meet on Wednesday, May 9th, and supposing that that match results in either a draw or a Chelsea win, then the visits of West Ham and Everton to Old Trafford and Stamford Bridge could provide the cue for much split-screen excitement on May 13th.


Judging by United's rootin'-tootin' attacking displays of recent weeks, it might seem as if Alex Ferguson's team are roaring up the finishing stretch, pulling wheelies like a geriatric, Scottish Valentino Rossi.



But United's golden statue could have feet of clay. At precisely the most inopportune moment, the defensive surety that has bedrocked United's success this season has wobbled. The injuries to Nemanja Vidic and Gary Neville would be difficult enough to cope with, but Edwin van der Saar's consequent jitters have not helped in the slightest.

Added to that, the sudden outbreak of harmony in Stamford Bridge - if the hug heard round the world turns out to mean a lasting detente between Jose Mourinho and Roman Abramovich - points to a club that have woken up after a difficult, uncomfortable sleep to find themselves well placed for an extraordinary quadruple haul of trophies.



The duel is therefore compelling: Chelsea's renewed focus and purpose, allied to their still intact indefatigability against United's high-wire walkers, desperately trying not to look down.



Both sides have mix of manageability, peskiness and peril amongst their remaining fixtures. United will expect to get the run-in off to a smooth start in their next two games, at home against Sheffield United and Middlesbrough. Chelsea, are away in their next two fixtures, travelling to those barflies at the last chance saloon, West Ham and then on to a Newcastle side with nothing to play for.



United then embark on what is undoubtedly the stress-test of their title ambitions. What the climb up Alpe d'Huez is to Tour de France competitors, or Amen Corner is to US Masters contenders, the road trip to Everton, Manchester City and Chelsea is for United's title hopes.



Chelsea, however, have by no means a gentle preamble to their hosting of United in the season's penultimate game. They entertain Bolton, then cross the city to the Emirates Stadium in the previous two matches, meeting two top six teams who are likely to be jousting for European berths to boot. It is conceivable, therefore, that both United and Chelsea could arrive at the season's explosive set-piece having shipped wounds.



If it does transpire that the title is decided on the last day, one suspects that West Ham - whose very nature predestines them to a preposterously heartbreaking last-gasp relegation - will have more to play for than Everton, who will probably arrive at Stamford Bridge with buckets and spades, their UEFA Cup status secured.



All the same, both of the top two should win their final games, which suggests that - calm down there Sky Sports! No-one likes a gloater! - their meeting could indeed be the evening of judgement for this year's Premiership title. 'Evening of Judgement'. I like it. Catchy.

Tomorrow: Mein Gott! Ooh La La! A look at European matters....

United Don't Have All the Answers, But Still Pass the Test

Title credentials checklist

Name: Manchester United

Question 1: Do you win when playing badly? Tick.

Question 2: Has fortune favoured you of late? Tick.

Question 3: Do you have a good balance of experience and youth? Tick.

Question 4: Do have a reliable goalkeeper and a solid defence? Tick.

Question 5: Do you carry a scoring threat from a number of sources? Tick

Question 6: Do have a dominating presence in central midfield? Erm.

Question 7: Have you produced one defining performance which unequivocably demonstrates your superiority over your closest rivals? Hmmmm......

Previously around these parts we have tended to regard this season's incarnation of Manchester United with a bit of scepticism, seeing the way they brutally bully the lesser teams in the Premiership while tending towards diffidence when meeting their peers.

Aside from the defeat of Liverpool at Old Trafford earlier in the season, they have failed to fully dominate Arsenal and Chelsea when they have met them and on Saturday Liverpool had the better of them everywhere but the scoreline.

Of course, points won against the other big boys are no more valuable than those garnered from Vicarage Road or Bramall Lane. Fair enough, United have clinically mined their points from the bountiful seam of mediocrity elsewhere in the Premiership, and their nine point over Chelsea is reflective of a job, so far, exceptionally well done.

But why the troubling inability to say, with finality, that they are the best team in the league?

United's hypothesis goes like this: although their midfield lacks the destructive strength of the those other clubs, particularly Chelsea and Liverpool, it is generally up to the task of mastery, or at least parity, over those of the less well-endowed clubs. Then, equipped with a devastating array of attacking talent and an athletic, well balanced defensive unit, they can maximise their offensive potential while fending off at the back most that the also-rans can throw at them.

United have looked unconvincing this season when faced with teams that dominate their flimsier midfield totally, leaving them little real opportunity to generate a head of steam in attack. These are the games in which Cristiano Ronaldo looks like a headless chicken, rather than the bird of prey he normally resembles and Wayne Rooney exudes frustration, rather than the devastating audacity he normally exhibits.

Liverpool have long been able to grip the central areas vice-like, Steven Gerrard, Xabi Alonso and Momo Sissoko embodying an uncompromising mix of guile, strength and intelligence. But unlike United, Rafa Benitez has been, as yet, unable to concoct the right attacking alchemy, showing only in flashes - like with Gerrard's goal against Sheffield United nine days ago - the sort of fluid choreography with which United have dispatched so many teams this season.

Perhaps the meeting with Chelsea on 15 April will provide the opportunity for that one, irrefutable demonstration of superiority for United before they claim a title that would mean as much, if not more, to Alex Ferguson than any of his others. More likely he will approach that game with a similar caution to how he did last Saturday's.

He will be leaving Question 6 above to be answered in the transfer market during the summer, and, if the Premiership trophy does return to Old Trafford in May, will not care in the slightest if he hasn't satisfied question 7 either.

Chelsea Send Out Distress Message

The beginning of the end for Jose? United lose their nerve 'ten minutes from title'? Liverpool as realistic title contenders? Arsenal too, maybe?

Trying to interpret the messages from Grand Slam weekend is almost like being in a NASA laboratory attempting to decipher what appears to be a communication from another planet: behind all the white noise and static, what does it say?

With just seven minutes to go in yesterday's match at the Emirates Stadium (which will have felt more like home for Arsenal fans than at any time since the move from Highbury, thanks to the memorable manner of their victory) the interpretation seemed clear: Manchester United were surely champions.

In a match of few clear-cut chances, they looked to have edged out one of their biggest rivals with the type of gritty performance usually seen as the hallmark of title-winners. Arsenal had rarely seriously threatened Edwin Van der Saar's goal, and with the clock ticking down, United looked to be effectively closing out a priceless win.

Three rare things - two whipped-in Arsenal crosses from wide and one Thierry Henry header - later and the champions-elect handed back their de facto crown.

Review and revise: United fumbled their big chance? Bottled it by shrinking back into defence of their lead?

Of course not. A draw would have been an appropriate result, the win flattering an Arsenal team who never imposed their game on the opposition. Certainly United attempted to close the game down from too far out, leaving themselves vulnerable to a team whose bite comes from many potential sources. But United were generally more impressive yesterday than in defeat to Arsenal at Old Trafford last September and remain the most convincing candidates for the title at this point.

It could be argued that they are flat-track bullies, having taken only four points from twelve in meetings with their main rivals this season. But in a league where the vast majority of the clubs resemble bespectacled playground weeds, the bully is king.

No, pretty much the only clear message coming out of the weekend whose hype was, for once, almost matched by the excitement on the pitch, was that the conflict between Chelsea's manager and their owner has reached a grave point, such that the team is unrecognisable from that which won the last two league titles.

The sources of the disagreement are well known: Jose Mourinho's frustration at the club's lack of transfer activity at a time when their defensive resources have been stripped bare; and the resentment caused by the failed signature of Andrij Shevchenko: from Roman Abramovich's viewpoint in the manager's inability to integrate him, and from Mourinho's due to the striker's favoured relationship with the owner.

The nature of this feud is cancerous, so malign are the attitudes of both sides. Mourinho's team were so obviously infected by their manager's defeatism before the game at Anfield on Saturday, that one almost suspected their feebleness to be planned. It's testament to our belief in anything being possible when it comes to Mourinho that we could consider him sending out his team to lose, so as to illustrate his point to Abramovich.

But in effect, even if not purposely, that is what his negative attitude succeeded in doing. Rather than attemting to inspire his team to an heroic triumph against the odds, Mourinho's side had all the fight of lemmings approaching a cliff-top.

This becomes the most significant point to emerge from the weekend because - unlike the other three top sides, who demonstrated at least aspects of their best qualities - Chelsea appeared utterly stripped of what made them the best team in England. The loss of such strength of spirit and unity of purpose is vastly more difficult to redress than mere bad form.

Perhaps the return of John Terry from injury could re-instill these lost virtues. But the salving of the wounds of an entire club would seem beyond any one player, no matter how influential.

The fragile but powerful balance of egos between Mourinho and Abramovich which made Chelsea so strong, so quickly, has been wildly disrupted, and the mess that has resulted on the field does not remotely resemble a championship winning team.

The Sky Sports Creative Process

"Maureen? Let's get some coffee in here, it's gonna be a long night!" barked Ed Stokes, fearsome head of Sky Sports' crack marketing department, at his long-suffering, but devoted secretary.

"Certainly Mr Stokes. You must be busy, what with the top four teams in the Premiership playing each other this weekend and you boys having to come up with a catchy yet sufficiently portentous tag-name for it all."

"That's all, Maureen. Make it snappy with that coffee!.....Right fellas," Stokes sneered, surveying Tristan, Clive and Dean, his trusted triumvirate of 'ideas-men'; the three-pronged imagineers with whom he had conceived Showdown Sunday, Judgment Day, Day of Vengeance, Clash of the Titans and many more of the triumphs which had earned him a place on the Big Man's Christmas card list.

To Ed,

Seasons Greetings

Keep creating the dreams of a nation,

From Rupert and Wendy.

Mid-January and the card still sat on his desk, obscuring the photo of his unsmiling son, Ben, who was obscured from his father in real life by the terms of a harsh custody settlement with his former wife.

"Fellas, we need something big...really big. Liverpool and Chelsea, Arsenal and United. It's the weekend we were born to market. Dazzle me, or clear out your desk!"

Clive coughed and leaned forward on the leather-upholstered sofa, nervously opening a folder which had been hitherto clutched to his chest. "Well, with the whole Rocky thing being very now, I thought we might go with a classic play on boxing. Something like "Battle of the Heavyweights", or "Big Four Knockout Weekend."

It was poor, and Clive knew it. But he'd had rubbish like Showdown Sunday accepted before and knew, when all else failed, that a boxing theme was a failsafe to impress Stokes.

"Clive, do I look like a field of potatoes?"

"Er, no boss," trembled the underling.

"THEN WHY ARE YOU SHOVELLING MANURE ON TOP OF ME!!" Stokes screamed, blowing over the Big Man's Christmas card with his spittle. He quickly re-erected it before fixing Clive with a furious glare.

"Tristan - make it good, or make it your death warrant!"

"Clearly, boss, we need to ratchet up the intensity for this weekend. We need to charge into the second half of the season with all guns blazing - and we've got to steal back the thunder from CBB and that racism angle they're working. It's bloody genius." Tristan spoke confidently, knowing that talking the talk washed big time with Stokes.

"Deathmatch Doubleheader," he whispered menacingly, after an unbearable, pregnant pause.

Stokes' features softened. "It's good, Tristan, it's good." By this point he'd wandered around to their side of the desk, and he accompanied his judgement by grabbing Tristan's face paternally and staring at him intently.

"Deathmatch Doubleheader." He turned and aggressively scrawled the words on the flip chart in the corner of the room. Stokes stared at the words as if transfixed by their power. But after a few moments he began to slowly shake his head, then ever more quickly.

"No, no, no, no...." he said, first in a whisper, progressing to a growl. "No! It's been done!" He wheeled around and fixed his footsoldiers with a thousand-yard stare, looking beyond them and back into his own ragged soul.

"Norwich City v Ipswich/Middlesbrough v Sunderland, Sunday 4th February 1998." He spew out the words as if possessed, or in a trance. Then he turned his head towards Tristan and snarled: "I don't mind you stealing my average stuff. But don't ever, ever touch my best work!"

Dean was hot right now. He'd been seconded to the darts recently and had gotten serious kudos for the Taylor/Barney final.

"Boss, seems to me we're looking for the right woodlouse under the wrong stone." He smirked at the cleverness of his metaphor.

"How so?" replied Stokes.

"We're looking for explosions when the powder's damp." The others looked at each other, and then at Dean, confusion reigning.

"Spit it out or get out, Dean," said Stokes impatiently.

"Four-play!" exclaimed Dean, his hands thrust in the air and his eyes wide as if in evangelical ecstasy.

"Jesus Christ Dean, do you think we're gonna get Richard Keys to say 'Four-play' every five minutes on the telly. Don't get me wrong, I like your moxy. But Keys is a stiff - he'll never go for it," Stokes said sadly.

Just then Maureen knocked on the door. "Now boys. Coffee and some of my home-made fairy-cakes for the hard-working lads. Have you come up with anything yet?"

"Coffee over here. Just leave the rest over there Maureen, that'll be all," Stokes said dismissively, grabbing a cup.

"Oh it must be so hard, such a big important weekend," Maureen continued. "The top four teams playing each other on the one weekend - amazing! It's like, what do you call it, a Grand Slam weekend for the football isn't it?"

The four men looked at each other. Stokes' grip on his cup loosened involuntarily, and it tumbled onto the desk, knocking over the Christmas card from the Big Man and drenching it in hot, brown liquid.

Grand Slam weekend.

Stokes gathered himself.

"Clean that up, will you Maureen."

United Lack Ruthlessness of Chelsea

A pivotal day, and no mistake. The gap at the top of the Premiership, hitherto contemptuously dismissed by Jose Mourinho, is now down to two points. In a tight title race - if this Premiership rivalry does continue in a nip and tuck fashion until its conclusion - it'll be the tiny details that matter.


Like, had Eggert Magnusson kept his powder dry for another couple of weeks and left Alan Pardew in his job, would Manchester United have met a West Ham side stumbling haplessly in the relegation zone, rather than the team which defeated them yesterday via a clear case of New Manager Bounce?

The Hammers were changed, but not unrecognisable. No - they bore such a striking resemblance to the effervescent side that skipped up the Premiership and into the FA Cup final last season that the recently sacked Pardew would be excused for suing Alan Curbishley for copyright breach.


Pardew's demise would have been unthinkable only a few short months ago, as his team's attitude to their return to the Premiership seemed to create a new model for newly promoted teams - one characterised by a fearlessness and wholehearted commitment to attacking football rather than craven protectionism.


Pardew lost the ability to draw such performances from his team, but they had plenty of that bite on show yesterday, and it was enough to expose the soft edges of Manchester United.


A few hours earlier Chelsea had responded to the slipping away of three points with a violent, retaliatory bludgeoning of the impertinent Toffeemen. Ballack, Lampard and Drogba's goals were all shows of strength, stunning strikes that denied Everton a well-deserved point.


United's response to West Ham's new-found fight seemed flimsy in comparison. They peppered West Ham's goal and ran at the back four incessantly; but there was something lacking from their advances - they seemed blunt, unthreatening.


Yesterday saw Cristiano Ronaldo at his worst for United. The graver the situation, the more inclined he seems to pointless dribbles and wasteful long range shooting. Just like in their defeat to Celtic, United were presented with a free-kick in an advanced area late on. And just as on that occasion, Ronaldo chose to shoot from distance, driving the ball into the wall, rather than clipping it into the box. The problem is not necessarily the decision itself, rather simply that the boy's temperament suggests that there is no way he would have the collectedness required to score at such a juncture.


That's not to pick on Ronaldo alone. Wayne Rooney hasn't played in the manner of the future great he is supposedly destined to become for some time. Scholes' influence was blunted by the rejuvenated Nigel Reo-Coker (how Pardew must fume at his erstwhile skipper's sudden reawakening), whose goal saw United's defence carved open alarmingly easily.


After United and Chelsea drew a few weeks back, we were by no means alone in suggesting that their squad would not have the depth for a successful campaign. A couple of days later, United thumbed their noses at this idea by comfortably defeating Everton 3-0, with squad players such as John O'Shea, Darren Fletcher and Kieran Richardson all starting.


Yesterday demonstrated where their lack of options gets found out: not at Old Trafford or when they get a goal in front against opposition who lack the belief required for a comeback, rather in situations like yesterday, where a spirited side gets ahead of them. They never seemed to have the requisite ruthlessness within them that helped Chelsea to dismiss Everton.


All is not lost however. United's inability to break through West Ham yesterday looked like a situation tailor-made for the gentleman sitting behind Alex Ferguson in the stand. Henrik Larsson took in the match yesterday; the Swede's arrival looks as well-timed as any of the forward runs with which he made his name.

Courageous Arsenal Worthy of Point

In the end, the Thin Red Line held out. Nine brave young privates - as well as Jens Lehmann and Gilberto Silva - against the four star generals of Chelsea. The Few scuppered the Many.

Arsenal supporters may baulk initially at the characterisation of their team in such lowly terms, being as we are the only two short calendar years since their team was dubbed "the Invincibles". Paul Merson, in the Sky studio, was certainly displeased at the caution of his team's first half approach, for example.

But the respective forces that ranged up against each other yesterday were so unevenly matched that the pride which Arsene Wenger will have felt in his young team's performance was fully justified.

More justified, though, than any sense of injustice which, knowing the one-eyed Frenchman's usual attitude to objectivity, he will probably be harbouring over Chelsea's equaliser. It certainly did appear that Ashley Cole, the disowned former son, fouled Aleksandr Hleb in the lead-up to Michael Essien's astonishing strike. But Chelsea rattled the woodwork so often that the Stamford Bridge groundsman will probably be touching up the paintwork on the goalposts this morning.

Having said that, for the second time in a couple of weeks, Chelsea pulled themselves around by dispensing with what is becoming a mystifying initial tactical set-up. Although Arsenal only went ahead in the 78th minute, eleven or so minutes after Chelsea brought on Arjen Robben and Shaun Wright-Phillips, that opener was much less in keeping with the run of play than had it been scored before Chelsea went to 4-3-3.

Even with only twelve minutes remaining, the likelihood of Chelsea's scoring at least one in response seemed quite high, and as it turned out, they could have had several.

The strange thing about the fact that Chelsea have had to change to the 4-3-3 formation to save matches is that it was exactly the system that had brought Jose Mourinho's side success in the first two seasons of his management. Clearly, the signing of Michael Ballack and Andrij Shevchenko - and the need for their deployment - has forced Mourinho into an unnatural reshuffle of his tactics.

Also, the good form of Didier Drogba this season has meant that the man whom many felt would make way for Shevchenko has been himself, as Mourinho called it, "untouchable".
But the introduction of the wingers Robben and Wright-Phillips brought a dynamism to Chelsea's attack that is generally non-existent as they seek to bludgeon teams with the heavyweight midfield four of Ballack, Lampard, Essien and Makalele.

Prior to the changes, Arsenal's heroic young defenders, with tremendous assistance from the heroic Gilberto Silva - a man who appears to be becoming more naturally suited to the captain's armband than Therry Henry is - were able to hold out the powerful champions. At times it was quite desperate stuff: Fabregas' clearance off the line from Essien, Gilberto Silva's lunging distraction as the Ghanaian shot on another occasion.

But the guerilla tactics kept Arsenal hanging in there, breaking with purpose and threat. The goal was typical of this approach, the Gunners moving up the pitch, committing numbers enough to stretch Chelsea and leave the space for Flamini.

On another day Chelsea would have overran them, but the character and courage the young Arsenal team showed made them worthy of a point.

Chelsea's Point More Equal Than United's

Showdown Sunday was the obligatory soubriquet for what could also, more mundanely, be known as Manchester United Versus Chelsea - Sky coming over all Don King, as it likes to do on these occasions, in order to throw a little Vegas neon onto a gloomy late November evening in the northwest of England. The marketing of games such as these – Showdowns, Judgement Days, Days of Reckoning - is intended to suggest the likelihood of decisions being made, rights being wronged, credentials being established, slights being redressed: that, whatever happens, the world as we know it is about to be seismically upturned, and bold new truths established.

Unless, of course, the game ends in a draw.

So was yesterday just the equivalent of the finger-jabbing, hold-me-back stage of a barroom fight, where a couple of blows are thrown but resolution forestalled until a later reckoning? Or did we learn something pertinent about the destination of the 2006-07 Premiership title?

To my mind, we have established that Chelsea will probably, once again, win the league.

I suspect that yesterday’s match will prove to be something of a microcosm for this season. United struck boldly to the front, fizz and enthusiasm capitalising on a disjointed Chelsea. With Rooney dropping into the left side of midfield the home side outnumbered their opponents in that area, narrowly clustered as they were in a stodgy first-half set-up.

Tactical arrangements aside, United played that first period with a similar hunger to that which bustled Liverpool so convincingly aside when the two sides met last month. The goal was symptomatic: Carrick digging the ball out from Chelsea’s dithering grasp, from whence it was shuttled to Rooney, lurking mischievously - like a schoolboy with a water-balloon on an overpass - in the inside left channel. His pass to Saha was the sort of lacerating intrusion that the 20-year-old’s vision and daring regularly provide, and Saha’s finish was a fine response to any who have questioned the Frenchman following his difficulties in Glasgow, unfairly in light of his so-far excellent contribution this season.

Three points up, and now a goal up, United making the running.

But with the crack of his half time tactical whip, Jose Mourinho changed the game. Arjen Robben was brought on and positioned out left, hugging a touchline hitherto unloved by men in blue shirts and Michael Essien, ostensibly positioned in the bijou billet of right back, instead surveyed the entirety of that flank like it a greedy landlord in custody of an ancient familial estate.

The Ghanaian’s strength and athleticism saw his intrusions into United territory cause mortal wounds to United’s left side. The corner from which Ricardo Carvalho headed the Blues’ equaliser resulted from an Essien incision.

That aside, Chelsea, with their formation more conducive to using the width of the pitch, proceeded to intensify that brand of ‘boa-constrictor football’ - as I like to call it – that they base their success on, the force of their physical dominance (not to be confused with what is referred to as an old fashioned ‘physical’ approach, which is a different, less sophisticated beast) suppressing teams, suffocating them with their superior power.

The draw was therefore a fair reflection of the game. Why, then, does the match suggest Chelsea’s league ambitions to be more credible than those of the team three points ahead of them?

If the last week has shown up one thing, it is the marked thinness of the United squad. Upon seeing their team go a goal down against Celtic in midweek, United fans watched their manager attempt to rescue the situation via the introduction of Patrice Evra and John O’Shea. Similarly on Sunday, injuries to Christiano Ronaldo and Louis Saha facilitated O’Shea's and Darren Fletcher's leaving of the bench.

Chelsea, on the other hand, were able to call on Arjen Robben and Joe Cole in their efforts to reel in United. Neither made decisive contributions, but the principle is clear: in reserve Chelsea can call on players of real potential menace, where United have mere utility men.

Which is of no consequence if United’s first team stay fit and are capable of steering United in the successful manner in which they have propelled their club so far this season. But, facing into the muck and bullets of an English football winter and, with every point being a prized commodity these days, it seems very unlikely that United’s front-liners will dodge the perils of injury, suspension and loss of form indefinitely. Chelsea, on the other hand, would appear better equipped for the trenches.

In consolation, United have the impending return from injury of Ole Gunnar Solskjaer and a January transfer window to come, in the likely event of further reinforcements being required.

Still, in much the same way as they turned the tide of yesterday’s match in its second act, the inexorable resolve, strength in depth and grim, champion’s determination that Chelsea possess should, eventually, overwhelm United.