As the stand-off developed, hooligans — including several young women — hurled bottles and dustbins at police before running back into the crowd. Many thugs covered their faces with scarves as they taunted police. Officers in riot gear and wielding batons charged the crowd to disperse them as missiles rained down.

Not sure what a dustbin is ... my understanding of British outdoor objects is limited to things I've seen in Monty Python sketches, such as "Vicious gangs of keep-left signs ..."

So if I have this straight, Chelsea fans were fighting with each other? Wow.

In Moscow, where the match was held, things were somewhat calmer.

Thousands of Chelsea fans were bussed under police escort to their airports soon after their team lost on penalties. Police said they had used mobile "sobering vans" to treat drunk fans before the game.

A few of those vans were sorely needed at the Preakness last weekend.

Riots In London As Chelsea Fans Clash With Police After Champions League Defeat [London Daily Mail]

Wide right. Are there two more magical words in the English language aside from perhaps open bar? But for a New York Giants fan and Chelsea-hater, wide right is a thing of poetic beauty. First Scott Norwood misses from 47 yards against the Big Blue in the '91 Super Bowl and now John Terry misses from 12 yards against ManU in yesterday's Champions League final.

Of course, there are differences. When Norwood planted his foot, the rain wasn't lashing down, turning the field into a watery bog. And to the best of my knowledge ol' Scotty wasn't an arrogant, bullying dick who tried to intimidate referees and parked his car in spaces reserved for the handicapped because he couldn't be bothered to drive his Bentley to the lot across the street.

So, please, spare me the tears for England's Brave John Terry. Yes, he's a warrior who, in the last two months, has shrugged off a dislocated shoulder and a broken foot to soldier on for club and country. And yes, he is a defensive collossus who yesterday saved a sure goal in overtime when he contorted his body to get his head on Ryan Giggs point-blank shot. But as far as I'm concerned Terry's tragic slip couldn't have happenned to a nicer guy.

To me, he is the gleaming hood ornament of a Chelsea team that feels titles are their divine right because they are all international superstars who make more money than God . But less than Roman Ambramovich.
So yesterday, in the packed and boisterous bar of Playwright's Tavern, my Champions League watering hole, I rooted against Chelsea openly, loudly, and unapologetically. It's not that I , an insufferable Arsenal fan, love ManU—flying pizzas, anyone?—but to me, they are the lesser of two evils . Sort of like if I were watching Hitler and Stalin go at it in the Octagon, my money's on Big Joe.

So,yes, I was cheering for ManU in public and have been hearing ever since that I'm no longer worthy of wearing my Arsenal thong. But if being branded a traitor means that Chelsea had its heart ripped out yesterday in front of a billion people, then I say bring it on. You Duke and UNC fans know what I'm talking about. Or, as my friend Will Blythe says, to hate like this is to be happy forever.

Inspiring me in my temporary ManU affection was my friend Robert Lewis, a lawyer and star striker for Maccabi Manhattan, who makes Leitch look like a Cardinals bandwagon jumper when it comes to pimping for your team. Lewis not only brought along a small set of speakers that he set up on the bar to blare the actual recording of his beloved United winning their last Champions League title in 1999 , he was wearing the same vintage ManU jersey he first sported 18 years ago — when he was 12

But Lewis's was by no means the tightest jersey in the bar yesterday. That honor belonged to the late shift bartender who started slinging shots with a black halter top that was stuffed with what I assumed were overinflated soccer balls. But I digress.

This was the kind of game that could make footy fans out of Lupica, Kornheiser, and Daulerio , the Holy Trinity of soccer bashers. It had everything you could ask for: drama ( Ronaldo missing, Terry slipping, Van der Saar saving), controversy (Drogba being sent off for his bitch slap on Vidic); moments of genius (Rooney's 60 yard diagonal ball from deep in his own half to the foot of Ronaldo on the edge of the Chelsea penalty area); moments of high hilarity (Ronaldo kissing the ball before taking his penalty kick, then doing his ridiculous stutter-step approach, and telegraphing his shot so that Cech could save it ); shots that hit the post (Drogba's howitzer in the 78th minute); shots that hit the crossbar (Lampard's rocket in the second minute of extra-time); bloodied noses (Scholes, courtesy of Makelele's elbow) ; a near brawl (Vidic going after Drogba to show why the United fans chant "Serbia, it rhymes with murdera " ); acrobatic saves (Cech parrying Tevez's bullet header in the first half); and the comforting sight of a Russian oligarch who poured a billion of his petrol dollars into assembling a band of high-priced mercenaries realizing he couldn't buy the prize he most coveted and covering his eyes with his hands during the shootout.

How fitting that the Chelsea player who would ultimately miss the decisive penalty would be the well-traveled (this was his eighth club and and he is surely on his way to his ninth any day now) hired gun Nicolas Anelka, whom Abramovich bought for $30 million in mid-season for his Midas goal-scoring touch. The sulky Frenchman repaid the owner's faith with a whopping two goals in his 23 appearances for the Blues. Is it any wonder that when he stepped up to take the PK yesterday, he looked almost indifferent as if this was just another payday and win or lose he was going to cash his fat check.

It was , as the cliche goes, a game of two halves plus, of course, one leg-cramping, lung-busting overtime, not to mention the sphincter-tightening shootout. With Ronaldo dancing past Essien with arrogant ease on the flank and then outleaping him to power in a header, United were at their swashbuckling best for the first forty five minutes and should have been up 3-0. Instead they were tied 1-1 after Chelsea took advantage of a lucky deflection and a slip by Van Der Saar for Lampard to score what ESPN's Tommy Smyth astutely summed up as "a very important goal."

Chelsea began to impose their physical style in the second half with Lampard, Ballack and Makelele owning the midfield and driving the Blues forward. Drogba, however, could not break free of Vidic or Ferdinand who velcro'ed themselves to the big Ivorian and grappled for every ball. The game was on a knife's edge of tipping over into outright mayhem as it lurched into extra-time and it was five minutes from penalties when Drogba finally revealed himself to be even more of a woman than Ronaldo. Squaring up to Vidic, he thought better of it and caressed the defender's cheek with an open hand. It was no more than a love tap and yet it was enough for the referee to send him off. Considering that this was probably the last we'll ever see of Drogba in a Chelsea shirt, you'd think he' d want to go out on a high note. At least Zidane head-butted that motherfucker Matterazzi to the turf.

But Drogba's blow won't even have wobbled the knees of David Archuleta.

Would Drogba have made a difference in penalty kicks? Possibly. He might have replaced Terry in the rotation and not let the trophy fall off his foot. But it did. And so today, I celebrate not ManU's victory but Chelsea's soul-crushing failure to buy their way to two championships in the space of a week.

As for that Octagon between Stalin and Hitler, the Gunners and I will be ready to kick the shit out of them both next year.

Mr. Hirshey will have a much more comprehensive and aritculate wrap-up of the Champions League, um...championship?...tomorow, but, for now, this photo will have to suffice.

This is what the Times Online said of the game prior to the shootout:

" It has been a cracking match with a wealth of wasted chances and plenty of needle to boot."

Indeed!

Penalties: Manchester United 6, Chelsea 5 [Times Online]

Reportedly, adult film starJenna moved her table right next to the Chelsea stars and wowed them with her raunchy dancing, as they continued to rack up their hefty bar bill, which ended up at an estimated £10,000 [$20,000]. Though, according to reports, Jenna's night ended early after she was thrown out for allegedly attempting to take drugs.

A member of her entourage said: "She just asked if one of her friends could go in with her in the toilets to touch up her make-up before facing the paparazzi. But the toilet attendant said no, and kicked off. The bouncers called us American pigs, which brought Jenna to tears."

How can a club called Chinawhite take exception to drug use? Fucking hypocrites.

If I wasn't adequately disturbed by the thought of a haggard porn star ruining my team's mojo, my friend Flubby had to go and push me over the edge. You see, I'm incapable of manipulating images, so he did the dirty work for me. Unfortunately Flubby had been swept up in Derby fever, and he was a bit too tipsy to understand my initial request. Click here for a terrifyingly NSFW first draft.

That's good nightmare fuel.

begrudging h/t to With Leather

The Red Devils won the other monster match of the day between the big four by a score of 3-0. Liverpool is blowing opportunities all over the place blew an opportunity to lock up the fourth spot. Instead, Everton remains a threat to their hopes for European competition.

ON TO BASKETBALL!

So when Arsenal twice came from behind to equalize in the 92nd minute and retain their place at the Prem summit, I viewed it as karmic payback. I also viewed it from the upper deck at Emirates Stadium, which detonated with such orgasmic joy when it became clear that Gallas' shot had crossed the line that I found myself hugging the woman next to me and hoping her boyfriend didn't notice the tent in my pants. (I'm not saying she was into me, but if we had actually won the game, I might have gotten a rusty trombone.)

That it was the ancient and venerable Gallas—at 30, Arsenal's captain is seven years older than the average Gunner—who ran the length of the pitch to score the equalizer, seemed a fitting exclamation point to a game that never quite lived up to Wenger's pre-match hype as "a work of art" that would "stop the world."

For one thing, Arsenal showed more heart than art, its usual masterclass of incisive passing and quick interchanges disrupted by the likes of Anderson and Hargreaves who snapped at the heels of Fabregas and Hleb as they tried to weave their magic. Sir Alex, meanwhile, was not about to give Wenger's insolent kids the time and space to control the ball and strut their skill, even if it meant having Rooney and Giggs tracking back to the edge of their own box. For two teams who pride themselves on their freeflowing attacking soccer, the first half was strangely defensive and tentative until the final minute.

Desperately in need of a beer to help me forget my lunatic decision to attend what I was certain would be an epic match, I was on my way to the concession stand when I turned around just in time to see Rooney barge in front of Gallas and scuff his shot off the Frenchman's arm and past Almunia at the near post. 1-0 ManU. Make that two Fosters, mate, I said to the bartender.

I was so hellbent on blotting out the travesty of ManU's goal that I was oblivious to the large man in dreads blocking the way to my seat. "You can't bring that in here," he said, looking at me as if I was carrying the Avian flu.

"Why not?" I replied indignantly until I noticed his orange vest with the words "Arsenal Steward" emblazoned on it. When he explained that no alcoholic beverages were allowed in the stands, I tried to play the American card. "I'm from the States, where we can drink wherever we want," I lied. But he wasn't buying."You either have to finish your beer back at the bar" he said, "or I will throw it out for you". I was pondering my Sophie's Choice when I realized the game had resumed. And what's this? Arsenal was attacking as if they had suddenly remembered why they had been unbeaten in 13 straight matches.

The ball zipped from Hleb to Fabregas to Adebayour to Eboue, to Sagna back to Adebayour whose shot caromed off Van der Sar and popped loose to Sagna who picked out Fabregas in front of the goal. With nerveless accuracy, the Spaniard rolled the ball into the far corner of the goal. Six one-touch passes in the space of 20 mesmerizing seconds and it was 1-1. As Fabregas wheeled in delight, I'm afraid so did I, flinging my arms heavenward. I offered to pay the dry cleaning bill of the steward's now beer-drenched vest but he just laughed and said, "you're lucky I'm an Arsenal fan."

Could it be, I thought to myself, after all I've endured—the flight delays, the lost luggage, Arsenal's crap first half—could my suffering finally be over?

Nah.

Never in my life would I have thought the following three words would escape my lips: "Bring back Lehmann." But that's what I cried in the 82nd minute when Almunia, raced ten yards off his line like a man whose peroxided hair is on fire, hoping to smother Evra's shot. Only seeing the keeper so far out of goal, Evra simply pulled the ball back to Ronaldo, all alone in front. By all rights, that should have been lights out for the baby Gunners. They had finally come up against a team that had equal quality, brute strength, and championship experience.

And yet Arsenal refused to go gently. It turns out that for all their dazzling technical skills, they are not without a fair amount of grit.

"We had to fight," Gallas said later. "We decided if we had to die, we would die together." In the end, the only one who looked like he would die was Fergie. Despite his public show of respect for Wenger and his stylish football, Sir Alex has always resented the Frenchman's imperious attitude toward the British game Ferguson has bestrode for 20 years.

As the seconds ticked down Saturday, Fergie, doing his best Mark Cuban impersonation, was screaming and gesticulating maniacally at the referee that Arsenal's equalizer should not count because Saha had been mugged in the buildup to the Gallas goal.

Poor Fergie. What a terrible injustice. To have the result snatched away two years in a row at the death is a cruel injustice. (Anybody remember Thierry Somebody's thumping header on the final play of last year's epic?) Good thing in my delerium, I didn't lean over the railing and accidentally spill my non-alcoholic water on him.Though judging by the fuchsia color of his face, he might have done to me what that drunken yob did to him last month on the train platform—introduce the toe of his pointy shoes to my ball sack. Not surprisingly, the Arsenal fans behind the ManU bench made some not so subtle references to Fergie's bruised swingers that caused Sir Alex to moan afterwards about "the disgraceful lack of security" at the Emirates.

Obviously, he's never tried to sneak a beer into the stands.

Seriously, life doesn't get much better than this. OK, maybe it does if you throw in a night in the crack den with Amy Ryan of Gone, Baby, Gone and matching broken metatarsals for Rooney and Tevez. But other than that...

And it didn't end there. After watching Arsenal put seven past Slavia Prague and Liverpool being ass-raped by Bestikas in mid-week Champions League qualifying, you can understand why I was in such a magnanimous mood yesterday at Kinsale.

"A round on Deadspin for my Liverpool brothers, " I said to Pauline behind the bar. "And an I.V. of lithium for Relegation Zone Mikey."

Could there have been a more pathetic looking figure among the Kinsale mob than RZM? Even the shmuck at the end of the bar in a throwback Csonka jersey who tried to watch that other football game in London yesterday could at least delude himself that his 0-8 team once had a proud history. Poor RZM had nothing other than his pint of Guinness and the look of a man who had endured a double colonoscopy.

"Get your filthy Gooner hands off me, " he hissed when I tried to put a comforting arm around him and offer my condolences for the last second Blackburn goal that condemned Tottenham to second from bottom. I didn't have the heart to ask him how he felt about the graceful way Spurs handled the mercy killing of their manager Martin Jol, or whether the Dutchman had donated his line of nylon leisurewear to his successor Juande Ramos, who, if nothing else, should give Benitez a run for the first Spanish Prem manager sacked in the new year.

Not surprisingly, when the Arsenal-Liverpool match kicked off, RZM sought kinship amid the Scouser faithful who stood three-deep at the bar and annoyed the shit out of me with their singing and chanting, until the 80th minute when Fabregas shut them up with his sublime toe-poke to tie it at 1-1 and keep the Gunners undefeated and tied with ManU at the top of the league.

Up to that point, Arsenal had seemingly reverted to last year's exasperating shenanigans, putting on their signature one-touch passing show at the edge of the box while Liverpool was perfectly content to sit back and wait for them to try to walk the ball into the goal. Then Carragher or Hypia would rudely intervene — a couple of more judo throws like the one you executed on Fabregas should get you your black belt, Jamie — and hoof the ball long in the direction of one of their three strikers (Veronin, Kuyt, and a clearly unfit Torres), who would run into a cul de sac of Arsenal defenders and be dispossessed. Except, that is, in the 7th minute when Liverpool was awarded a free kick about twenty yards out and Gerrard showed why, for all the talk about his recent dip in form, he is still da man on Merseyside. With Kuyt cleverly disrupting Arsenal's jerryrigged defensive wall, Gerrard found the seam and lashed a screamer into the net. "Sorry to ruin next week's Match of the Century," chortled Liverpool James, aka Lingering Bursitis, kitted out in his ridiculous red Carlsberg jersey. He was referring to next Saturday's epic clash at the Emirates between Arsenal's Invincibles and Manchester United's defending champions, which, I'm happy to report, will be graced by my presence. Trust me, Patriots-Colts looks like a Pop Warner game next to this.

"Fuck off, you limey bastard," I cooly replied to Lingering Bursitis, "there's still 83 minutes to play." And what a memorable 83 minutes they were, pulsating with full-blooded challenges (Gallas' sliding, last ditch tackle on Gerrard in the 89th minute saved the Gunners' arse), goalmouth clearances, shots off the post, acrobatic saves (Alumunia had three gems to push Lehmann closer to bidding Auf Wiedersehn to Wenger), missed open goals and the quicksilver interchanges between Hleb, Rosicky and Fabregas that is the closest thing to total football you'll ever see in England. "Ooh, what sexy football," mocked my Liverpool friend Gandhi (yes, that's his real name) after Arsenal sliced open the Reds' defense with five one-touch passes only for Adebayour, who had a woeful game, to fire directly into a diving Reina's arms. "Too bad you couldn't score in a brothel," he added, displaying that rapier Scouser wit.

Of course, he did have a point. For all the territorial dominance Arsenal had yesterday, for all the mesmerizing buildup and slick passing, the Gunners couldn't finish this senten...

Two of their misses were almost comical if you weren't an Arsenal supporter. In the 53rd minute, Eboue thundered a shot off the post that caromed directly to Fabregas alone in front, the goal gaping at his mercy. The Spanish maestro had enough time to sift through his love letters from Barcelona's owners before rolling the ball into the net but instead chose to hastily pull the trigger and shanked his shot wide left. Then in the 85th minute, it was Nicolas Bendtner's turn to transform himself from little-used sub to Arsenal legend when Fabregas' shot rebounded off the post to the young Dane's feet. Smashing the ball into Row H at Anfield, I'm afraid, won't qualify him for a bronze statue.

Fortunately, only minutes before, there had been that moment of genius from Hleb who with a Bergkampesque flick of the ankle released Fabregas for his cooly taken goal that meant Arsenal was going into its showdown with ManU with the swagger of a team that had overcome its first real challenge of the season even as it saw its 12 game winning streak come to an end. Of course, next Saturday figures to be the ultimate test now that Tevez and Rooney are evolving into a scary-ass strike partnership — witness their three goals against Man City including Rooney's sick backheel assist — and Ronaldo and Nani are wreaking havoc on the flanks. But the young Gunners know no fear.

"We're playing football from a different planet," says Robin Van Persie. As long as it isn't Planet Hollywood, that's good enough for me.

"He's denying it. But even if it was true, he's going to deny it. They're all at it, but when they're caught they deny it. He's going to be in trouble, though, because his wife is here and she's very nice. She's very sensitive."

OK, now that's amazing. That's some good agenting! This is absolutely how Scott Boras should have handled the "she-male muscular type" story.

Infidelity Files: Claude Makelele [Kickette]

Remember the good old days when you could enter a men's room and not have to worry about some closeted Senator in the next stall subtly caressing your foot or, in my case, a drunken git accosting me on Saturday morning at Kinsale Tavern? First off, what kind of pervert takes a leak next to you when there are two free urinals on either end, especially since I have such a well-known wide stance?

Of course, I should have known it would be a big, fat Chelsea fan; not just any big, fat Chelsea fan, but a hammered-out-of-his-skull big, fat Chelsea fan. Even so, I never imagined that he would taunt me while I was busy draining the dragon. "Hey, aren't you the guy from Deadspin who's always shitting on Chelsea?" he bellowed in my ear as I attempted to empty my tanks of the two beers I had enjoyed by 9 a.m.

For a brief moment, I thought about unleashing a Ben Thatcher-like, cheekbone-shattering elbow to his head, but I couldn't afford my second yellow card in the men's room. Then I considered saying "sorry, you're confusing me with Will Leitch" but that would never fly because everyone knows Leitch couldn't tell Avram Grant from Ulysses. Finally, I decided to take pity on the poor bastard.

"I know you've had a rough week, mate," I said with the noblesse oblige of a man whose team is undefeated and atop the league, "but it's early days and I'm sure you'll be in the hunt at the end."

Yes, the evil Russian cabal of Ambramovich, Shevchenko and Terryski may have thrown my man Mourinho under the Chelsea bus, but there are disquieting signs that neither the Special One nor the team he built in his humble image are terminal, despite what Didier Drogba says. The Ivorian famously claimed early in the week that "something is broken with Chelsea" and vowed to leave Stamford Bridge as soon as humanly possible. This did not sit well with the Blues faithful (the "kill me now" email from Unsilent Majority was, for once, not about the Redskins) who were already reeling from the news that their Premiership and European dreams were now in the hands of an underqualified schmoozer from Israel I like to think of as the Special Needs One.

Reading the tea leaves as well as the get out clause in his contract, Drogba had a change of heart two days later, pledging his loyalty to the team — at least until the end of the season. Then, as if to prove he wasn't just some opportunistic mercenary, he scored seven minutes into Chelsea's 2-0 victory over Middlesborough that vaulted the Blues into ... seventh in the table.

To be fair, something I rarely am toward Chelsea, they are only a point behind fourth place Liverpool, which got an early Christmas gift from the referee in their Merseyside derby with Everton when he somehow missed Carragher's impressive over-the-shoulder judo-throw of Lescott in the box during the dying moments of the Reds' 2-1 win.

If Chelsea is missing the intensity and ruthlessness that defined their play under Mourinho, it is of little concern to the Portuguese maestro. He is too busy focusing on his own comeback as both swordsman and savior. First, the tabloids revealed that he lived with a Pussy Galore-like blonde behind his wife's back for two years and that she thought he looked like James Bond (sure, and I look like Ron Jeremy). They also apparently liked to shake and stir to the musical stylings of Sting and Bryan Adams, but not at the same time.

But all that was forgotten after England went to Russia and did about as well there on the slick astroturf as Napoleon did on the frozen tundra. Losing 2-1 to the Russkies may have made Abramovich's heart soar, but it meant that England was just about out of the European championships and Steve McClaren was just about out of a job as their manager. Who better to ride to the rescue than The Special One, who certainly knows the English game as well as anyone and could probably use the $5 million salary to defray his divorce costs?

And who would be the cornerstone of this new English juggernaut that Mourinho would build out of the ashes of the Moscow debacle? Why, the very man who McClaren thought wasn't good enough to start against Russia and who was booed mercilessly by English fans when he came on as a substitute? Yes, Frank Lampard, who unlike Shevchenko and Terry, still bent over for Mourinho in the dark days before his exit. Wouldn't it be a fun twist in the tail, so to speak, if Lampard took over the captain's armband from Terry, who along with England and Chelsea defender Ashley Cole is said to be recovering nicely from his month-long injury.

It's all encouraging news for my hopeful new friend at the Kinsale urinal, but for now, I'm afraid, Chelsea is simply piss poor.

So that was one auspicious coaching debut by Roman Abramovich yesterday, huh? What's that? Avram Grant is Chelsea's new manager, not the modelizing meglomaniacal billionaire who owns the team and pulls the strings like Russia's own Jerry Joneski?

Seriously, does anyone really think that Grant decided on his own to start Sheva, Makelele and Ferreira, a troika that my beloved Jose Mourinho (remember him?) held in such high esteem that he selected them in only one of Chelsea's first six Prem games? Or that when a spectacularly boneheaded call reduced the Blues to 10 men after 31 minutes, the Israeli didn't look like a gefilte fish out of water as he came bounding down to the touchline and did, as I believe they say, in West London, bubkes, not even uttering so much as a "you shmuck" to Mike Dean, the clown who issued the red card.

I think we all know how Mourinho would have handled that situation. First he would have called Dean a filho da puta (son of a whore) and then garroted him with his cashmere scarf to within an inch of his life before someone like, say, John Terry would pull him off the now soiled-pantsed whistle blower. Ah, those were the days, comrades, when Chelsea was feared by opponents and referees alike. It's safe to say that if Mourinho had been prowling the touchline, Dean would have thought long and hard about awarding a SECOND egregious penalty to United as he did in the 89th minute when Saha went down faster than one of those $600 an hour "escorts" at Ronaldo's recent all-night spankathon.

Not to get all misty-eyed about the Special One, who, despite his formidable managerial skills, remains a smug, narcissistic dick. But, at least he was nobody's lap-dog. How long after Mikel was sent off and Chelsea was forced to play a man down do you think he would have waited to yank Sheva who looked like he couldn't finish a shot of Stoli, let alone a half decent chance? Certainly not until the 58th minute, which is when Grant finally put the Ukranian striker out of his misery, no doubt after the chip implanted in his brain relayed Abramovich's permission to do so.

This is not to say that Chelsea would have won without Dean's staggering ineptitude — United outshot Chelsea 17 to 4 and got a brilliant goal from Tevez off a perfectly bent cross from Giggs, albeit in the THIRD minute of two minutes of first half stoppage time — but that without Mourinho 's commanding presence they looked clueless, toothless and ultimately, perhaps even Champions League-less.

And yet, after the surreal week they endured, could you really blame them for their zombie-like performance? Well, if you're Mourinho, I suppose you could blame your once huggable captain Judas Terry who, according to reports, was so angered by Mourinho questioning his recent drop in form that he told Chelsea's board the manager had lost had the locker room in the wake of the team's midweek draw with Norway's MLS-caliber powerhouse Rosenborg. Abramovich, who had an uneasy relationship at best with Mourinho , decided — by "mutual consent", of course — that it was time for the Special One to take his excellence elsewhere and installed Grant, or as I now call him, the Special Needs One. But if there was any doubt as to who was coaching the team, it was dispelled right after the Rosenborg embarrassment when the oligarch was seen, clipboard in hand, giving Essian a chalk talk through his private translator Sheva. So that's why he paid Milan $30 million for the Ukranian striker. Hell, I would have learned Russian and done the job for $20 million.

It's almost enough to make me feel sorry for Chelsea. In case you haven't noticed, I tend to give the benefit of the doubt to my people (I even defend Rex Grossman, and he isn't even Jewish ). Abramovich and Grant are both MOTT. They even observed Yom Kippur by taking the day off from work Saturday, which is more than you can say for Benny "The Yid" Feilhaber, who came on for Derby in their 5-0 thrashing by league-leading Arsenal (you knew I'd find a way to get it in). Shame on you, Benny. The fact that Fabregas sidestepped you to create enough space for his 70th minute thunderbolt is karmic payback for dissing Yahweh, or at least Sandy Koufax.

However much Ambramovich and Grant atoned, it clearly wasn't enough. They have made the once bad-ass Chelsea look as pathetic as Amy Winehouse's teeth. How comical to watch Terry try to snatch the red card out of Dean's hand when he sent off Mikel for a clumsy studs up tackle on Evra that reminded me of when I cleaned out a player from the New Yorker and she refused to shake my hand afterwards. Never mind that the foul merited no more than a yellow card — Joe Cole scything down Ronaldo from behind was far worse and earned only a caution — Chelsea can no longer complain how referees are out to undermine them. Judging from yesterday's debacle, they hardly need any help.

And finally, all of you who have been begging me to cover the Gay World Cup which kicked off this weekend in Argentina, I'm sorry to say that Leitch has decided I'm not the man for the job. Apparently, when he visited Buenos Aires last year, he found a "blogger" in the next stall of the men's room at the local airport. Evidently, the guy has "a soft touch for a big man," whatever that means.

It must've been a rough morning for our pal David Hirshey. Not only did Chelsea get a 1-0 win when Didier Drogba scored in extra time, but it came at the end of a game that's been described as "rubbish football" and "cack."

I can't verify that this is true ... I wasn't willing to part with the $24.99 to watch it on pay-per-view, which is just as well. Even if Chelsea had won at the end of a game that was the complete opposite of cack, I wouldn't have felt like that was money well-spent. There was plenty of other cack on television for free this morning.

And in case you missed, here's the one cack-free moment from the game.

Chelsea 1-0 Manchester United [alastair's heart monitor]
Chelsea 1 - 0 Manchester United [Stubblog]

Only seconds after Chelsea's Premiership casket had been lowered into the ground at Emirates Stadium, Jose Mourinho and his two most loyal soldiers, Frank Lampard and John Terry, hugged it out on the touchline in the kind of tearful embrace not seen since David Hasselhoff and his daughter went on Dr. Phil. It was difficult not to be moved by these three manly men, all paragons of humility and grace in their own right, blubbering like babies.

But I'm happy to report that I managed.

And it turns out that I wasn't the only one. In fact, Arsenal may have to resod their state of the art field because of all the people dancing on Chelsea's grave.

Repeat after me: Chelsea are dead. Chelsea are dead. Chelsea are dead. I can't say it enough times. That it was Arsenal who finally spaded them under and gift-wrapped the title to ManU is just one of life's delicious ironies. As is the fact that in those final frantic minutes when he made two world-class saves on Lampard and Kalou, I found myself chanting — please forgive me, Dad — "Lehmann Uber Alles!" And how fitting that the man who would condemn the defending champions to their place in Also-Ran Hell would be the same man who Mourinho had called a "filho da puta" (son of a whore) during a match earlier in the season.

(more after the jump)

Yes, it was referee Mike Riley who called the fateful penalty yesterday and ejected Khalid Boulahrouz when the oafish Chelsea defender bundled over Gilberto Silva in the box. Perhaps that explains why Mourinho didn't even leave his seat when Riley pointed to the spot, opting to let Terry and assistant coach Steve Clarke throw the requisite hissy fit over the latest example of the Premiership's conspiracy against Chelsea. Or maybe the Deluded One had finally accepted that the league was lost and decided that his only chance to salvage the season was to husband his resources for the upcoming FA Cup final against United. How else to justify leaving out Drogba, Ashley Cole and Ricardo Carvalho and starting Boulahrouz, the central defender who Mourinho only plays when the kit boy is unavailable to suit up?

To be fair — something I've never been toward Chelsea — injuries have decimated the relentless, ruthless juggernaut that dominated English football for the past two years. But so have some strange signings that only the KGB could unravel. Boulahrouz, for instance, cost $15 million and has appeared in only four Prem games. The official reason for his inactivity was a "knee ligament problem," but it didn't help that whenever he played, the Dutchman looked as wooden as his shoes. And then there's Shevchenko and Ballack, who together cost more than the entire Wigan payroll and have been as effective as, say, Emile Heskey. Neither of the overpaid mercenaries was available yesterday due to injuries to their ankle and thigh, respectively. But Mourinho hinted afterwards that their real problem might best be diagnosed as a shriveled ball sack. "This was a game for people who want to succeed in this Chelsea," he said, implying that Ballack and Sheva should be careful not to let the door hit them in the ass on their way out.

Chelsea's sheen of invincibility, of course, had disappeared long ago, as evidenced by their flaccid performance over two legs against Liverpool in the Champion's League semifinals. But yesterday, led by the indomitable Michael Essian, they showed a fighting spirit in the last 20 minutes that made Mayweather-De La Hoya look like a stroll on the beach. When Wright-Phillips drilled a low cross in from the right flank and Essian came out of nowhere to dive headfirst just beyond Gallas' high boot and glance the ball across the face of the goal into the far corner, I thought of the movie Carrie, when, just when you were sure she was dead, a fist comes crashing through the floor. I am not about to regret that their gallant comeback fell short, but I can understand why Lampard and Terry buried their heads in Mourinho's shoulder afterwards.

And if you could read Mourinho's lips, you'd also know the words he used to comfort them: "Chins up, boys, next season we'll be at Real Madrid and rid of all these filho da puta."

I like the idea of awarding the title to the team that proves themselves the best through the entire season, but ... that's just about the perfect recipe for anticlimactic finish. Chelsea vs. Arsenal was a nice game, sure, but that's no way to cap a season. Now Wednesday's United vs. Chelsea clash has all the intrigue of the Pro Bowl.

So, this brings to an end Chelsea's expensive two-year reign as Premiership champions, and puts the title back in the hands of ... well, another team in the elite tax bracket. The two teams do play on the 19th with the FA Cup in the balance, so there's that to look forward to.

Chelsea draw Arsenal to hand title to United [Reuters.uk]

• Chelsea 3-0 Sheffield United. Chelsea managed to keep pace, though, with a dominating win of their own over lowly Sheffield. Andriy Shevchenko managed to earn a little bit of his paycheck this week, scoring the opening goal and assisting on another. They remain six points back of United, with eight games remaining for each.

• Middlesbrough 0-2 Manchester City. Congratulations are in order for City, who, for once in this miserable season, managed to come out and not suck giant balls. Maybe they should play every week as if Stuart Pearce's job was on the line, they were just six points clear of the relegation zone, and the opposing side was resting their best players.

• Manchester City 0-1 Wigan. City, meanwhile, continues to embarrass themselves every time they take the pitch. They haven't won a Premiership game since New Years Day, and apparently didn't feel motivated to do so today. They looked hungover today. Wigan moves ahead of them in the standings, and City's very much a candidate for relegation. They're fourth from the bottom, just six points clear of Charlton for the last spot.

• Arsenal 2-1 Reading. The good news for Arsenal is that they're just one point back of Liverpool in the standings now, with two games in hand. It's not a bad consolation after losing in the Carling Cup final, and then getting beaten in the FA Cup. Gilverto Silva (on a penalty) and Julio Baptista were your scorers.

• Portsmouth 0-1 Chelsea. There are still ten minutes or so left to play, but Chelsea leads on a 12-yard first-half strike from Didier Drogba.

It was a truly sickening moment, the kind that makes you avert your eyes from the screen and wish New York State laws didn't prohibit serving beer til noon on Sunday so you could at least cauterize the pain with alcohol.

I'm referring, of course, to the moment, during yesterday's Chelsea and Arsenal smackdown, when Cesc Fabregas was hit in the head by a flying wedge of celery. If you've never been beaned by a crisp stalk , I can tell you from experience — I was once on the losing end of an epic fraternity food fight — that it smarts. Maybe not as much as getting smashed in the face by the full force of Abou Diaby's boot, as John Terry learned yesterday, but enough to throw the young Spaniard off his rhythm — witness his weak-ass corner kick — and signal the end of Arsenal's dominance.

Now we know that in addition to being self-satisfied tarts, Chelsea fans are also a bunch of perverted vegans who rely on celery for their sexual potency . Or, as they so cleverly serenaded Fabregas while pelting him with leafy missiles in the 45th minute:

Celery, Celery,
If she don't come,
I'll tickle her bum,
With a lump of celery.

(more after the jump)

Up to that point, Chelsea's big, brutish first teamers had looked dazed and confused as Arsenal's fetuses (average age of midfield: 18) blew by them in a blur of one-touch passing and lightening movement off the ball. Who needed Henry, Rosicky and Gallas when you had Walcott, Diaby and Denilson playing with the nerveless insouciance of a pub team on a Sunday morning kickabout?

Walcott, in particular, seemed hellbent on using the Carling Cup stage to prove that he is not Aaron Lennon Lite. The most hyped teenager in English football has struggled to live up to the massive expectations of his inclusion in the World Cup squad, but yesterday, at least for the first half, he looked every bit the potential star Wenger promises he will be. Whooshing down the right flank, he ran onto a clever thru ball from Diaby and cooly placed it under the onrushing Cech to give Arsenal a 1-0 lead in the 11th minute. At that moment, it was entirely possible that Wenger had replaced Mourinho as the smuggest man on the planet. Hey, Jose, shove that up your Armani coat, s'il vous plait.

Oh, how easy it was to fantasize then — especially if you were in a Vicodin-induced fog like I was from recent knee surgery — that the baby Gunners, with Fabregas and Diaby bossing Lampard and Ballack in midfield and Terry laboring to keep up with Walcott and Alidiere, would be lifting the first of many trophies in their inexorable march to world domination. The problem was, Arsenal, for all their pace and skill, had no one to cope with Drogba.

Forget Christiano Ronaldo; there is no better player in the EPL this season than the Ivorian hit man, and once he got a half-step on his marker, the hulking Swiss defender Senderos, you knew he would equalize. It was his 27th goal in all competitions, and Chelsea would be Bolton without him. Realizing Arsenal's kiddie corps was not about to genuflect in front of all his glamorous millionaires even with the game deadlocked at 1-1, Mourinho brought on Robben after the break. It is one of the great mysteries of the soccer universe that the Special One persists in leaving the souped up Dutch attacker out of his starting lineup because the Blues roar to life whenever he's marauding down the flank. All of a sudden, the young Gunners were chasing the game and flailing around in defense. That led to the horrific sight of Diaby, trying desperately to clear a corner, accidentally mistaking Terry's face for the ball, as Captain Courageous stooped to head goalward.

I have never been in a bar in which you could hear a Irish sausage drop but that's how eerily silent it was at Kinsale when Terry was stretchered off unconscious in a neck brace and oxygen tent. The boisterous, packed crowd was equally divided between Chelsea and Arsenal fans, but in this scary moment, everyone froze, chastened by the memory of Cech's skull fracture earlier this season. It was only when it was announced that the Lazerus-like Terry had regained consciousness on the way to the ambulance that I thought "Wait a minute, isn't this the same John Terry who on Thursday had suffered an ankle injury that was going to keep him out for six weeks and here he is playing three DAYS later? Who's to say he won't be back for the last twenty minutes?"

Not that Chelsea needed him. They had Drogba, and in the 85th minute, he sent Chelsea into the lead and Senderos into therapy by outjumping the hapless defender to glance in Robben's perfectly weighted cross. Rattled first by the flying vegetables, then traumatized by thinking they had caused a grave injury to a great player, the young Gunners finally acted their age in the frantic closing minutes and lost both their cool and the game. The 14-player brawl in stoppage time, reminiscent of the Knicks-Nuggets melee, was simply a reflection of their frustration, and though it was Toure and Adebayour who were sent off, it was Fabregas who played the Nate Robinson role and had to be hauled away in a half-nelson to keep from going after Lampard.

Standing toe-to-toe with the England midfielder who he had undressed for much of the game, you could almost read his lips: "You won the game, you fat shit, but the future is ours"

• Liverpool 2-0 Chelsea. If Manchester United can find a way to beat Arsenal tomorrow, they'll be a full nine points clear of Chelsea in the league standings... because Chelsea got their ass whooped today. Still troubled by some defensive injuries (heartbreaking, isn't it?), Chelsea went with Michael Essien and Paulo Ferreira as their center backs. That didn't work so well. Liverpool scored twice in the first 18 minutes.

• Reading 3-1 Sheffield United. Sheffield substitute Keith Gillespie enjoyed his ten seconds of playing time today. He subbed into the game, hit a fellow named Stephen Hunt with a forearm to the face, and then was thrown out. Not a bad day's work. Both coaches were thrown out in the ensuing argument, too. The above picture is of Sheffield United coach Neil Warnock, who is either reacting angrily to something, or engaged in a fight with Kevin Garnett.

Premiership Scoreboard

Due to a set of circumstances — hangover, work, hangover, no Direct TV at family gathering, hangover — I was unable to watch the big ManU and Chelsea games and can hold forth on nothing today. Should you choose to inform my readers not to plan their life around my post today, you have my permission to say something like: "Our Deadspin soccer columnist David Hirshey is in DC petitioning the U.S. government to deport Juergen Klinsmann for turning down the U.S. national team job. He will resume his Closer responsibilities on Dec. 27 with a report on all the action from Boxing Day, which has nothing to do with Vladimir Klitchko."

In case you were wondering, by the way, Chelsea had a huge win, and some even think the Blues are the favorites again. We have no analysis here.

Are Chelsea Now In Control Of Title Race? [TimesOnline]

I love how goalie Tim Howard just stands there, helpless, thinking to himself, "Well, if you're going to do that, I'm just screwed, aren't I?" I don't know why he was so surprised, though, it's not the first time Matt Taylor has done such a thing.

Also today, Chelsea salvaged a tie with Arsenal this morning, getting a 35-yard bomb from Michael Essien in the 84th minute. Chelsea's got a game in hand, but trails Manchester United by 8 points.

Matt Taylor - Holy fuck.... [Sports Frog]

• Chelsea 1-0 West Ham. Geremi scored from a free-kick 20 yards away for the only goal of this game; a goal that the Soccernet report describes as "delicious." I thought it was OK, but it lacked texture. The win for Chelsea keeps them just three points back of Manchester United at the top of the table.

• Arsenal 1-1 Newcastle. Hey, congratulations on that big tie, Newcastle. That pulls them just barely out of the relegation zone... at least for now. They're tied with Sheffield at 10 points, with Watford and Charlton below them with 9 and 8, respectively. Arsenal's still trying to get themselves back into the league race, but 9 points back of Chelsea and 12 back of Manchester United, these draws at home aren't going to do the trick.

English Premiership Scoreboard

Hey! We're Americans! What's a bung, buggers?

Well, it turns out that a bung is a "payment made outside agreed terms, less like a bribe and more like a tip. A bung might be paid to a manager bringing in a player, or letting one go." GOT IT. And apparently it kind of sort of is rocking Euro soccer after the BBC's report last evening. How earthshattering is it? Well, the report says there's a "Bung Culture," which typically involves a petri dish.

Sorry, sorry: We can't get past this "bung" thing. But we're gonna try anyway. The only real issue, according to Soccernista, is the possibility of Chelsea being docked points for recruiting players who are too young, or something, we're not sure, that sentence had "bung" in it too.

Bungs [Soccernista]

• Arsenal 1-1 Middlesbrough. Did Arsenal hire Isiah Thomas at some point in the off-season? They continue their run towards the lower middle of the table, getting a draw with Middlesbrough today. The Gunners trailed for the entire game, some of it even when Middlesbrough was playing with 10 men, and they need a Thierry Henry penalty kick to save a tie for them. It is now officially Arsenal's worst start to a Premiership season.

• Chelsea 2-1 Charlton. And speaking of worst-ever starts to Premiership seasons... Hello, Charlton. Chelsea pushed them around the field in a 2-1 victory that wasn't as close as the score would indicate. It was Ashley Cole's debut, as he started his Chelsea career as a sub. Drogba and Carvalho were your goal scorers, and Frankie Lampard missed a penalty kick in the 84th minute.

• As Mike Cardillo at That's On Point noted, it was a nice day for Americans in the English Premier League. Brian McBride and Carlos Bocanegra scored clutch goals for Fulham in their win over Newcastle. And goalkeeper Brad Friedel stopped not one, but two, penalty kicks for Blackburn against Sheffield. If this keeps up, I'll be really really excited right before we get our asses kicked in the World Cup.

Elsewhere...

Bolton 1-0 Watford
Newcastle 1-2 Fulham
Portsmouth 1-0 Wigan
Sheffield United 0-0 Blackburn
Manchester United 1-0 Tottenham

Chelsea has accused him of:

• Refusing to play in their Premiership opener against Manchester City.
• Refusing to play in last season's FA Cup semifinal against Liverpool.
• Demanding 100,000 a week as he was determined to become one of the biggest earners at the club.
• Going AWOL and missing Chelsea's pre-season tour of America.
• Having an illegal meeting with Italian club AC Milan.
• Missing a team meeting and being late to practice, angering head coach Bill Parcels.

Sorry, one of those may have been Terrell Owens.

Sell Me Or I'll Score An Own Goal [Daily Mirror]

• Chelsea 3-0 Manchester City. I'm not even sure that City was on the field today. This was a Globetrotters vs. Generals type of situation, with Chelsea doing whatever they wanted. John Terry scored, Frank Lampard scored, Didier Drogba scored, and Shaun Wright-Phillips added insult to injury when he pantsed Joey Barton and then hit him with a bucket of confetti. City was deadful.

• Wayne Rooney's mad a the FA. Little Wayne was handed a three-game suspension by England's Football Association for a red card that he picked up in a preseason friendly, and he told them today that if they don't overturn it, he won't be participating in any promotional work or personal appearances, nor can they use his likeness in any promotional materials. Pretty ballsy move by Rooney, and probably not something that could be pulled off by any other player in England. The FA's now either got to cave in completely, or risk alienating a player that can't do without.

• Chelsea and Liverpool go head-to-head in the Community Shield tomorrow. The coaches have already started needling each other. Liverpool manager Rafael Benitez had this quote: "They spend more than everybody else every summer, but when we put a side on the pitch against them they know we will match them." And Chelsea boss Jose Maurinho fired back with: "They will feel that they are in much better condition than Chelsea, so they have to win the game. If they lose against a Chelsea side at just 50% of their quality, that could affect their confidence ahead of the Premiership season."

• Manchester City's been so ravaged by injuries that manager Stuart Pearce had to name himself as a replacement player for a game against Japanese team Kashima Antlers last week. He probably should have stuck himself in the starting line-up, as City lost 4-3. The Blues also made a couple of minor transfer moves this week, picking up Swedish goalie Andreas Isaksson, and letting goalie David James walk to Portsmouth.

• It's not really Premiership-related, but it's worth noting that David Beckham's been unceremoniously dropped completely for England's national team. England plays Greece in a friendly on Wednesday, and Beckham won't be there. He's taking it pretty well, all things considered. "I'm proud to have played for England for 10 years and my passion for representing my country remains as strong as ever," he said. It seems like a little bit of scapegoating to me. No one had a great World Cup for England, but Beckham's the oft-criticized, high-profile guy, so the new coach makes his bold new statement by going after Beckham. Weak.

"It's huge. The whole world is watching this game. A lot of people had doubts, probably thought we were going to get spanked. I think we opened a lot of eyes and showed what kind of soccer we have in America."

And for an alternate take on the situation, Chelsea manager Jose Mourinho:

"Without legs, it's very difficult to play football. My players were without legs. For me this was a training session against other players. And no more than that."

Oh.

Well, thanks a lot, you dirty parade-raining son of a bitch. Couldn't even let us have our moment? We can't get a "Congratulations, you played well" out of you? Is that asking too much? Just humor us. I don't think that's asking too much. All I really want is to get a harrumph out of that guy.

To give you an idea of how much this means in a global sense, news of the game, as of late last night, did not appear anywhere on the ESPN Soccernet home page, or on the homepage of football365.com. Mike Cardillo of That's On Point gives it similar treatment. Visit MLSnet.com, however, and you see the above picture, as well as tales of our great accomplishment.

MLS 1, Chelsea 0 [The Sports Frog]
Yippee! [That's On Point]
De Rosario stuns Chelsea's high-priced lineup [Soccernet]

• Arsenal defender Sol Campbell is leaving The Premiership as well. He dismissed talk about a possible retirement, and says he just wants a new challenge elsewhere. And it's probably good for him. He spent most of last season playing defense Antoine Walker, and it culminated with him storming out of the stadium after being subbed out at halftime during a loss to West Ham.

• Damien Duff is officially on his way from Chelsea to Newcastle. Duff was a valuable member of the last two Chelsea championship teams, but he might not have been a starter this year, since Chelsea keeps buying players and turning their roster into the world all-star team. Tottenham Hotspur originally wanted Duff, but their $7 million bid wasn't enough. Newcastle coughed up $10 mil. Sorry, Bill Simmons.

Bayern make Van Nistelrooy claim [BBC Sport]
Campbell sets sights on continent [TeamTalk.com]
Duff finally completes Newcastle move [Soccernet]

Chelsea agrees with Kalou. It's not a done deal yet, but Chelsea's expected to sign Salomon Kalou to a four- or five-year deal this week. He was formerly with the Dutch team, Feyenrood, but wanted to move on to bigger and better things. I don't know how it gets any better than being a professional athlete anywhere in the vicinity of Amsterdam, but hey, whatever makes him happy.

Swansea 2-2 Barnsley. Barnsley won in the shootout, getting them back into England's Championship League, the one just a notch below the Premiership. Barnsley, evidently, goes by the nickname of the "Tykes," which is decidedly unintimidating. Hopefully, next year, they can get into the bigger league and beat the hell out of the Toddlers.

• Everton 0-1 Tottenham. Robbie Keane scores on a penalty kick for Tottenham, keeping them in 4th place and on track for a spot in year's Champions League. Everton, meanwhile... well, they're just kinda... there.

• Arsenal 3-1 West Brom. It's quite the holiday weekend... not only is tomorrow Easter, but today was Dennis Bergkamp Day, though I did not receive a chocolate Dennis Bergkamp in a little basket with gake green grass. The retiring Bergkamp responded by scoring a sweet goal, keeping Arsenal four points back of Tottenham for that Champions League spot, with just four league games left for each side to play.

• Leeds 1-1 Reading, Sheffield United promoted to the Premiership next year. The Sheffs (I don't know if anyone calls them that, I just made it up. Actually, I think they're called the 'Blades,' but the 'Sheffs' just sounds better to me. Either that, or the fighting Garys) haven't been in the big league for 12 years.

• Arsenal 1-1 Bolton. Gilberto scores in the 90th minute (that's the last one, kinda) to salvage a tie for Arsenal. Bolton really should reconsider playing, "I Said I Loved You, But I Lied," at all of their home games.

• Fulham 6-1 West Brom. You aren't going to win a lot of soccer games when you give up six goals. That is my Steve Lavin-esque analysis of this game.

• Portsmouth 1-3 Manchester United. With the win, Man United pulls to within 12 points of Chelsea, which means they no longer need a huge miracle to comeback and win, just a really big one.

On the other hand, Adu is just this morning quoted in The Washington Post saying he's devoting himself to DC United to ensure his place on the U.S. World Cup team. We're not sure what the right story is, but in a pinch, we'll trust the European press in matters of soccer.

If Adu does come to Chelsea, the MLS will have secured the youngest, least productive years of Adu's presumably long, distinguished career. Adu had no real memorable MLS moments and his time with DC United will surely be forgotten in five years, if not sooner. The MLS helped him develop (kind of), and then released him to the "real leagues." That's right: The MLS is the Montreal Expos of world soccer.

Much Adu About Chelsea [Times Online]
Hopes Hinge On United [Washington Post]

(UPDATE: An opinion on UK newspapers, from Essays From 116th Street:

"Just to let you know, the UK press has been reporting these kinds of rumors about Freddy Adu for close to two years now ... Because of the unique single-entity structure of MLS, Chelsea would have to negotiate for Freddy's rights directly with the league, not Freddy himself or even DC United. The UK press is incredibly ignorant of the U.S. soccer scene, I would be much more likely to trust Grant Wahl at Sports Illustrated before I would trust the Times in the UK on this kind of thing...")

(SECOND UPDATE: The MLS reads blogs, apparently; we just got an email from Dan Courtemanche, the MLS' Senior VP for Marketing and Communications, responding to this item. The full text is after the jump.)

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-
"Freddy Adu is a member of D.C. United and we expect him to remain so through the 2007 season," said United President and CEO Kevin Payne. "Neither we nor the League has had any conversations with any club about a transfer of Freddy. Freddy knows the task before him this year is to continue to improve and become a game in, game out contributor to the success of D.C. United. We have great faith in his qualities, and we remain convinced that in time he will realize his potential and become a terrific player by any standard."

Whichever way you cut it, it's just so British: Two members of the elite duking it out for the attentions of a woman in an exclusive London club. Or, an overpaid football lout getting the shit kicked out of him over a girl who flashes her tits in the tabloids.

I love this bit: "Keeley's sister Roxanna said: 'Our parents won't be pleased when they hear what happened.'"

She poses nude, regularly, for a tabloid newspaper, and her parents are going to be angry that a footballer got in a fight over her. Family values!

Cole Covered In Blood, Flees [The Sun] (Link NSFW)

The long running feud between Chelsea and Arsenal managers Jose Mourinho and Arsene Wenger has dropped from childishness into farce with the revelation that Mourinho didn't shake Wenger's hand after the match between the two sides on Sunday because Arsenal and Wenger did not acknowledge his Christmas card.

Earlier in the year Wenger and Mourinho had a big public spat. Mourinho said, "I think he is one of these people who is a voyeur. He likes to watch other people. There are some guys who, when they are at home, have a big telescope to see what happens in other families. He speaks, speaks, speaks about Chelsea." Wenger was furious and threatened to sue; Mourinho said in return he had a 120-page dossier of news reports to back up his claims (which, as many pointed out, makes him a voyeur of sorts, too).

Wenger decided against legal action, the row diffused, but the bad feeling lingered on. Mourinho, for his part, decided to apologize for the "voyeur" comment in a Christmas card, and then learned that a member of the Arsenal staff checked to see if he had actually written it. "It is believed" he tried to shake Wenger's hand before the match, but was snubbed, and that's why he just walked off at the end.

The media's the winner in all this: They get to say, "Grow up!" while secretly loving the easy story inches they're getting. Now I've bothered to type it all out I realize exactly how petty it is. The voyeur stuff was pretty good for a while; Mourinho has been a breath of fresh air when it comes to post-match comments (he once denounced the opposition thus: "They did not come to play football. We have a saying in my home country of Portugal — the team brought the bus and parked it in front of the goal. That's what happened today."). But this is all so ... tawdry. I mean, handshakes? Christmas fucking cards? Come on.

Humbug [UK Mirror]