First off, are you aware that there were a record 2.5 Jews playing for the US (Benny The Yid Feilhaber, Jonathan Spector and half of Jonathan Bornstein)? That in itself would have made yesterday's match historic. But there were so many other reasons to cherish the game.

For one thing, it was one of those rare finals of a major soccer tournament in which both teams came to play. Too often, high stakes mean tight sphincters, and the result is a dour and defensive struggle that can be coma-inducing to the casual fan. But yesterday's game was end-to-end stuff, much of it electrifying. How about that lightning counterattack that led to the US's second goal? That was right out of Brazil's Jogo Bonito playbook. In fact, it was almost a carbon copy of the devastating breakaway Brazil scored against the US in their first matchup — but Donovan's cool finish was even better than Robinho's.

I've never been part of the Landycakes, cult but he made a believer out of me in this tournament. He's always been our most technically skilled player, but it was his work rate that blew me away. He never stopped digging for balls and running at defenders.

That is not to say he's on the same level as Kaka and Robinho, who spread doom and gloom where ever they go on the field. American soccer is simply not built to produce players of that pedigree. These are guys who grew up with the ball Velcroed to their foot from the time they could walk. They played on the sandlots of Brazil where they honed their jaw-dropping moves; most of the American players who are products of college soccer, where the emphasis is on athleticism and physicality.

But after upsetting Spain and leading Brazil for 73 minutes, the gulf in class is closing. The danger, however, is to think that it will disappear any time soon.

Still: I'm actually somewhat relieved that we didn't win. Had we beaten mighty Brazil, can you imagine how hysterical the media would have been, given that, according to the Times, we'd already pulled off The Miracle on Grass against Spain? The last thing the US needs is for people to start predicting we're going to win the next World Cup or even make it to the semis. We've always benefited from the fact that the elite teams don't take us seriously so we can sneak up on them, but once you beat Brazil in a final, even if it's only the Confederations Cup, you lose that element of surprise.

You have a target on your backs that screams "Brazil-killers." I think we can do without that for the time being.

It was only a matter of time before the Special One descended from the lofty peaks of soccer's Olympus to once again strut and preen among us. He had been waiting eight months for his suitors to fall to their knees, genuflect before his genius, and tip over wheelbarrows full of gold.

Oh, how I loathe that insufferable fuck and all that he embodies —the scowling arrogance, the smug posturing, the checkbook (always someone else's) in place of a heart. And yet you've got to hand it to the guy. When he saw the chance to cash in on his specialness, he knew exactly where to point his soft leather loafers — in the direction of Inter Milan and their $14 million a year bounty. (Damn, I thought, that's almost Rick Reilly money!) Then, in a brilliant PR stroke, he told the Italian media that he no longer wanted to be known as The Special One. "I am Mourinho," he insisted. "That's all."

But enough about him. In the two years that I've been The Closer, I've been called " an asshole," "gay," "clueless," "gay," "gay wanker," "gay Arsenal wanker" and, of course, "Jewish." I may be one of those things but I'm not stupid.

******

So I called up Leitch and said "Hey, I've been The Closer now for two years and while paying me in all the beer I can drink on Saturday and Sunday mornings is not insignificant, it hardly covers the cost of those tranny hookers that Ronaldo (the Brazilian version) introduced me to."

"Who is this?" he asked, "Daulerio, I told you I'm not going to support your hooker habit anymore. Drew's is nearly bankrupting me."

When he finally guessed who it was, I informed him that in addition to wanting to be paid "in the high two figures," I also wanted to be known as The Special One, now that the sobriquet was available. Summoning that zen mojo he worked so successfully on Old Man Bissinger, Leitch pondered my demands for almost a full 10 seconds and then wished me luck in the cruel, cruel world outside the blogosphere. Besides, he explained, he already had to call Nick Denton “The Special One,” and that they only shell out those kind of bucks for "sports that people actually care about."

So it is with a heavy heart and a transplanted liver that I must now bid you all farewell. After nearly 100 posts (only 90 of which were about Arsenal) and at least 1,700 hangovers, I 'm retiring my Deadspin cleats. It's been a magical couple of years (for all of you), even if the Gooners won fuck-all and I woke up every Monday feeling as if someone had performed a frontal lobotomy on me.

Needless to say, I couldn't have done it without the wrecking crew at Kinsale — Mid Table Mikey, Dublin Dave, Raj, Lingering Bursitis, Mr. Angry, Bigus Dickus, Autoglass, Czech Babe and of course Pauline, the den mother/bartender who gave me a Kinsale gift card when my tab exceeded the GNP of Burkina Faso .

For those of you (you both know who you are) who will miss my trenchant insights into the Beautiful Game, my wholly objective reporting on the EPL and my occasional circumsized dick jokes, you'll be happy to know that beginning Friday, just in time for the kickoff of Euro 2008, I'll be writing on a little site they call ESPN. com. Say what you want about the WWL — and you do every day — it has been the guardian angel of soccer in this country, pouring millions of dollars into the sport and keeping it safe from the likes of Marcelo Balboa.

So before you start sending me hateful e-mails and treating me like I'm Emily Gould with a thicker mustache, let me just say that I don't feel at all bad about selling out. Sure, I will miss working alongside the great and the near-great of Deadspin — Will, Rick, AJ, BDD and Unsilent Majority — but what's to stop me from being one of the high-minded philosopher-poets in the Comments section? I've even thought of a screen name: Splendor In The Arse.

And now as I bid you all Shalom (sorry, one parting Jew reference) and take my excellence to the white sand beaches of Bristol, Connecticut, I leave you with one last fearless but obviously biased prediction.

I like Spain to win Euro. After all, they've got Fabregas and he's special.

Like me.

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.

I told you so. That's right, way back on August 6, 2007, five days before the start of this interminable but historic season, I correctly predicted the order of finish at the top of the league: ManU, Chelsea, Arsenal and Liverpool. If only the Lords of the EPL had listened to me then and awarded the title to United, think of all the pain and misery we could have saved ourselves, to say nothing of my liver.

But it had to play out, and for the first time in 40 years the Prem was decided on the final day — the final ten minutes of the final day, actually.

Otherwise, I'm afraid it would have come down to superdelegates.

If you're a ManU fan, well done, ol' chaps. If you're a Chelsea supporter, ha ha, you rich fuckers; sorry you didn't get to pop the champagne, but John Terry's elbow will have to suffice. And if, let's say, you root for a certain team from North London that for the three quarters of the season had the look of champions only to choke balls deep down the stretch ... do you even bother with alcohol, or just snort heroin through that rolled up Matthew Flamini Wallbangers poster that you've ripped down last week when the ungrateful French bastard decided he'd rather lose titles in Italy than England?

Don't get me wrong. ManU deserved their championship; over the course of nine grinding months, they displayed the kind of steely commitment that the rest of the Big Four lacked. They also played some exhiliarating soccer that saw their attacking troika of Ronaldo, Rooney and Tevez score an incredible 79 goals. And yes, they had the best manager in the world. Sir Alex may be an insufferable blowhard, but he knows how to get the most out of his players. Fear, of course, is a great motivator, as is his benevolent despotism — like when he looked the other way after his Portuguese meal ticket went five-on-one with a group of young business women in his hot tub.

Believe it or not, I, too, have a magnanimous side and, believe it or not, it has nothing to do with condoning prostitution. So let me applaud Chelsea for making this such a memorable season. They fought right up until Ryan Giggs sealed the title with the second goal against Wigan in the 80th minute. In the wake of Mourinho, no one, especially me, expected Uncle Avram to do something special, and yet Chelsea came within two points of winning the league and now has a chance for redemption when they meet United in the Champions League final on May 21. If I were ManU, I wouldn't hire a second engraver just yet for that CL trophy. Based on the James Bond villain look Chelsea's owner Roman Ambramovich was rocking during the game, let's just say I would bring my own borscht to Moscow.

As zen-like as Ambramovich appeared after Chelsea's title hopes had ended, his fellow billionaire Mohamed Al Fayed was deliirous after Fulham pulled off one last miracle to avoid relegation by beating Portsmouth 1-0. So giddy was Fayed you'd have thought that he just seen evidence that Queen Elizabeth herself was driving that car that killed Diana and Dodi. His team had been officially declared dead on the operating table two weeks ago, but somehow they shocked themselves back to life with only 15 minutes remaining between Prem survival and long bus rides to Barnsley and Colchester. Fayed had promised the Fulham players a freezer full of Harrod's caviar and smoked salmon if they stayed up, but that hardly explains the eruption of joy and relief at the final whistle. There were all of Uncle Sam's boys — Deuce, McBride, Keller and Bocanegra — dancing around the pitch, stripped to the waist and hugging it out. You could understand the celebration of man-love after what Fulham had gone through to survive, but if they have any hopes of not finding themselves in this position next year, they may want to find a more macho mascot than Hugh Grant, who looked even more satisfied in the stands than he did when he got that $75 blowjob from Divine Brown.

So it's finally over, this season that gave us so much drama, suspense, anguish, joy and Ashley Cole vomiting on a woman who wasn't his wife. When I looked around at Kinsale yesterday, I saw the ManU fans chanting "Campeones, Campeones, ole ole," and I wanted to spread the love, too. So when the final EPL standings flashed on the screen, I put my arm Mid-Table Mikey and said, "Hey look, Spurs came within 38 points of the title."

I'm the last to admit when I'm wrong. Like all the other Avram Grant cynics, I never believed for a minute right up until the 120th minute of yesterday's epic Champions League semifinal between Chelsea and Liverpool that Uncle Avram could lead the Blues to the Promised Land — better known as Moscow.

And I, especially, have no excuse. I may loathe everything that Chelsea stands for, but when it comes to members of my tribe, it's true, I usually vote with my circumcision. Even my father who raised me to be a good Arsenal snob was disappointed in me for being a self-hating Jew instead of a temporary-loving Blue yesterday.

"How could you not root for one of your own?" he scolded me after Chelsea outlasted Liverpool 3-2 to earn a May 21 showdown with Manchester United for European supremacy.

"Don't worry, Dad, I promise I will in the final, " I said, pointing out that Manchester United is owned by another tribemember, Malcolm Glazer.

But out of respect for my father, I will say in front of him and the whole Deadspin congregation: "Mazel Tov, Uncle Avram."

Yes, it took Average Grant to do something that even the Special One could not. For all his preening arrogance and tactical brilliance, Mourinho's Chelsea teams never got beyond the Champions League semifinals, losing twice to Liverpool. Who in their right mind would have predicted that Grant would succeed where Mourinho failed?

This is a man who has been a punchline since the day he arrived at Stamford Bridge. The conventional wisdom about the Israeli is that the only reason he got the job was because of his friendship with Chelsea owner Roman Abramovich and that he couldn't manage his way out of a box of Matzo, let alone one of the prestige clubs in the world.

And indeed, his bungling substitutions and perpetual hangdog expression did little to disabuse that perception. Why just last week, Liverpool's manager Rafa Benitez bitch-slapped the Israeli when he called Chelsea "Abramovich's team" and then added that they play with "less spirit" than they did under Mourinho. Oh, how Benitez would love to have those words back. Probably almost as much as he must wish that he never poked Drogba with the equivalent of an electric cattle prod when he revealed before yesterday's match that he had compiled a four-year video dossier of dives by the Ivorian.

Let the record show that Drogba twice dove spectacularly yesterday.Unfortunately for Benitez, both times were to celebrate goals he had scored. After he powered in the first one, he slid on his knees right in front of the Liverpool bench as if to say "How's that for a fuckin' dive, Rafa? Would you rate it a 7 or an 8?"

Of course, Drogba was not the only one to ruin Rafa's night and put my office mate Lingering Bursitis on suicide watch. Chelsea was clearly buoyed by the emotional return of their midfield firebrand Frank Lampard, back from "compassionate leave" after the death of his mother.

It was Lampard who eight minutes into extra-time cooly buried the penalty kick that made it 2-1 and then kissed the black armband worn in honor of his mum.

Liverpool fought back gamely, and you could argue that the Reds deserved a penalty in the 18th minute of overtime when Drogba dragged down Hyppia in the box. But, as Lingering Bursitis perched on my ledge, the referee waved play on, and only the double lock on my window prevented LB from executing the kind of dive even Benitez had not compiled in his dossier.

As for Uncle Avram, when the final whistle blew and Stamford Bridge detonated in an explosion of joy and noise, he knelt down alone on the touchline in prayer.

"What a mensch," said my father.

Yeah, Dad. Now c'mon United!

Even I had a lump in my throat when I saw Chelsea take the field on Saturday in black armbands, honoring the recent death of Frank Lampard's mother. Turns out that my lump was just some undigested French Toast, but still you have to admire the Oprah-like sensitivity this bunch of preening, squabbling egomaniac multimillionaires showed for a brief, shining moment.

"We did it for Frank and his family," said Michael Ballack after Chelsea beat ManU 2-1 and drew level on points at the top of the Premier League. Ballack was referring to his midfield partner Lampard, who was on "compassionate leave" for the fractious battle at Stamford Bridge that ended in a total meltdown for United.

By now, we're used to seeing Sir Alex, his face resembling plush velvet, raging at the officials for perceived injustices, but it's not every day you see Rio Ferdinand kick a female usher (by accident, of course) and ManU's reserves exchange punches with Chelsea's grounds crew. It's still United's title to lose because of their superior goal difference, but considering how they've responded to the sphincter-tightening pressure of the stretch run, anything's possible over the next two weeks, even the sight of, God forbid, Chelsea hoisting the trophy.

To be fair to the Blues — something I've never been — they've displayed impressive resilience to get to this point but one big happy family? Yeah, maybe in a Texas polygamy cult sort of way.

Let's not forget that this is the same team who earlier in the season gave us:

— a bustup on the training ground between captain John Terry and an assistant coach over Grant's decision not to reveal his starting lineup til the day of the game.
— Drogba and Lampard declaring their undying love toward Mourinho and begging The Special One to rescue them from Stamford Bridge.
— Defender Tal Ben Haim saying he would never have come to Chelsea if he knew his fellow Israeli Grant would be in charge.
— a death threat in the form of a mysterious white powder toward Grant from the Chelsea faithful who continue to serenade him with "You Don't Have A Clue."

Chelsea is a family all right. Of course, so are the Lohans. And the Mansons. And yet somehow here they are, with a chance to win both the Prem and the Champions League, and you've got to ask yourself "How the fuck did this happen?"

Let's start with Drogba and Ballack, two world class players who lead their respective national teams and think they're each The Man. (Only Drogba is right.) On Saturday, they combined for the first Chelsea goal and then underlined the team's true family spirit by almost pummeling each other to death for the right to take a free-kick. Drogba had already made his mark on the game early on when he introduced his knee to Vidic's face, resulting in the United defender getting stretchered off with a bloody mouth. Then, just before intermission, Drogba, given enough time and space at the edge of the box to book his flight to Milan for the inevitable reunion with Mourinho, picked out Ballack at the back post. The German's powerful header had barely nestled in the net when he ripped off his jersey revealing a pair of nipples that would have made Heidi Klum jealous. Or maybe Simon Cowell.

Meanwhile, the rest of the Chelsea players celebrated by waving a jersey with the words Pat Lampard RIP printed on it.

It was such a touching gesture that there was hardly a wet eye in the house at Kinsale. "I hear that Lampard called Terry today and asked him to keep Drogba away from the funeral," Dublin Dave said "He was worried about him diving in the box."

We all cracked up, and by "we," I mean the mob of United fans I found myself drinking and chanting with at the end of the bar. "Don't you feel bad supporting ManU?" asked Cardillo, who got up at 5 a.m. to make the two and half hour pilgrimage from Connecticut to Kinsale. "Isn't it a bit like rooting for Palestine?" No, Mike, Chelsea is Palestine, ManU is only Saudi Arabia.

At any rate, I couldn't have been happier when Ricardo Carvalho gifted ManU the equalizer shortly after halftime . Normally Chelsea's most reliable defender, Carvalho was positively Riise-esque as he passed the ball directly to Rooney 30 yards out from his own goal. The United striker shrugged off Terry's challenge and a painful hip injury to lash the ball into the bottom corner. Rooney hobbled off soon thereafter and was replaced by Ronaldo, who along with Tevez, had been left out of the starting lineup in order to rest for tomorrow's Champions League return match against Barca. It was a gamble that would come back to bite Sir Alex in the ass.

The Best Player In The World had barely stepped onto the pitch when Ballack wrestled him to the ground inside the penalty area, only for the official to wave play on. But a few minutes later, the referee did call a penalty; this time it was against United, their first of the season. Essian's cross was generously ruled to have hit Carrick's arm, and Ballack slotted home the ensuing penalty kick before hugging it out with Drogba and the rest of Chelsea's dysfunctional family.

As for Grant, he had spent most of the game hunched forward in his seat like he was having an enema, but now there he was, dancing a little hora on the touchline. This was the second straight game in which Uncle Avram received an early Chanukah present and he has to wonder if his good luck will continue to the end of the season.
.

If it does, I'll be the one wearing the black armband.

Say this for John Arne Riise. As diving headers go, it was textbook, a classic, one for the year-end highlight reel. The Liverpool defender launched himself at the ball with fearless abandon and rocketed it into the top of the net. The keeper never had a chance.

Wait, did I mention it was his own keeper? And that instead of carrying him off the field, his teammates probably wanted to finish what Craig Bellamy started last year and take a nine iron to his face.

In fairness to the ginger-headed Norweigan, it was the most exciting moment in an otherwise coma-inducing Champions League semifinal between two teams for whom a 1-1 draw is a veritable goal-fest. Even Chelsea manager Avram Grant, who for most of the game looked like he was eating bitter herbs left over from Passover, managed a smile at the end. In fact, when Riise put the ball into his own net in the 95th minute, Grant resembled Moses after parting the Red Sea. Yes, Avram, it was a helluva miracle, but you had fuck-all to do with it.

"We took a big step toward the final today," said Grant afterwards, loosening the noose around his neck and looking forward to the return leg at Stamford Bridge where Chelsea hasn't lost since Neil Armstrong took his first steps on the moon and Liverpool hasn't scored in four years under Benitez. Clearly, the Blues are now the favorite to reach the Champions League final against the winner of Barcelona and Manchester United. This is especially good news for Chelsea's billionaire Russian owner Roman Abramovich, because the game will be played in Moscow, where I'm guessing he knows how to arrange to have his eventual opponent killed. But if I were Roman — and of course I'm not or I'd be banging a Russian supermodel half my age — I'd hold off putting a down payment on a hitman just yet.

Let's face it, Chelsea could have easily lost by three goals yesterday, and the only reason it didn't was because Fernando Torres, of all people, wasted a handful of the kind of chances he normally buries with insolent ease. It took Dirk Kuyt, the hardworking Dutchman whose first touch makes him look like he's wearing wooden shoes, to give Liverpool the lead and, like Riise's blunder, it was the result of some comical schoolboy defending.

The culprit was Lampard, and how happy does it make me to write those four words? Fat Frank, back from a two-game leave of absence due to an illness in his family, looked rusty from the start, and when he dawdled on the ball at the edge of the box, Kuyt stripped him. The ball ping-ponged to Mascherano whose scuffed shot looped over Makelele and Kuyt was in the right place to hammer it through Cech's legs.

Even though that happened in the 43rd minute, who in their right mind didn't think the lone goal would stand up? After all, in their last six previous meetings including an overtime game that went to penalty kicks, the teams had managed to light up the scoreboard for a grand total of three goals. And it was hard to see where a Chelsea score would come from other than off the foot or head of Drogba. But the Ivorian marksman whose two goals against Arsenal had buried the Gunners season — along with my will to live — had his hands full with Carragher and Skrtel who took turns grappling with his pace and power. For the most part, they kept him in check, though sometimes by means that would have made Kimbo Slice proud.

Meanwhile, the Blues were being overrun in midfield with Ballack, except for a late header on goal, basically useless, and Joe Cole, normally Chelsea's most lively attacker, strangely muted. Finally, in the 61st minute, Benitez and Grant made the moves that would turn the game. The Spaniard was forced to bring on Riise when Aurelio was stretchered off with a groin injury, and Grant countered by substituting Salomon Kalou for Cole. It was Kalou's dipping cross in the fifth minute of stoppage time that, along with the looming presence in the box of another Grant sub Nicolas Anelka, caused Riise to shit the bed and give Chelsea the away goal they hardly deserved.

So now, considering that Liverpool faces the daunting task of winning at the Bridge next week, their fans are curiously Zen-like. Take Lingering Bursitis, who in addition to being the brains behind Unprofessional Foul, now works two doors down from me and is my office bitch. While I watched the game in a nearby bar, LB was stuck at work cleaning dirt out of my old Umbros, so I magnanimously offered him the chance to steal glimpses of the match on my office TV. When I returned to work, I was surprised to see my office intact and my television unharmed. I found LB sitting quietly at his desk in lotus position, chanting " 2005, 2005, 2005."

"I feel sorry for Chelsea ," said the Scouser Buddha. "They needed a spectacular own goal to stay alive. But the path of enlightenment has many false starts. I am at one-one with everything."

And it was only then that I noticed the industrial-sized bottle of Oxycontin in his bottom drawer.

I'm kvelling, and not just because I'm going to be eating matzo all next week. No, the reason I'm feeling so good is that David Beckham is sending his son Cruz to a Jewish nursery school in Los Angeles.

While Becks and Posh say they have no plans for Cruz to convert, which is probably wise because that other Cruise — Suri — probably won't date a Jewish guy anyway, at least they're going halfway.

Then again, how much can you really ask from someone who's only half Jewish (on his mum's side) and has a Hebrew tattoo on his clearly Gentile body?

As for the biggest mensch in the Galaxy, he's having quite the month — at least off the field. He got to sit courtside at the Lakers-Clippers game and was given his first traffic ticket for bending too much on a left turn. But perhaps the most exciting news is that a recent survey of adult film stars named him the celebrity they'd most like to shtup.

All I can say is: Mazel Tov!

Go ahead, bow down. Heel before Manchester United like you would a certain overdressed German guy with a pointy hat who's playing to a sold out Yankee Stadium this week. They deserve it. They stand on the cusp of pulling off an astonishing double championship, and they have done it with style and panache. So why am I not ready to genuflect?

Because for all the beautiful soccer they play, they are an ugly club, and I'm not even talking about the pitbull mugs of Rooney and Tevez. My bitterness doesn't even stem from the fact that United administered last rites yesterday to Arsenal's trophy-less season in a game that will be enshrined in the ManU-Arsenal pantheon right up there with the 1999 classic that saw Ryan Giggs slalom through the entire Gunner defense in the 109th minute and then display more chest hair than Robin and Venus Williams combined.

No, what makes United so unloveable to me is their relentless gamesmanship. Of course, like the rest of the planet, I'm in awe of Ronaldo's wondrous gifts, but I want to drown him in his own hair gel when he starts performing his Harlem Globetrotter tricks in the middle of a breakaway. I am impressed by the tactical genius and shopping talents of Sir Alex, and yet I pray his head will explode every time he unleashes one of his purple-faced rants at a referee.

All of ManU's best and worst traits were on abundant display yesterday at Old Trafford, as they opened up a six-point lead at the top of the Premier League and dared Chelsea to catch them. Even though Arsenal's season had essentially been buried alive at Anfield earlier in the week, the Gunners were determined to make this more than just another validation of United's majesty. They began as they did against Liverpool with Fabregas and Hleb threading the needle into the tiniest of spaces, only for Arsenal to waste chance after chance. In fact, had Adebayour not turned into some kind of U-11 girl in front of goal and rolled candy-ass shots into the grateful arms of Van der Saar instead of powering them past him like, say, Fernando Torres would have done, Arsenal might have been up by two or three goals at the half.

"I think when Adebayour cut his hair," Dublin Dave said, "he also cut his dick off." Dublin Dave is the leader of the Kinsale Reds, and even before the match you could tell he was nervous by the way his United scarf was wrapped around his neck like a noose. "I'm not feeling good today," said the normally ebullient Irishman. "I had a dream last night that Ronaldo broke his leg."

You can hardly blame him for his dark premonition, given that defenders are now starting to go on record that Ronaldo risks being Eduardoed if he continues to humiliate them. Just last week, Roma's David Pizarro accused the Portuguese showpony of doing "spiteful things" after the United midfielder had taunted the defender by bamboozling him with his repertoire of step-overs and backheels rather than simply taking the ball past him on the run. Yesterday it was Justin Hoyte's turn to be tormented late in the game, and the Arsenal defender responded by clattering Ronaldo to the ground. In other words, the message opponents are sending to Ronaldo is that they can deal with him beating them on the dribble, but if you rub their faces in it by stopping and performing your look-at-me-aren't-I-simply-amazing antics, prepare to eat some turf.

Still, there are times when you have to admire Ronaldo's sheer audacity. Yesterday, he had basically been kept in check during the first half by the heroic efforts of Clichy and Eboue, who tracked him tirelessly whenever he switched flanks. But after Gallas was whistled for a hand ball (sad to say, it was a legitimate call ) in the box, Ronaldo stepped up to take the penalty kick. And then he stopped mid-runup. And then he blasted the ball high to Lehmann's right for his 38th goal of the season. But wait. A ManU player, fooled by Ronaldo's stutter-step approach, had run into the box before the kick was taken, and the goal was disallowed. Ha!

Except that only made Ronaldo more determined to prove why he's the best player in the world. Without missing a beat, he nervelessly stepped up again. And stopped again. And scored again, this time with an inch-perfect kick inside the right post. It is a toss-up as to who Lehmann would rather have knee-capped at that moment: Almunia, the man who kept him on the bench for most of the season until an injury yesterday afforded the German a rare start in goal, or Ronaldo who TWICE beat him with the same infuriating technique. Can you imagine Chad Johnson walking backwards into the endzone after juking a cornerback? Oh wait, you can.

Anyway, with Lehmann talking scheiss at Ronaldo, not to mention his defenders and the ref, Ferguson sensed Arsenal's implosion and went for the throat by bringing on Tevez and Anderson. How incredible is it that Tevez, who is one of the key members of the world's no.1 team, Argentina, isn't a regular starter for ManU? That is down to United's depth, which Ferguson brilliantly provided in the offseason, when he added ol' Scarface as well as Anderson, Nani and Hargreaves. By contrast, Wenger brought in Eduardo and a box of croissants.

So deep is United that Hargreaves, who starts for England, can barely get in a game at Old Trafford and lately has been in Ferguson's doghouse for turning up late to practice and team meetings. But given a chance to redeem himself yesterday, the Canadian-born midfielder showed all the guile and composure of his friend and countryman Steve Nash dishing a no-look behind the back pass in crunch time.

After a silly foul by Silva just outside the box, Ronaldo and Hargreaves stood equidistant from the ball. Surely, everyone in the stadium, including Lehmann, expected the Portuguese winger to take the free kick; he had scored some astonishing dead-ball goals this season. But it was Hargreaves who wrapped his foot around the ball like a certin Armani underwear model and sent it swerving over the wall (Damn you, Van Persie, for not jumping!) and into the lower left corner of the net.

Old Trafford erupted in song and Dublin Dave was kind enough to translate the lyrics .

"You hear that?" said Dublin Dave, now jumping up and down with his United brethren at Kinsale. "They're serenading you, Hirshey. 'you're gonna win fuck-all' 'you're gonna win fuck-all. ' "

True, we will win fuck-all, but at least we won't rub it in.

I blame myself. I fucked with my own mojo this week, and, in doing so, cursed Arsenal.

Sure, there are co-conspirators in the Gunners' epic collapse — Chris Douglas Roberts, Peter Frojdfeldt and a pub that shall remain nameless all come to mind — but mostly it's on me. Which is why I slouch before you today a broken man. Let me explain.

On Monday night I was one goddamn free throw away from winning $1,000 in my office NCAA pool and ready to spring for those Manolos that Leitch has had his eye on for months. (Ed. Note: Woo-hoo!) My delirium quickly turned to despair as CDR caused me to have CPR by clanging brick after brick in the final minutes of Memphis' epic collapse. In the end all that was left of my grand was the rubber band around the bankroll that I now plan to hang myself with.

At least I had the comfort of knowing that the pain of Memphis' clocktease would be eased the next day by Arsenal's triumphant passage into the semi-finals of the Champions League.

So seeing as this was the biggest game of Arsenal's season that had promised so much and delivered so little, what did I do to help the cause? I blew off the inebriated comfort of Kinsale for a pub closer to work, where I was told by my friend Bigus Dickus of Unprofessional Foul that the beers would flow as freely as Arsenal's attack. I should have realized right then that I was giving the finger to the Gods of Guinness and Footy.

"Your lot is going to score two goals," Bigus predicted, which, given that the last 132 games between Arsenal and Liverpool had ended in 1-1 draws, seemed hopeful. Then, chirping like the Norwich City dickus he is, he added "But you'll still lose on penalty kicks."

Close enough. Arsenal scored twice — the second goal resulting from an Maradona-esque 80-yard run by Walcott through four Liverpool defenders in the 83rd minute that had me high-fiving and hugging everyone in the pub — and it was a penalty kick that sealed the Gunners' sorry-ass fate. A penalty kick that could only have been called by a man named Peter Frojdfeldt, which my Swedish friends tell me translates into Blind Douchebag. Lest we forget, in Wednesday's first leg at the Emirates, Kuyt tugged Hleb backwards in the box and received only a wink from referee Pieter Vink, a fellow Dutchman.

Yesterday's call was, to my fair and balanced Gooner eye, nowhere near as egregious as last week's non-call. When Babel broke into the penalty area seconds after Wolcott's masterpiece, Toure was shoulder to shoulder with him and might have breathed on him, causing him to lose his balance. A bullshit foul with that much at stake.

Penalty or no, the truth is that a side that is on its way to the semifinals of the Champions League after 85 minutes and loses by two goals nine minutes later deserves to be eliminated. In other words, Arsenal are out of Europe, as well as excuses.

Arsene Wenger, which my French friends tell me translates to Cheap Douchebag, can rail all he wants about all those "dodgy refereeing decisions" that cost his team victory, but the fact remains that Arsenal wouldn't have been at the mercy of them had he opened his wallet. Yes, he's brilliant at spotting young raw talent and molding it in the Arsenal image, but at this level you also need depth and experience, which cost money.

Had Wenger not been so convinced of his own genius, maybe we wouldn't have ended up with a defense yesterday that consisted of Gael Clichy and The Three Statues. Say what you want about Senderos — and he's an ungainly Swiss twat who lost his mark on the first two goals — he's not the only one at fault. Gallas and Toure were routinely beaten for pace over the course of the Liverpool series and crapped their pants every time Torres ran at them. The Spaniard proved once again why, for my money, he's the most lethal finisher in the world when he swiveled around the ponderous Sendoros and lashed an unstoppable rocket into the top corner.

It should be noted that Wenger tried to woo Torres over the summer, but his counterpart Benitez was the one who was willing to pony up the shekels. Now, God willing, Torres will stick a fork in Chelsea in the next round, which I'll be watching at Kinsale, just so I don't fuck that up, too.

Believe me, I've learned my lesson. There I was yesterday, covering my eyes in shame as Gerrard lined up the penalty kick, when who should come skipping into the bar but Relegation Zone Mikey, which my American friends tell me roughly translates into Delusional Tottenham Douchebag.

As soon as the Gerrard's shot bulged the net, RZM launched into a taunting chant of "Your season's over, la la la la." Only not as clever as that.

As for me, at least I won five large (or as you know it, one whole
Lincoln) on Tennessee over Stamford.

It's not often that I plan my Saturday night around watching a MLS game, especially when it kicks off right when my man Tyler Hansbrough is in the midst of giving little Ricky Pitino a facial for the ages. But this was not just any MLS game, it was the showcase match of the league's opening weekend, and it involved a certain English underwear model who plays for the LA Galaxy and, who from all accounts, was finally healthy and ready to justify his "$250 million" hype as the latest Messiah of American Soccer.

So really, what choice did I have but to TiVO the Heels, hook up an I.V. of Stella and watch David Beckham's do-over debut for the Galaxy against the Colorado Rapids? I had granted Becks a mulligan for last year 's train-wreck of a season in which he had played in only five games and scored a single, solitary goal. Yep, I had decided to give him a clean slate, to suspend any judgments on his ability to transform a team, a league, a sport, until he could perform pain-free on the field.

But after watching him stroll around Dick's Sporting Goods Park Saturday night (it doesn't quite roll off the tongue like Old Trafford, does it?), it's clear that no amount of Becks' trademark laser-guided passes or exquisite dead-ball deliveries is going to change the fact that the Galaxy are eye-bleedingly awful. The ease with which they were dismantled 4-0 by a workmanlike Colorado Rapids team missing half a dozen key players makes you wonder what Lalas and the rest of the Galaxy 's so-called braintrust were thinking when they surrounded their prize catch with what looks to be two MLS All-Stars (Donovan and Ruiz) and eight one-legged circus performers. Even more astonishing is how they were able to convince the great Dutch player Ruud "Sexy Football" Gullitt to coach this farce, other than by promising him safe haven in Bali if things didn't work out.

You would think that after last year's premature ejaculation about soccer's second coming in the U.S., the MLS might have lowered the expectations. But there on Saturday night was Fox's Max Bretos, the carnival barker of American soccer, assuring us "it's hard not to get excited by a game of this magnitude" (Jeez, Max, how tumescent would you get about, say, Brazil v. Argentina?) Referring to the game's marquee attraction as "David Robert Joseph Beckham" Max pronounced "the Beckham Era" upon us.

As it turned out, it was more like the Terry Cooke Era. Cookie, who played alongside Becks on Man U's youth championship teams back in the day, eventually crumbled out of Old Trafford in the mid-nineties and found his way to Colorado two years ago. On Saturday, he had a goal and two assists against the Galaxy and combined with Colorado's Argentine playmaker Christian Gomez to make LA look like a poor man's Derby County, if such a thing is possible. And I should know because earlier in the day, preparing for a "game of this magnitude," I watched another game that was hard not to get excited about — Derby vs. Fulham for the bragging rights to the title of the Worst Prem Team In Anyone's Memory.

For years Lalas has been yammering about how the best MLS teams could hold their own in the lower reaches of England's top flight. Let me just say that, as spectacularly incompetent as Derby is, the Galaxy, on the basis of Saturday's performance, aren't worthy of washing their jocks. But given where Beckham's priorities seem to be — getting a new $5,000 tattoo of a bare-breasted angel who looks like his wife, playing footsy with Anderson Cooper on "60 Minutes," or offering a private lesson to Salma Hayek for $350,000 at a charity auction — who cares about soccer when you can look at a giant billboard of your golden balls in Times Square? Yes, there he is in all his near-naked glory at the crossroads of the world, reclining in a pair of too-tighty Armani whities for which he's been paid an estimated $30 million, which, if you believe Posh Spice's math, works out to about three million an inch.

"He does have a huge one," she recently said, describing how he truly bends. "You can see it in the advert. It is all his. It is like a tractor exhaust pipe."

That may be fine when it comes to plowing HER field, but the MLS needs every inch of Beckham The Player to take soccer to the next level. That means no more jetting off to make cameos for England three days before a Galaxy game. Congratulations on your 100th cap, Becks, you looked sharp launching 40-yard balls to Rooney and Gerrard in that 1-0 loss to France on Wednesday. I realize it's perhaps not as gratifying pinging gift-wrapped passes to Landycakes and Ruiz, but I hear Lalas is scouting a new striker for you. Her name is Salma Hayek.

What can I say? I drank the Haterade, going so far as to denounce a certain Israeli manager I call Average Grant as a disgrace to his religion for choosing Easter to rise from the dead. All I can say is: Would Sandy Koufax have played on such a holy day? Then I quaffed the bitter, screaming at a certain defender I call Cuntley Cole every time he touched the ball. "Even Eliot Spitzer didn't throw up on his whore, you whiny little bitch," I raged. I even made the ultimate sacrifice. I declined a free beer after Arsenal went up 1-0 so as not to jinx it.

But I am only one man— and a barely sober one, at that—-and nothing I did yesterday at Kinsale Tavern could alter the depressing reality: Arsenal are out of the title race. There, I said it. (Are you happy now, Unsilent? The case of He'Brew beer I owe you is on its way with nine other plagues to follow in a few weeks.)

I'm told by the Dalai Leitch that bitterness and regret are soul-destroying emotions, but how else am I supposed to feel after watching Arsenal's Bear Stearns-like collapse over the last three weeks? From five points clear at the top to six points behind United (engrave the fuckin trophy already, Fergie, but make sure there's room for Steve Bennett's name on it), and here's the truly painful part: Arsenal is now a point behind Chelsea, and I have to endure the endless taunts of the Gooner haters like Q calling me an "obscure jazz-loving, chef salad-eating, Montrachet-swilling metrosexual." This must be what's like to be a Duke fan.

Honestly, it was barely a few days ago when the British tabloids were calling for Uncle Avram to be re-circumsized after his lack of tactical acumen was cruelly exposed by Spurs in their 4-4 thriller. Hell, even as late as the second half of yesterday's game, Chelsea's classy fans were chanting "He doesn't have a clue" and serenading him with "Jose Mour—in—ho, Jose Mour-in-ho." It was precisely because of my abiding faith in Grant 's incompetence that I had wagered my Chelsea mates $100 that Arsenal would crucify the Blues on Sunday and stay within spitting distance of United.

So you can imagine my shock when Grant outcoached Arsene Wenger, of all people. There, I said it, even if Wenger wouldn't. "It was big setback for us," is as close to a mea culpa as we'll ever get from the imperious Frenchman. A big setback? How about the worst stretch in 10 years, Monsieur Merde-for-Brains? How about draw, draw, draw, draw, defeat? How about fielding a team that looked so spent and shorn of inspiration that it's a wonder we were ever in the game, let alone up 1-0 and on the brink of snapping Chelsea's 77-game, four-year undefeated streak at Stamford Bridge?

But then Didier Drogba, who had been missing almost as long as little Madeleine McCann, showed up on Easter Sunday with two pieces of wood and nailed us to the cross. Hammered us with two goals within nine minutes, and that was that. Of course, you could ask why Gallas and Toure gave Drogba so much room that he could take the ball down in the box, wave to his future Barcelona employers in the stands and lash the ball past Almunia.

I suppose you could forgive the Arsenal centerbacks for ignoring the Ivorian hit man, given that he hasn't been the ruthless scoring machine under Grant that he had been with Mourinho in charge. That is, until yesterday, when he went positively medieval on the Gunners.

Still, if I'm going to bow down before other teams' Gods, I must pay respect to the real Messiah. Christiano Ronaldo scored his 34th goal of the season with a thumping header to crush the life out of Liverpool, which had defended bravely with 10 men after Bennett had sent off Javier Mascherano in the 43rd minute for his Cuntley Cole impersonation. Hellbent on imposing his authority on what figured to be a fractious match between two teams that don't like each other, the whistle-happy ref had booked the Argentine hard man for a late tackle in the tenth minute that hardly looked deserving of a yellow card. When Bennett made yet another dubious call, booking Fernando Torres for dissent after the Spanish striker had been scythed down, Mascherano sprinted 20 yards to express his displeasure to Bennett.

A more forgiving man might have ignored the meltdown, but after Cole dissed a referee earlier in the week in Chelsea's game with Spurs, Bennett felt he had no choice but to send Mascherano off. He left the pitch about as gracefully as Bobby Knight would have.

This is not to say that the result would have been different had Mascherano stayed on the field for 90 minutes. The Reds were already down 1-0 on a gift-wrapped goal that saw their keeper Pepe Reina look even less sure of himself than Anderson Cooper did trying to stop a Beckham free kick on "60 Minutes." Sitting next to me at Kinsale, my friend Lingering Bursitis let out a mournful cry.
"I've had better Sundays," said the long-suffering Scouser. Then Dublin Dave, who led Kinsale's ManU contingent in bellowing "Champ-iones" throughout the game, came over to LB and offered his smug condolences. "It could be worse," he said, gleefully handing him his new I-phone which displayed a headline from the always reliable British tabloid News of the World.

"Prem manager caught in bondage porn video," it screamed. The Spitzeresque story turned out to be about Derby manager Paul Jewell and a woman who wasn't his wife. Based on the photos I saw, he was doing to her what Chelsea did to Arsenal.

Let's face it: The media hasn't exactly been shy about exploring every orifice of the Eliot Spitzer-Ashley Dupre story. Except one. Yes, it turns out, the disgraced former Governor of New York, who enjoyed "dangerous sex" with the 22-year-old hooker/r&b singer/top swimsuit model/cokehead also played soccer. He is yet another in the long line of celebrities like Jon Stewart, Steve Nash and Osama Bin Laden who long ago embraced the beautiful game.

I'm not saying he's as fast on his feet as Stewart, that he has the field vision of Nash or is as explosive and elusive as Bin Laden, but I'm here to tell you that Spitzer didn't just like to just stick it in up to $80,000 worth; he also liked to get, as the English say, "stuck in."

How do I know? He told me, although not before I forked over $100 for the privilege of attending a fundraising breakfast in his honor. Which means, at $1,000 an hour, my C-note may have contributed to six minutes of his pleasure with young Ashley.

This was a couple of years ago when Spitzer was running for governor, and there were still people like me who bought into his crusading bullshit. After waiting in line for about 20 minutes and listening to my colleagues pepper him with questions about the Mob, Wall Street corruption and how long before he becomes the first Jewish president, I finally had my audience. I went right for the jugular.

"I understand that you played soccer at Horace Mann," I said. "I played for Hackley."

Now I should mention that neither Horace Mann nor Hackley have ever been confused with the favellas of Brazil as factories for turning out world-class soccer players, but in the in the badass universe of New York private schools, they command a nod of respect.

"We had some real battles with you guys," Spitzer said, relishing the chance to talk about something other than subprime mortgages.

"You were a defender, right?" I asked.

"Left fullback," Spitzer said, showing how old school he was by using the ancient term for wingback.

"I hear you had to mark John McEnroe when he played soccer for Trinity," I said.

"He had such quick feet. He ran circles around me."

And with that, my time was up. Later, I asked one of Spitzer's long-time aides who had also been a teammate of his at Horace Mann, how good a player he was. "Elliot wasn't the fastest guy in the world," he said. "But he was a tough tackler. He would clean opponents out."

Tough he may have been, but when the Feds slid in studs up, Spitzer saw his career dive faster than Ronaldo in the box. From soccer defender to public defender to pubic defender in the time it takes to unroll a condom. I, for one, am disappointed that a Jew who scored 1590 on his SAT could have been so stupid. But it's not like Spitzer is the first soccer player caught with his Umbro shorts down. Remember when Ronaldo graciously welcomed his new Portuguese-speaking teammates Nani and Anderson to ManU by hiring three prostitutes at $600 an hour to ease their transition to life in the Prem? Not only did he get a better bargain, but three days later nobody gave a damn, not even prissy Sir Alex.

Maybe the clear lesson for the Spitzers of the world — and you know who you are — is to become better soccer players. Because if you can score 31 goals like Ronaldo, people will forgive your red cards off the field.

Not that Ronaldo still isn't an annoying little bitch, especially when he pops up in front of the goal in the 76th minute to spare ManU the indignity of a nil-nil draw against those bottom feeders Derby. United's 1-0 victory, coupled with the Arsenal's fourth pathetic draw in a row against a team they should have beaten (in this case, mighty Boro), vaults the Reds into first place on goal difference with a game in hand. Those gagging sounds you hear coming from the Emirates have nothing to do with the greasy meat pies — or Ashley Dupre.

Arsenal now not only faces the prospect of having squandered the title but perhaps second place as well, with Chelsea, also having played one less game, pulling to within three points. As painful as it would be losing the championship to United after being five points clear two weeks ago, it pales next to the soul-crushing despair of being eclipsed by a club that Cardillo anointed as "the most loathsome world eleven, surpassing Team Evil from Shaolin Soccer and the New England Patriots."

Arsenal descends into the cauldron of Stamford Bridge next Sunday, where nothing less than a three-point dick-stomping will suffice. For that, the Gunners will need all the verve and resolve they showed against Milan in the San Siro. It also won't hurt if they had a big, rugged defender in the back other than Senderos to muscle up against Drogba.

Dust off those cleats, Mr. Spitzer. I happen to know Eduardo isn't using jersey number 9.

There are few people that would cause the Kinsale crowd to put down their pints on Saturday morning, turn away from the TV screens and pay their respects. A naked Scarlett Johansson comes to mind, a naked Natalie Portman comes to mind, a naked Scarlett Johansson comes to mind again and, of course, Martina Hingis slathered in Toblerone. But it's a rare man who would inspire such reverence.

Ronaldinho, sure, Zidane, bien sur. David Beckham, slathered in Toblerone. Mmmm. But when Raj shouted above the din "James Fuckin Bond is in the house," attention was paid, beers were hoisted and everyone searched for Pussy Galore — even more than usual.

That's right, Sean Connery had just walked into Kinsale.

And I was just where you'd expect me to be for such a momentous occasion—whining like a little bitch in my bed of pain, watching the games at home for the first Saturday since 1932.

Turns out that Sir Sean wasn't even there for the soccer. His beloved Scotland was playing England in rugby that morning, though I'm told he stole a few glances at the TVs over the bar, which were showing the FA Cup matches. There, he saw his old friend Alex Ferguson about to spontaneously combust as the Manchester United manager raged at the referee for not calling a penalty kick after Ronaldo was poleaxed in the box. Connery's ManU fandom runs deep. Back in the 50's he was such a promising player himself that United tried to sign him. But he decided to concentrate on acting or maybe they just won't let him wear 007 on his jersey.

Alas, having James Bond in their corner didn't help ManU against Portsmouth on Saturday because in the FA Cup, you only live once.

Portsmouth's victory was an upset of Appalachian State-esque proportions — the team hadn't won a game at Old Trafford in over 50 years — and yet it was relatively ho-hum compared to the later FA Cup match in which a bunch of no-hopers from the dregs of the Championship beat those Prada-wearing, Lamborghini-driving mercenaries .Yes, repeat after me, Barnsley 1, Chelsea 0. Or to put it another way Premiership Giant Killers 1, Overpaid Twats 0.

This is, of course, the magic of the REAL March Madness — a bullshit team in the FA Cup playing the game of their lives to knock off an elite team whose reputation alone practically etches their name on the trophy. Which is why in a competition whose last five winners have come from the so-called Big Three plus Liverpool, we now have the following semifinalists: Portsmouth, Barnsley, West Bromwich Albion and Cardiff City. That would be like the Final Four of the NCAA tournament reading: Illinois, Winthrop, George Mason and Southern Mississippi.

And it's not like either ManU or Chelsea fielded their second or third stringers either, although Chelsea manager Avram Grant perhaps under the impression that Lampard and Drogba were Jewish gave them the Sabbath off. Still, any team boasting Ballack, Essian, Joe Cole and John Terry should be able to easily cope with a club that couldn't beat Scunthope United in their league. Of course, that's what Liverpool thought when they played Barnsley two weeks ago in the FA Cup and we all know how that turned out, don't we, you poor, deluded Scousers? Feel better now that Barnsley proved you weren't the only shite team in the Prem?

Though no one will confuse Barnsley with the 1970 Brazilian World Cup team, the Tykes can play a little football. Sure, there's much hoofing and hoping to their game but their defense was as organized and brave as any I've seen this season. After taking the lead in the 68th minute, they somehow managed to hold out against a Chelsea bombardment that was as relentless as it was inaccurate. And when the final whistle blew, the 19,000 home fans , most of them kids with shit-eating grins, all poured onto the field in a scene of sweet delerium. Through the on-field madness, you could glimpse the spectral figure of Avram Grant walking slowly toward the locker room wearing the doomed expression of a man who knows he's about to board the train to Roman Abramovich's gulag.

At least Grant had the decency to credit his opponent with having played a "courageous" game. Fergie, for his part, made it clear in his spittle-flecked postgame rant that the better team lost. Seriously, isn't it getting a bit old to watch Ol Purple Face losing his shit and whining about "biased" refereeing? Even if you were to allow that United were jobbed out of a clear penalty, that missed call happened in the 10th minute, meaning United still had 80 minutes to show its superiority. But this being the FA Cup, you need more than huge reserves of talent and United had none of the other critical ingredient: luck. Three times they looked to have scored, only for Portsmouth defenders to twice clear off the line and for their goalie David James to make a miraculous fingertip save of a Patrice Evra shot. Add to that the missed sitters from Rooney and Ronaldo, the red card given to United's backup keeper Tomasz Kuszczak (how great was it to see Rio Ferdinand in goal?) and you can understand why Fergie's head nearly exploded like a mailbox in Times Square.

Leave it to Arsenal, of all teams, to cheer up the old boy. By drawing with Wigan, the Gunners dropped two vital points in their fierce duel for the Prem title, allowing United with a game in hand to go top if they win their next match. If ManU does take the league, Fergie ought to send a bouquet of mulch to Wigan's groundskeepers as thanks for doing everything in their power to ensure that the pitch at the JJB Stadium would be uglier than Jimmy Bullard.

This is not to suggest that that the quagmire was the sole reason for Arsenal 's dreary performance but it certainly didn't help matters. Besides having to adjust their fast-flowing one-touch game to a grassless bog, the Gunners let themselves be outmuscled and outhustled by a gritty Wigan team fighting to stay out of the relegation zone. It took only 45 seconds for Arsenal fans to realize that this wasn't going to be their day when Adebayour broke clear through the Lattics' defense and had only the keeper to beat. But Chris Kirkland came barreling out of his net to deny the Togonator and Arsenal didn't have another good chance until the final minutes when Kirkland thwarted Fabregas from point blank range. So how does a team go from being the tits (eliminating the Champions League holders AC Milan at the San Siro) to the pits (recording their third Prem draw in a row) in five days?

As I'm sure Roger Moore would have told me had he been at Kinsale on Saturday, live and let die.

Is there anything more gratifying than having people take action after reading something you've written? God dictated the Ten Commandments to Moses and we've been breaking them ever since. Martin Luther nailed his 95 Theses to a church door and kicked off the Protestant Reformation. And I wrote a little throwaway joke at the expense of Eduardo's shattered leg—comparing him to Heather Mills—and the next thing you know Aston Villa's visiting hooligans serenaded the Arsenal faithful with the following ditty:

The Blues, for their part, made light of their team blues. "We're grown men ," said their ringleader John Terry. "We sit in a room, discuss things, then go out, and they are forgotten. "

One thing that won't be forgotten is a certain crutch-sporting Crozillian who will no doubt inspire Arsenal on April 12 when they visit ManU in the title showdown . I can only pray that the Gunners still have a leg to stand on by then.

As if I didn't have enough reasons to vomit this weekend up at Dartmouth — what else are you going to do in the frozen tundra of Hanover other than drink yourself into a coma when you can't watch a satellite feed of the Arsenal-Birmingham game? Fortunately, I have a wooden leg for such matters and after seeing YouTube clips of Eduardo's fibia snap, apparently so does the Crozillian striker. Only his is made of balsa.

If you haven't watched the horror tackle, let me try to put it in some context for you. Anyone who is old enough to remember how LT turned Joe Theismann into a failed broadcaster will probably hurl at the sight of Birmingham's Martin Taylor going all Javier Bardem on Eduardo's left leg. Honestly, I haven't seen anything as ugly since Steven Seagal's "Above the Law" when he grabbed a guy's arm and snapped it backwards at the elbow. How nasty was the injury? It was so nasty that British TV refused to replay the incident and those people put any shit on the air, even the Carling Cup.

More on this in a moment. So Eduardo is now out indefinitely, and I fear that Arsenal may not have a leg to stand on when it comes to battling ManU for the Prem. On the bright side, if Eduardo's limb doesn't heal, I'm sure he could always marry Paul McCartney.

As if the leg snap wasn't sickening enough, Tottenham fans have been taunting me about their big win this weekend. That's right, they're now the proud owners of the 2008 Carling Cup. I'm not saying it isn't a prestigious title, but personally, I'd walk with more swagger if my Syracuse Orangemen had won the NIT. The preseason NIT. Still, a cup is a cup and if it makes Relegation Zone Mikey feel good about himself for a couple of hours, then God bless. That is, if your idea of feeling good about yourself is bitch-slapping a pint of Guinness onto your mate's lap because he refused to fellate Juande Ramos with you. Turns out that the Spurs celebrated in much the same way that RZM did. These guys went out to toast their victory and The Source Awards broke out.

Ledley King, finally back after an injury-ravaged season, was thrown out of a London nightclub when he got too drunk to stand up and tried to do a Kimbo Slice on the club's bouncers. Instead, he fought more like Posh Spice and was dragged away by teammates like Jermaine Jenas, who apparently had a few Carlings himself.

By the way, the undercard that night was Danielle Lloyd, former Miss England and girlfriend to anyone who makes at least $100k a week kicking a ball, vs. Joanne Beckham, whose brother makes even more than that bending a ball, which frankly was probably a better match than the Carling Cup. So maybe I picked the right weekend to be out of town, after all.

Well, that settles it then. Arsenal' s wonder season is over, lost in the Oceanic 815 wreckage of its two colossal Cup defeats , first to Tottenham and now to Manchester United. There is nothing to live for and the only thing left to do is to off oneself, like, say, Owen Wilson. This way, if you survive, there's always that chance Sir Alex will invite you to United's victory orgy at Ronaldo's place

At least that's what you would have thought had you walked into Kinsale Tavern after Saturday's 4-0 Gooner humiliation. Everywhere you looked, there were ManU fans clinking their pints, singing their stupid songs and waving a fistful of $20s in the air (at last count Dubliner Dave had won $120, which covered nearly half his bar tab). But what was odd was that they were joined in their delirium by people who normally steal their hubcaps rather than cheer for them. Yes, so many Liverpool supporters were whooping it up with their hated Manchester rivals, there was barely enough space on Arsenal's grave for the Tottenham scum to dance their pathetic Carling Cup jig. Ah, nothing like a good Arsenal dickstomping to unite the world. Maybe the Shiites and Sunnis would like to join in.

Of course, only 90 minutes earlier those two-faced Scousers were on their own suicide watch, after losing to Plucky Little Barnsley at the death. Lingering Bursitis and his mates were so desperate to take their minds off their own sorry-ass debacle that they took comfort in standing shoulder to shoulder with the United mob and bellowing "Same Old Arsenal. Always Cheating" when Adebayour dove comically in the box.

You couldn't really begrudge the United fans their giddiness. They had not only ass-raped their fiercest rivals in the FA Cup 4-0, they had trussed us up and put a ballgag in our mouth. (Forgive me, I've been reading the New York Post a little too much lately.) I mean, what could better than that? Uh, winning the league, perhaps.

Let's try to keep some perspective here, people. Arsenal sucked balls on Saturday, but last I
looked — which is roughly every thirty seconds — we're still five points clear at the top of the Prem and hosting Milan on Wednesday in the Champions League. Think of it like losing the ACC Tournament but ending up in the Final Four. That was the spin I was using with my Arsenal wingman Raj when things started to get ugly Saturday.

Raj is the former college linebacker who still looks like he could turn a bar into a parking lot at the slightest provocation. "This is the same shit we went through after the Spurs game," I reminded him, "and we didn't exactly fall apart, did we?" Unless, of course, your definition of falling apart is to win four straight games over respectable (OK, two wins were against Newscastle) Prem teams to vault over ManU into first place.

Raj was not assuaged. "I feel like hitting some motherfucker," he said, looking balefully in the direction of Relegation Zone Mikey singing "Arsene Wenger Is a Pedophile."

"Have another beer," I said, forgetting that it was barely 12:20 and he was on his fourth. "All this proves is that ManU's B team is better than our B team and that Wenger is saving our studs for Wednesday's Champions League match against Milan."

This is probably a good time to point out that Arsenal were missing a few key players Saturday — Clichy and Sagna on the flanks, Flamini in front of the back four, Adebayour spearheading the attack and Fabregas pulling the strings at midfield. Yes, I know that ManU was without Ronaldo, Tevez and Giggs, but United is so deep that they can throw on that little porn star Nani and the Scottish kipper Fletcher without losing their mojo. Arsenal, on the other hand, suffers a catastrophic drop-off when Wenger is forced to start his fetuses like Hoyte and Traore in defense. Nani turned Hoyte inside out more times than he did those hookers at Ronaldo's hot tub romp, and I never thought I'd live to see the day where the announcer in an Arsenal game utters the words "Darren Fletcher's on a hat trick."

Still, even with the weakened lineup — actually it turns out Fabregas did play according to the team sheet — and a waterlogged bog of a pitch, there are no excuses for Arsenal's limp-dick performance. Not that Wenger didn't do his best to find them amid the smoldering ruins of another Cup fiasco. Ever the gracious loser, the Frenchman went on and on about the field being a "disgrace," but how about Eboue's attempt to implant his foot into Evra's stomach. What would you call that, Monsieur? The ref called it a red card, reducing Arsenal to 10 men early in the second half. Had he seen Gallas poleax Nani minutes later, the Gunners would have finished with nine players on the field.

Not that it would have mattered. They were outshot 13-1, outcornered 7-0 and outthought for 90 minutes. Indeed, if Rooney had been at his predatory best instead of only scoring one of a half dozen gilt-edged chances, United might have hit double figures.

Did I mention we were five points clear at the top?

When I walked into Kinsale Tavern on Sunday morning, making sure to step lightly around the dried tears of Patriots fans right outside the entrance, I was expecting a raucous welcome. After all, I was rockin' my Giants Super Bowl Champions t-shirt and still recovering from reprising Fear and Loathing in Phoenix with Leitch who, among other things, offered to blow a state trooper — and give him a signed book! — if he didn't search our car.

But despite the fact that all the usual ManU wankers were three deep at the bar in their silly scarves and kits, the place was like a sepulchre. "Who died?," I asked Pauline, the pub's longtime proprietess.

"23 people," she whispered, and I thought to myself "Wow, these kids don't know how to hold their liquor, do they?" And then it hit my addled brain like a Jay Alford sack on Tom Brady. Of course the reason that Kinsale was so eerily quiet — indeed, the reason that 76,000 people stood hushed at Old Trafford on the big screens over the bar — was the one minute of silence to commemorate the 1958 plane crash that killed 23 people, including eight beloved Manchester United players.

Think "We are Marshall" but with Bobby Charlton in the Matthew McConaughey role.

The solemn prelude was the pre-game entertainment before yesterday's big ManU-Man City derby kicked off. Call me shallow, but I preferred watching Jordan Sparks sing the national anthem. After all, I used to cheer for her weak-ass Dad not to get burned by Michael Irvin back in the day.

But there was no cheering at Old Trafford where Sir Alex got all Rudy Giuliani on the Man City yobs and warned them that anyone who so much as tittered during the one minute of silence would be waterboarded — or forced to watch the Liverpool-Chelsea game afterwards. The irony, of course, is that the Man City fans were actually respectful, while the ManU faithful are coping with their grief by selling their commemorative scarves on E-bay (how much do I hear for my Cory Lidle bobblehead?).

Wearing the retro sponsorless jerseys in honor of their fallen heroes, United wandered around the pitch like Britney at the MTV awards as City shredded their lazy defense for two goals en route to its first victory at Old Trafford since 1974.

"They were overwhelmed by the occasion," lamented Dubliner Dave who , according to Pauline, was himself so overwhelmed by the Giants Super Bowl victory that he was doing an Irish jig on top of the bar at 4 a.m. last Sunday.

But what excuse did Liverpool and Chelsea have for their coma-inducing display yesterday? Is it possible Alexi Lalas is right when the Galaxy GM says, in defense of MLS, that, "we don't have a monopoly on crap soccer." Certainly, this nil-nil draw at Stamford Bridge could serve as Exhibit A the next time some British tabloid hack calls the Galaxy a pub team. How eye-bleedingly awful was the match between two of England's alleged super powers? Let's put it this way, it made me hunger for a Kansas City Wizards-Colorado Rapids midseason game played on the football-lined field at Dick's Sporting Goods Park.

Why, I wondered, was I even watching the Liverpool-Chelsea borefest when I could have been in Accra, Ghana thrilling to the joyful and dazzling play at the African Nations Cup? (If only Leitch wasn't such a cheap bastard, I could have pimped his book to all the Deadspin readers from Cote D"Ivoire.) Still, on the face of it, who could have foreseen that with so much high-priced talent on the field at Stamford Bridge, the soccer would be so soporific?

Yes, the Blues were missing Drogba and Essian, but for the first time since Christmas they had Lampard (welcome back, you fat fuck) alongside Ballack (nice open goal miss at the end, you whiny Kraut) in midfield with everyone's favorite mercenary Nicolas Anelka spearheading the attack. At least that's what it said on the lineup sheet, though for most of the game the $120 million troika was largely invisible. And what about all the hooey that Chelsea under Avram Grant was playing so much more attractive soccer than it did under Mourinho? Maybe that was the case in the Israeli's first few games in charge, but Chelsea's style has now become as dour as the black on black ensemble that Tony Soprano-witz flaunts on the touchline.

By comparison, the beleaguered Rafael Benitez looked positively jaunty, even though it's only a matter of time until Anfield observes a minute of silence in his honor. Liverpool may be a sad husk of the team that bestrode Europe only a couple of years ago, but is it his fault that Torres went away for international duty and came back injured? Without their lethal and stylish marksman, the Reds couldn't finish a sandwich, let alone a goal at Stamford Bridge where Liverpool has gone scoreless in its last eight visits.

Let's face it, Liverpool's attacking tandem of Crouch and Kuyt is not going to make defenders crap their shorts no matter how many high balls the Reds hoof into the box aimed at the head of the 6'8" beanpole striker. It never fails to amaze me how useless in the air the robotic Crouch is, and yesterday's three pathetic headers on goal were just more evidence that he will never be a force in the Prem.

Benitez can stroke his poor excuse for a goatee all he wants, but unless he finds a better partner for Torres upfront, Liverpool are in danger of the unspeakable happening — not qualifying for Europe. And if that were to happen, how long do you think their talismanic captain Steven Gerrard would stick around? Yesterday, Gerrard played like a man whose mind was elsewhere, possibly in Dubai where his girlfriend and her two friends were vacationing.

Let's bow our heads and have a minute of silence for them.

I was in a tumbleweed diner in the middle of the Arizona desert on my way to to witness Michael Strahan doing things to Tom Brady's testicles that Giselle Bundchen probably never tried. I looked up at the white-haired waitress and saw tears running down her leathery face. She, too, had heard the news that David Beckham had been denied his 100th cap by the mean new England coach Fabio Capello.

"I can't believe what this world is coming to," she said, handing me my Grilled Cheese Deluxe garnished with parsley and cactus rinds.

"It's tough to swallow," I said, although I feared that nothing could be. tougher to swallow than the lunch she just dropped in front of me. "I mean, it's only a stupid friendly against those ovaltine-swilling yodelers from Switzerland, and you're telling me that he couldn't find it in his black Sicilian heart to put Becks in for 15 lousy minutes?"

"They say he's not fit," she said, trying to choke back her sobs. "Look at the man. If he wasn't in shape, how did he play for the Galaxy? The English just hate American soccer, don't they?"

"You got that right, dear" I said, brandishing my fork with what appeared to be a dead gila monster. "Could you get me a new setup?"

She turned away, sniffling even more loudly.

"Hey, cheer up," I said, "it's not all bad news. At least Maradona admitted today that he cheated the Brits out of the World Cup in '86."

She guffawed and did a jig. Fortunately for me, she stomped on a scorpion that was headed my way.

Let me begin by saying that people who live in pint glasses shouldn't throw stones, but even the 14 beers I consumed at Leitch's party the other night (did anybody know he had a book out? Has he mentioned it?) didn't put me in the same league as Ashley Cole.

My favorite Chelsea player was apparently caught with his kit down last week with a woman who wasn't his wife, the pulchritudinous Girls Aloud singer Cheryl Tweedy. Think poor man's David Beckham meets rich man's Posh Spice.

According to the always-reliable Sun, Cole who had previously shown his class by bolting Arsenal for our bitter London rivals because he felt that his weekly $110,000 wage wasn't worthy of his supreme excellence, cheated on his bird, Tweedy, with a 22-year-old blonde hairdresser, Aimee Walton. And Cashley being Cashley, he did it in high style.

According to young Aimee, Smashley was so drunk during their special night together that he pulled a move out of Big Daddy Drew's playbook and threw up on her on their way to their assignation. Then, for good measure, while having sex he vomited "all over the nice cream carpet." Undaunted, Trashley excused himself and went to the bathroom, swigged a little Listeren, and got stuck in again.

Now, as readers of this column know, I'm not one to praise Cole or, as I like to call him, The Cuntley One, but you gotta give the guy credit: He's a gamer. After an injury timeout, Mouthwashley slapped her "backside so hard his wedding ring left an imprint." (I don't know about you, but I'd bid for that ass on E-bay.)

And speaking of class (don't you love these lazy segues?), I find it rich that I was lectured on Arsenal showing an absence of it by Lingering Bursitis and the gang at Unprofessional Foul after a week in which it was revealed that Tom Hicks and George Gillett, the very classy American yahoos who own LB's beloved Liverpool — at least until they can con some Arab into giving them a few thousand oil wells and a small army to escort them out of Anfield — shopped Benitez' job behind his back while issuing public declarations of support.

Oh, and please don't talk to me about Wenger's arrogance in fielding his uncircumcised babies against Spurs in the Carling Cup when Benitez had such high regard for Liverpool's opponent on Saturday that he started such household names as Martin Skrtel and Charles Itandje. How sweet would it have been had the part-time garbage collectors and taxi drivers from Havant and Waterloo (isn't that a tube stop on the Piccadilly line?) actually held onto their two leads and pulled off the greatest upset in FA Cup history?

H&W is five leagues, 123 places, and a gazillion dollars below Liverpool in the English football hierarchy, yet for 45 glorious minutes they matched the five-time European champions tackle for tackle, pass for pass and goal for goal. When word came through to Kinsale Tavern that Liverpool was tied 2-2 at the half — in their infinite wisdom, the British TV feeds had chosen Wigan-Chelsea over Pool-H&W — the entire bar sang a mock chorus of "You'll Never Walk Alone." In fact, Benitez would surely have been walking alone right out the club exit had he not been saved by Super Yid Yossi Benayoun's hat-trick. Afterwards, the embattled Liverpool manager at least did two things that hinted while his owners may be bumbling fools he still retains a touch of class. He praised Havant and Waterloo on their "courageous" performance ,and he didn't throw up on the nice cream carpet.

This just in: Manchester United and Arsenal have been paired in the 5th round of the FA Cup on February 16-17. Holy fucking shit. Nice to see that the draw isn't fixed.