Michael Bertin writes regularly about soccer for Deadspin.

There's only one person to blame for ruining Arsenal's 2-1 victory over United on Saturday: Wolfgang Puck. The catering arm of his food empire served the conference I was at last Thursday, the pains in my stomach a couple of hours after lunch blossomed into a wonderful case of full blown food poisoning sometime while I should have been asleep. I don't know if you've ever had serious food poisoning. I hadn't. I always thought it was just a euphemism for "pussy." No. Well into day three, I wanted someone to kill me just so I could get some sleep. I involuntarily tried to do it myself by not eating. Even water tasted funny. The one thing you need to survive, because you're body is dehydrating, and it tastes fucking weird. How is that possible? It's water. It's refreshing. So instead of being at a local, with my mouth under an open tap so I could make lifelong friends with complete strangers, I had the shakes, the chills—underrated band, by the way—the sweats, cycling fevers, a space heater, and, thankfully, a pretty good pirated stream of the match coming from Greece. I also had the run to the bathroom down to about seven steps. No Linda Cohn, no figs, just the exploding diarrhea.

That's where I was when Samir Nasri scored the Gunners' first goal in the 22nd minute. And that's where I was when Nasri scored his second goal in the 48th. For something that was going so well, this was kind of going shitty. I did get to see Rafael do the seemingly inevitable and turn the six fucking minutes of stoppage time—an amount that can only be described as Tratfordian—into a marathon of anxiety. I swear to God, I've worked off a large chunk of my stint in purgatory just having to watch the closing minutes of Arsenal matches this season; and I don't even believe in God. I did consider running to the toilet just to see if I could cause Nasri to score again, but hey, apparently I'm in this for the masochism.

After the final whistle, I did the only reasonable thing. I went and dry heaved. I don't know if it was from the tainted chicken or from the stress of watching Wenger again make time-wasting substitutions that were destined to backfire and almost did when Kolo Toure opted yet again not take the ball to the corner flag to kill some clock.

Happy as I was that Arsenal hung on, kind of bummed I was so sick. Not because I couldn't enjoy the match—and it was fucking excellent fútbol from both sides—but because I couldn't enjoy it with other people. Doesn't matter if it's with strangers at kick off—and I'll be the first to admit that a disproportionate number of American Arsenal fans have a "He was such a quiet neighbor" look about them—watching sports is a little like sex. It's a lot less satisfying when you do it alone.

For all the positives to take away as an Arsenal fan—shit, we beat United with Nicklas Bendtner as our only healthy striker—the best harbinger out of this might actually belong to United. In fact the Mancs should be ecstatic about the loss (and this little bit of tid is just for commenter Wandering Bear). This is only the third time under Fergie that United failed to pick up at least one victory in any of its trips to the other three of the so-called Big 4. The previous two times they failed, they won the league.

So, yeah, I'd still put money on it coming down to Chelsea and United for the EPL (suck it, Barclays), but at least a Champions League run seems a little more of a possibility. And I'd trade being club champions of England for being club champions of Europe. Who wouldn't? Save maybe a Tottenham fan, because, well, that option isn't ever available to them (how's the European NIT going, kids?). Hey, I'm still weak. Cheap shots are all I have the strength for.

But the irony wasn't lost on me that food poisoning was fucking up my enjoyment of Arsenal's biggest win since maybe the 2-0 victory at Milan last March. Revenge is a dish best served undercooked.

Arsenal Defeats Manchester United [International Herald Tribune]
Spurs Dealt Devastating Blow by Food Poisoning [Telegraph.co.uk]

Other televised matches of interest...

EPL - West Ham vs Everton at 10 am on Setanta

EPL - Sunderland vs. Portsmouth at 10 am on FSC

Bundesliga - Hamburger vs Borussia Dortmund at 11:30 on GolTV

EPL - Liverpool vs. West Brom at 12:30 on FSC

La Liga - Real Madrid vs Malaga at 2:00 pm on GolTV

Serie A - Bologna vs. Roma at 2:30 on FSC

La Liga - Barcelona vs Valladolid at 4:00 pm on GolTV

Enjoy the action and follow along in the comment section all day long.

Match of the Day
EPL- Everton vs. Manchester United at 7:00 am on Setanta
The Red Devils are really coming together, especially up front with Rooney and Berbatov. They'll be joined by Patrice Evra and Rio Ferdinand who return from injuries against a struggling Everton side. The Toffees have been extra crappy in their own home park, a trend they'll be hard-pressed to break this morning.

Other Matches That Could Be of Potential Interest to Some

EPL- West Bromwich Albion vs. Hull City at 10:00 am on FSC
If Hull City picks up these three points there's an excellent chance they're going to be tied with Liverpool for second place tomorrow afternoon.

Bundesliga - Bayern Munich vs Wolfsburg at 11:30 am on GolTV
Klinsmann's side looked pretty impressive in their midweek Champions League win. Next stop: Conquering the Bundesliga...then on to Poland.

EPL - Blackburn Rovers vs. Middlesbrough at 12:30 on FSC
It's an all-out battle for mediocrity!

La Liga - Osasuna vs Real Betis at 2 pm on GolTV
No.

Serie A - Juventus vs. Torino at 2:30 on FSC
The Juventus edition of the Air Max '95 was selling for $275 in LA. Is that a potential write-off?

Ligue 1 - Toulouse vs Monaco at 3 pm on Setanta
Monaco may suck, but hey, that's FREDDY ADU!

La Liga - Barcelona vs Almeria at 4 pm on GolTV
Barca is always worth watching if you have some free time.

Serie A - Siena vs. Catania at 4:30 pm on GolTV
Fuck no.

There you go, enjoy the soccer and follow along with the fun in the comment section. Especially if you're drunk and your team is losing. Or about to lose, like Liverpool.

Michael Bertin writes regularly about soccer for Deadspin

Sir Alex Ferguson can go fuck himself. Okay, literally, that might be a bit of a tall order, but he does have a saggy set of B-cups so he could at least give himself a good feeling up. I mean this with the utmost respect, of course—the guy has built a machine at Manchester United—but apparently he thinks his squad needs special treatment.

The Red Devils' manager was quoted as saying: "There is something wrong when Manchester United get seven bookings." Pretty sure he's not saying there is something wrong with his team's play, but with the refereeing or the universe or something. Funny part about it is that the comment wasn't from Sunday's 1-1 draw against Chelsea (when United did indeed collect seven yellows) but from back in February, after United got booked seven times also all yellows and also in a 1-1 draw at Tottenham. That match was pretty much the reason that the league launched its quaint "Respect" campaign this season.

It was actually a re-launch. Three years ago, the EPL trotted out the slogan "Respect the ref, respect the game" with the aim of clamping down on abusive language, diving and mass confrontation of the official. And it successfully removed all diving from the game. This time around the league is setting the "Respect" bar a little lower and just asking that only captains address the official. Basically every couple of years the English need a massive campaign to say, "We're not kidding any more, we're going to enforce this rule. No, this time we totally mean it. Seriously. Why is everyone laughing? Oh look, pies."

Anyway, the weekend rematch of last year's Champions League final and what could have been an epic featuring the return of the EPL's favorite (oops, "favourite") gravity victims—Didier Drogba and Cristiano Ronaldo— turned into, eh, a decent watch, notable mostly for the facts that Chelsea couldn't finish and United couldn't keep their mouths shut. Oh, and Fergie is a giant hypocrite.

Joe Cole had a couple of looks that took more skill to miss than to bury and still has to be thinking he blew the chance to put nine points between the sides, assuming Cole's inner monologue can speak in complete sentences and do math. Of course that would have been irrelevant if Nicolas Anelka had decided to redirect a cross into an open net instead of trying to trap it with his testicles (Obligatory cheap joke: "Oh wait, he's French. He doesn't have testicles").

And after claiming an early lead, United puts its efforts into taking out the TCP (and anyone who knows what the fuck that lyric means, feel free to chime in). Scholes for a late tackle. Ferdinand for dissent. Rooney also for a late challenge. Cristiano Ronaldo also for dissent. Neville for the pre-pube Mexi-stache. Not a one of them was overly harsh: that was Scholes third late challenge; Ferdinand, despite not having the captain's arm band spent as much time sniping at referee Mike Riley as defending; and Ronaldo, took all of five minutes after entering the game to play "'Scuse me while I kiss the ground." Untouched. Of course.

But all of that pales in comparison to what happened at the match end. With around 92 and change on the clock, and after the officials had signaled 3 minutes of stoppage time—and that's a minimum number—Ferdinand fouled Drogba on a header right at the edge of the box. Riley walked to the spot of the foul (the announcers even exclaimed that Ferdinand was being sent off). Even stranger, Ferguson came running out on the pitch. An automatic ejection. The Chelsea fans around me were going nuts. A spot kick with a man advantage for a chance to win. Sweet.

Just as quickly the Chelsea fans around me were all confused as both teams started walking off the pitch. Whaaaa... ? Turns out Riley blew the final whistle, despite the fact that Drogba was fouled (he was still on the ground and needed attention) and the minimum of 3 minutes hadn't passed.

Now, compare that to the last time United collected seven cards, that Tottenham match in February. The Red Devils were down 1-0 when the ref indicated 4 minutes of stoppage time. But play was allowed to continue to 5 minutes so United could take a corner. On the last touch of the match, Carlos Tevez redirected the ball into goal and Man U escaped with a draw.

So, instance A, whistle is blown early to prevent United from facing a kick that could send them to a loss. Instance B, the ref allows play to continue so they can get an opportunity to level (which they do). Yet, Sir Alex spent the post game Sunday complaining that he couldn't complain about the officiating. It's not like United are the only beneficiaries of questionable referee decisions, but man they seem to be the most consistent beneficiaries of them. I don't know. I'm admittedly biased. But that's also a team that somehow conceded all of one two penalty kicks against them all of last season.

In any event, if Ferguson can afford £30 million for a striker who can't be bothered to break into anything beyond a trot, he can probably afford any five-figure fine he'd probably get for just complaining again that United shouldn't be allowed to collect seven cards, seemingly for no other reason than they are United.

The evil fuckers. AKA Manchester United come into the game off of a mid-week scoreless draw against Valencia in the Champions League and they are in need of a win to keep from falling too far back on the Premier League table. Just as United has begun to incorporate Dimitar Berbatov into their attack they've gotten Cristiano Ronaldo back from injury. The world's most decorated player will be making his season debut in the Premier League in an attack that also features Carlos Tevez, Wayne Rooney, and the aforementioned Bulgarian headband enthusiast.

The glorious saviors (that everybody hates just as much as Man U). With a win Chelsea can vault back to the top of the league table and avenge their double loss to Manchester last season. They come in to this home match having scored seven goals in their previous two matches against Bordeaux and Manchester City, and Didier Drogba is ready to rejoin the regular lineup. The dominating striker should benefit greatly from Big Phil Scolari's new system, and his Portuguese imports Deco and Bosingwa. Both players have shown the ability to feed the ball into the striker's position, especially the impressive the fullback whose services have already created numerous scoring chances out of thin air this season.

Now sit back and enjoy what should be a fantastic morning of soccer between England's top two clubs. But stick to lighter beverages for now, there's still plenty of American football to come. Marcel will be back with you at the regularly scheduled time so don't forget to send your tips to marcelmutoni@gmail.com.

I'm big into self-preservation, so if I'm in the path of a hurricane—which having been temporarily relocated to Houston, I am (or was)—it's not going to take much cable news fear-mongering to get me to evacuate. And that's the story of how I became a refugee.

I don't want to make light of the people who took the brunt of the hardship, but my plight hasn't exactly been like fleeing Rwanda to Zaire to escape genocide only to find there's a cholera outbreak awaiting me at camp. I went to Austin. It was an easy choice as it's where I grew up and I've still got friends there. So, I've had smooth, uninterrupted power, cell signals and drinking binges. And my buddy's TV is so massive, he can go split screen and still get two HD pictures up simultaneously that are each larger than mine. It's pretty sweet. If I could get a steady diet of hookers and pound cake, I'd never leave.

There's only one problem. He's got no Setanta. He doesn't even know what it is. To him Liverpool has something to do with the Beatles and United is an airline. But between the two clubs, they've won 35 league titles, 18 FA Cups and 8 Champions Leagues (or historical equivalents thereof). So their squaring off puts me in a Fadó at 6:30 on a Saturday morning.

I've got a theory about watching soccer in large groups (and what it lacks in nuance it more than makes up for in infallibility): The biggest douche in the crowd is always a Manchester United fan. Always. Saturday was no exception. It's pretty easy to hold up when United is playing, but even in the crowded bar the grand prize winner stuck out like a hetero on Project Runway (what, don't pretend like you don't watch it).

Wannabe old school United jersey? Check. Popped Collar? Check. Gel-spiked hair? Check. Nothing with both self-respect and a y-chromosome should ever put effort into looking like that but again, local time, this was before 7 am on a Saturday. I was happy to have pants on at that hour. Who is giving up sleep to groom themselves? And to what end? It's the world's most useless gesture. Attendance rates by women for 7 am soccer starts are lower than those at NAMBLA meetings. Even before he opened his mouth, the guy was a tool.

Then he opened his mouth. Before kick he was singing "You'll Never Win A League." Three or four times. Nobody joined in. Then it was "When Johnny Goes Marching Down the Wing." Also multiple times. Also without anyone jumping in. The latter is a song about Man U's John O'Shea. He didn't march down the wing. He never got off the fucking bench. Have I mentioned it's early? Everyone who's not drinking is hung over. Is it too much to ask if you're going to be an annoying prick to at least sing something relevant?

Three minutes in United went up 1-0 and it could have been 2-0 as the ref might have missed a hand ball in the box. At this point it looked like the Red Devils might be in a walkover, 4-0 or maybe 5-0. Manchester McSingy breaks out the "You're Not Singing" song. Leave it to the fucking English to sing a song about other people not singing. You really needed our help? You couldn't have just irritated Hitler into submission?

In the 27th minute United scored again. Only this time they put in in their own net. It was the first time in four years of league matches that Liverpool had even scored against United. And it was an own goal. Even better, the last time someone put the ball in the back of the net for Liverpool against United (September 20, 2004) it was also a United own goal (by the lovely John O'Shea no less). Four fucking years and you can't even score without their help? That's not a rivalry. That's the Washington Generals.

But in the 77th, Liverpool got a fortuitous bounce off Paul Scholes. Dirk Kuyt fed a wide open Ryan Babel (and Rafa, if you're reading, you should play that guy more) and holy crap, Liverpool were up 2-1. A late blast by Wayne Rooney went wide and the Scousers kept their spot atop the table. They've needed some luck to get points out of every match this season. But, seeing how they finally got the better of United and did it without Fernando Torres, I'm sure Liverpudlians are still over the fucking moon and aren't worrying about their week 1 struggle against Sunderland.

After the cheers of the local Liverpool supporters faded out, yep, my favorite fan was still singing. Still by himself. And about what I have no idea. Does United have "Hooray, We Lost and We're One Spot Under Stupid Fucking Bolton" songs? It's almost admirable that even defeat couldn't get him down. Almost but not actually. It was still just annoying and it made me long for Houston, the city that is its own punishment.

Liverpool 2 Manchester United 1 [Independent.co.uk]

Manchester suffered another blow when Nemanja Vidic was sent off after a second yellow card, meaning he won't be available for next week's huge clash with Chelsea.

• Who's the guy sucking his thumb? Seeing Robinho in that pale blue after envisioning him in a real shade for so long was painful enough, then he had to go and stick in the dagger with a picture perfect set piece ten minutes into his debut. Fortunately for my sanity's sake, a fortuitous bounce off of a Chelsea corner delivered the ball right to Carvalho. The central defender took advantage of his rare opportunity with a powerful blast into a wide open goal. Chelsea went up for good in the second half after an exchange with Malouda on the wing left Lampard free to create some space for a powerful left-footed shot past Joe Hart.

Anelka added a clincher before he was replaced by Drogba, who was making his season debut following injury. Unfortunately for Chelsea (and those within earshot of my screams), John Terry was given a horseshit red card, making him the second key defender to be canceled out of next week's match.

• Still want to sell him? Emmanuel Adebayor was the man for Arsenal, scoring a hat trick in a 4-0 drubbing of Blackburn Rovers. The Gunners find themselves third on the table trailing Chelsea and Liverpool with nine points. Just two points shy of them lies Hull City, the real power of the EPL. The Tigers devoured the Magpies 2-1 in front of thousands of really angry people at St. James Park.

The Hammers played much of the game with just ten men after Mark Noble was sent off late in the first half with two yellow cards. Oh, and after two weeks (Ed. Note: I'm an idiot) this week they produced exactly zero shots on goal. So if you see a glow coming from Alan Curbishley's front door, it's nothing to worry about, just your run of the mill torch-wielding mob.

• Deco Leads the Way. Chelsea was victorious once again in the day's other match thanks to Deco's superb free kick in the fourth minute and a valiant effort from Peter Cech in goal. Wigan controlled the attack for the remainder of the first half, but were unable to capitalize on their multitude of opportunities. Michael Essien provided a boost to the squad just by playing the entire 90 minutes with a sore ankle, although Chelsea's world-class midfield didn't look nearly as sharp as they did a week ago. The win vaults Chelsea back atop the table over Liverpool, who have managed six points of their own despite playing like warmed over dog shit for two weeks.

• A Monday Night Party. There's just one match left in this second week of Premier League action as the Red Devils travel to Portsmouth for a Monday night (3 pm EST) affair. Perhaps that's where Berbatov is hiding!

Anelka was second on the score sheet when he rushed the goalie's line to power in a header off of Deco's deft cross.

Lampard scored the third goal of the half on a penalty following an unlucky hand ball on Portsmouth. Fittingly, it was Deco who added the final dagger when James was unable to deny his blast from distance in the second half. The newly acquired midfielder was one of two Portuguese players to make stellar debuts for Scolari. The other was right back Jose Bosingwa, he of the children's size medium jersey.

Ballack went out with an injury late in the first half and was replaced by Malouda, while Drogba and Essien watched in street clothes. As for Peter Crouch's Portsmouth debut? He touched the ball a couple of times.

• That could have gone better. Newcastle provided the stunner of the weekend, earning a 1-1 draw against the defending English and European champions at Old Trafford. Obafemi Martins hung in the air to put home a corner with his head to give the Magpies a stunning first half lead, but the Reds answered moments later when a Giggs cross was put home by new Darren Fletcher. However that was the end of the scoring for the day, despite good efforts on either side. Manchester was playing without the injured Ronaldo, and Tevez, who is in Argentina on bereavement leave.

Jonas Gutierrez impressed Newcastle fans with a fantastic debut in the Premier League, and goalie Shay Given was equally impressive in net. Manchester tightened the screws late in the contest, but they were never able to get one past the keeper. Their last chance came when Rooney lined up a kick following foul just outside the box in stoppage time, only to see it fly past the post.

• Agbonlahor! Aston Villa put their unsettling offseason behind them with a dominating 4-2 performance over Manchester City at Villa Park. Gabriel Agbonlahor netted a hat trick for the Villains, scoring all three goals in a spectacular stretch of just under eight minutes. The other goal came off the head of Carew via a cross from Ashley Young.

Elano beat Villa's familiar new keeper Brad Friedel from the spot for one of City's goals, the other came from Corluka in the game's waning minutes. The game is airing on tape delay on Fox Soccer Channel if you want to see some scoring.

Rooney's friends are thought to have bought a £9.95 copy of the item and are planning to make him wear it.

The mankini was chosen after Coleen reportedly banned the stag group from raunchier games.

On Thursday, the star spent an estimated £2,500 for a five-hour trip around the island on a £23 million sailing yacht.

The mankini might sound cheap at 10 pounds, but with the weakened dollar, by my calculations that's actually 900 bucks. Seriously, pick a non-recession time to take a trip to London.

Anyway, Kickette had some photos late this past week, as does Unprofessional Foul. Yabba habba, that's disturbing.

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]

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."

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.

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.

If I weren't so filled with the milk — ok, beer — of human kindness, I would loathe Cristiano Ronaldo almost as much as I hate Tom Brady. Here's a guy who after sustaining a small gash on his left eyebrow — oh, the poor baby! — in a Champions League game last year said, "I don't like to look like this, but in four or five days I will be beautiful once again." Here's a guy who in the first sentence of his new book proclaims, "My name is Cristiano Ronaldo ... and I know this name means a lot to those who love football." Yeah, it also means a lot to those who love hair-gel, half-naked Vogue layouts, winking at refs and diving more than Jacques Cousteau.

Is it some sort of cosmic joke that a player who literally prances down the field, albeit fast, can haunt my dreams of Arsenal winning the Prem this season? I mean, it was bad enough that I was busted by Pauline, the longtime Irish bartender/den mother at Kinsale, for brandishing the new Penthouse as soon as I walked in.

"Lots of good articles in there, huh, Dave? " Pauline said to gales of derisive laughter. Tragically, I actually did bring it for the articles; well, one article anyway, in which Leitch's new book is excerpted amid a tsunami of pink. That's the kind of dedicated book editor I am. If one of my authors is published in a skin magazine, I'm man enough to go to the newsstand and buy it (though I think his girl-on-girl pictorial was a little skeevy).

Leitch's issue of Penthouse — when I finally got it back from Relegation Zone Mickey who, as he headed off to the men's room, also claimed to be a book editor — was certainly less troublesome than the copy of "Moments" that I pulled out on the subway later that day. Let me explain. The book was a Chanukah gift from a woman I know in England who, after reading last week's column about my new Arsenal yarmulke, thought it would be funny to send me a tome that featured 150 "sumptuous" photos of Ronaldo, only seven of which appeared to contain any articles of clothing other than a thong. Of course, I didn't know this when I cracked open "Moments" on the no. 6 train and glimpsed an oiled up Ronaldo executing a Triple Lindy.

At least this time he was diving into a pool of water instead of a penalty box. How gay was this book? Let me put it this way: I would have rather had Ricky Martin's photo album of his last beach vacation on my lap than be seen flipping through "Moments." When a passenger across from me gave me a Ronaldo-esque wink, I realized it was time to break out Leitch's Penthouse. Thanks, Will, for keeping me from getting ass-raped.

This episode occurred shortly after I had watched the Portuguese Dancing Queen in his new Bugatti-racing gold boots tear apart Newcastle with his first-ever hat-trick and came to the unhappy conclusion that the Gunners are fucked. To be sure, our weak-ass 1-1 draw against Birmingham didn't help things — will Cesc ever be the world-class player again he was before his injury? — but I'm afraid it's not how pedestrian Arsenal looked Saturday but how scary-good ManU did. You can make the case that Newcastle were a demoralized, rudderless shell of a team after Big Sam was sacked earlier in the week but you can't argue with a 6-0 dick-stomping that could have easily been double digits had it not been for five goalline clearances and any number of heroic saves from Shay Given.

This was a statement game for United, which essentially said "Anything Arsenal can do we can do better." You want sexy football? How about the lightening fast positional interchanges between Rooney and Tevez and the audacious skills of Ronaldo, who somehow cushioned Tevez's hard pass with his first touch, and, in one seamless movement, cooly jinked the on-rushing Given before slotting home to make it 3-0?

There really isn't any way to defend against this kind of improvisational genuis other than to kick Ronaldo up in the air, and even that is useless because he will flop a nanosecond before the tackle can scythe him down. And because he is moving at such warp speed and his legs are such a blur of stepovers and pullbacks, it's well nigh impossible for the human eye to distinguish between him simply kicking the ground and losing his balance and a player barging him over. Far be it from me to feel sorry for pretty boy thug Alan Smith, but the Newcastle forward hardly grazed Ronaldo in the 48th minute, and yet a free kick was awarded at the edge of the penalty area. It's Ronaldo's ability to con referees into giving him the benefit of the doubt that may be the greatest trick in his repertoire. But it's hardly the only one.

On the resulting free kick, everyone in the stadium expected him to unleash one of his surface-to-air screamers, but he cleverly waited for the Newcastle's defensive wall to jump and then hammered the ball underneath their airborne feet into the goal. So effortless was the shot that Ronaldo had a look on his face not of unbridled joy but of smug satisfaction.

It was a look I fear we will see a lot more in the coming months as United prance to another title. The diving little bitch.

I used to think that I'd witnessed some wild-ass shit at my company's holiday parties back in the day. I mean, I once had an assistant who thought he had gotten the ultimate Christmas grab bag, having double-dipped with two different young ladies, only to be punched out on the dance floor by one of the girls. But now I realize that what I thought was outrageous behavior was actually kind of innocent holiday hijinks.

No, it turns out that in order to really experience the true spirit of goodwill toward men, you had to be at Manchester United's party the other night. You know the one where 25 players paid $8,000 each to rent out a hotel, drink and gamble for 15 hours and invite 100 women who were not their girlfriends or wives to play "Shag Your Favorite Footballer."

Trust me, the Minnesota Vikings party boat had nothing on these lads.

One woman claimed she was allegedly raped by 19-year-old reserve defender Jonny Evans. Yet another woman who had sex with THREE ManU stars "shrieking like hyenas and screaming 'get in there' had a perfectly fine time.

"Yeah, of course, why wouldn't it be," she said. "They said I was a great shag."

The English call this sort of group activity "Roasting." as in roasting a chicken, so you can stuff it (and here I've been thinking roasting involved a bunch of old Jews getting together at the Friars Club to tell dirty jokes while exhorting Uncle Miltie to whip it out).

ManU may still trail Arsenal by a point at the top of the Prem, but let's give the Red Devils their due. Coming on the heels of Ronaldo's pool party romp with three $600 an hour hookers, their balls-out performance all but locks up the Hedonism Cup with half a season left to shag. I say "all but" because a fellow Mancunian, albeit one who plays for crosstown rival Man City, 19 year old England star Micah Richards was recently caught on video in one of the city's spacious handicapped stalls having sex with a teenage fan who was multi-tasking his friend at the same time. To hell with Amsterdam's red light district, next time I want to fly my freak flag, I'm heading right to Manchester.

It should be pointed out that this spirit of giving also extended to the pitch. Both ManU and Arsenal were presented with unexpected — and some might say undeserved —gifts in their games this past weekend. You might have thought that United would be suffering from post-party " hyperextended penis strain" (or, as I call it, "a very high ankle sprain") in their first game back, a tough scrap against Everton, and indeed there were signs early on that some of the players were out of sorts. Rooney, for instance, who one British tabloid reported wore a white suit to the party and introduced himself to a fellow reveler with the clever come-on, "you can be Beyonce to my Jay-Z," waited only four minutes to earn a yellow card for going studs-up into Tim Cahill.

But no matter how disjointed and off their game ManU looked, they still have the world's third best player, and Ronaldo was in full Dancing Queen mode on Sunday. Having missed the team's X-mas festivities in order to attend FIFA's Player of the Year ceremony (where he finished behind Kaka and Mesi in the voting), ol' Twinkletoes tormented Everton with his stepovers from the opening whistle.

When he skipped past two defenders in the 22nd minute and unleashed a bending left-footed rocket on goal, Tim Howard had no chance. The Toffees, however, are nothing if not resilient and they harried United all over the park until they tied it up on a leaping Cahill header. That should have been enough to earn them a gritty draw but Stephen Pienaar, a talented young South African, invited Ryan Giggs to tumble over his outstretched leg in the box and the Welshman obliged with a theatrical flourish. Ronaldo —who else? — cooly converted the spot kick and ManU escaped their own "roasting" from Sir Alex who apparently now refers to himself in the required third person. He said of the teams' holiday orgy, "Alex Ferguson has been dealing with situations like this for 21 years and I know exactly what we'll do."

Just for the record, my beloved Arsenal's idea of a wild night out is to have an extra mince pie with their turkey. They don't serve pink champagne and lap dancers at Wenger's nursery school parties for his young team. That's not to say Arsenal didn't get their stockings stuffed. No threesome could have been any more satisfying than Robbie Keane's penalty kick in the 72nd minute; then again, it's been awhile since I enjoyed the company of Megan Fox and Katherine Heigl.

I can only imagine what deluded fantasies Relegation Zone Mikey was having when Keano stepped into the box to deliver what should have been Tottenham's first victory in 20 games against Arsenal. Of course, seconds later RZM buried his head in his hands as Arsenal's peroxided keeper Almunia dived to his left to smother the Irishman's weak effort. Then Kinsale erupted in high fives and shouts of "England's No. 1", an only half-joking reference to the Spaniard's attempt to secure British citizenship in order to play for England.

"Fuck off, you Gooner cunts," was all RZM could muster when we tried to console him. "Hey, consider yourself lucky that you got a draw at the Emirates," we said just as Wenger confirmed his genius when he substituted the tall 19-year-old Dane Nicholas Bendtner for Eboue. Bendtner's first touch went crashing into the net as Tottenham gave him all the space and time he needed to soar above their defense and powerfully head home Fabregas' corner for a 2-1 win which kept Arsenal on top of the Prem. Did I mention that the team in first place on Christmas Day has won the league the last four years?

As for me, I'll return after the New Year. Right now I'm off to Manchester where I expect to come down — and up — a few chimneys.

(UPDATE: And apparently it has been an active day in the EPL today as well.)

It should be a fantastic game, even if they both don't have flawless records. Comparatively, I can only speculate how hyped the Patriots-Colts game would be if one of the teams had a single loss. Preliminary abacus movements calculate that it would probably de-Peter-Kingify by 40 percent.

But Man U. and ... [pause, looks up abbreviation for the other team] A-Nal comprise a historically stronger rival than New England and Indianapolis. Wikipedia said so. And the two don't play again in league play until April 12, but by then we'll be within four years of Darren Daulton's doomsday prediction, so by then our mind will likely concern more important affairs.

So I don't know how you soccer fans here in the States can wake up at 8 a.m. on a Saturday and get jazzed up for a soccer game, let alone any game. But I know ya do. And if you need a prediction, I'll go with Manchester United 2-0, for the sole reason that they've had a longer break between games. I can sense many of you Rockies fans nodding in agreement.

Just kidding. I can't sense a thing — I'm asleep right now.

As Good As It Gets [Sky Sports]

I suppose it could have been worse. The Special One's little rat-faced fugitive terrier might have turned up at Kinsale on Saturday morning and infected us all with rabies. Then again, would that have been any more painful than the poison dart Drogba fired into our aorta in extra time?

So here's the final, gruesome tally for silverware this season: ManU takes home the Premiership trophy; Chelsea wins the FA and Carling Cups; and Liverpool plays for the biggest prize (Champions League title) on Wednesday.

Arsenal? We get to sweep up whatever special treat Mourinho's dog has left for us on the steps of Emirates.

And it's all my fault. By calling for a fatwa on Mourinho's head last week and turning the FA Cup final into a Holy War between Pretty Good and Evil, I had obviously pissed off the Soccer Gods .So I got what I deserved — an execrable game so devoid of any excitement for the first half that the Hague convened a tribunal to look into its various crimes against the sport. Then just when I least expected it, after 116 tense and exasperating minutes and an equivalent number of beers, Drogba struck as only he can, with his 33rd goal of the season. A couple of months ago, I wrote that I thought Drogba, not ol' Twinkletoes, deserved to be the EPL's player of the year for the simple reason that without him, Chelsea is Bolton. For all of Ronaldo's dazzling party tricks, United still have Rooney, Giggs and Scholes to deliver the payload. Who does Chelsea have? Shevchenko? Ballack? Hilario?

(more after the jump)

But even Drogba, despite a couple of screamers from distance, was strangely mute for those first narcolepsy-inducing 45 minutes, when both teams seemed more intent on stifling the creativity of the flair players than in trying to score a goal. "I had to come all the way to New York to suffer this?" asked Anthony Holden, distinguished British author/journalist/poker player/ Arsenal fan." The only thing that can salvage the game is if someone dies."

Holden was jammed into a corner of Kinsale that had been taken over by Deadspinners, who had shelled out 20 bucks to watch the game and drink on Fire Island Leitch's tab (Will, the damage came to $347.50, not including the shattered television screen when Drogba scored). Along with all the regulars like Fifth Place Mikey, Stevie Q, Siggy The Poet, Roma Mike, Norwich James, NewYorkAddick, Tommy the Toffee and Mary the Czech Babe, there were newbies like Dave and Tracy of CNBC, who were bummed that Leitch had opted to attend that tea dance (or was it tea bagging?) with AJ Daulerio in the Pines rather than the Cup final. "I wanted to show him my tattoo," said Tracy, whose left ankle sports the St. Louis Cardinals insignia, the same one Leitch has on his ass (let's just say AJ told me). (Ed. Note: Mr. Daulerio did not accompany the editor to Fire Island this weekend. The editor does very much love the idea of people coming to bars to show him their tattoos, however.) (Hirshey Retort: "Ah yes, the ol' John Amaeche defense—non-denial denials until your memoir comes out.")

When Dave asked me if I thought the first half was worth the $20 cover charge, I replied, "Hell, it wasn't worth the sweat off Maria Bartiromo's balls."

The second half, however, did have its moments, most notably those created by Rooney. The rampaging pitbull ran himself into Wembley's hallowed turf, and had either Giggs' aging legs or Ronaldo's dancing feet been able to keep up with him on his two box-to-box bursts, United would have won in regular time. Of course, a case could be made — and Lord knows, Fergie nearly popped a vessel trying to make it—that United should have been ahead 1-0 in the 104th minute when Giggs slid onto Rooney's cross and forced the ball and Van Der Saar Cech over the line. Was it a goal? Was it a foul on Giggs? Was it a penalty on Essian, who appeared to trip Giggs in the box? I mean it had to be something, right? Please God, make it a goal and I'll stop drinking on Saturday mornings until August. But nothing was given and I ordered another Stella, knowing in my heart that this was not going to end well.

Cue Drogba. The Ivorian hitman carried the Blues on his broad back through their injury-depleted, feud-wearying season (unfortunately, he could not do the same for my fantasy team, Missing Foreskins United, but that was more the fault of our feckless GM Frank Foer), and when all those around him were running on fumes — did anybody else see Ronaldo walking at the end? — Drogba had one more piece of predatory genius in him.

Mikel, the precocious Nigerian midfielder, spotted Drogba with his back to the goal at the edge of the box and slid a pass into him. Drogba scooped the ball to Lampard on his right and then spun around his marker Ferdinand. With great composure, Lampard chose not to control the knee high ball but simply divert it back into Drogba's path, who flicked it over the onrushing Van Der Saar. Fini.

Mourinho, for his part, took off down the sideline, pumping his fists like a man who was desperately trying to save his precious terrier from being run over. In the end, though, it was only ManU that was lying dead on the pavement, a victim of a Drogba shooting.

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]

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]

And the ladies get a look at handsome Cristiano's abs, too. So that's fun.

In other Man City news, Joey Barton, midfielder and crazy motherfucker, was suspended for today's game and the rest of the season after beating the hell out of teammate Ousmane Dabo earlier this week.

• Reading 0-2 Watford. Tough one for Reading. They're hoping to qualify for UEFA Cup competition, but were set back today by a loss to sad-sack Watford. The win doesn't do a lot for Watford, either, they've already clinched relegation. The Reading goal-scorers were Marlon King and Dan Shittu.

• West Ham 3-1 Bolton. West Ham pulls themselves out of the relegation zone with their 3-1 win over Bolton. They now officially suck less than Wigan, who dropped a 1-0 decision to Middlesbrough, and are now proud owners of a spot in the bottom three, along with Charlton and Watford.

• West Ham 1-0 Everton. The Hammers, meanwhile, earned a crucial three points in their own battle to stay in the Premiership. Their upset win today puts them at 32 points, but they still need to catch Sheffield United and Wigan at 35. They play Wigan a week from today... and not to point out the obvious, but the relegation system is a fantastic way to make late-season games between terrible teams interesting.

• Manchester United 1-1 Middlesbrough. We've got a little tension at Old Trafford. It's currently tied at 1-all, Manchester United's hands wrapped firmly around their own throats, with fewer than 10 minutes to play. They're putting on some pressure, but if they fail to get a go-ahead here in the next few minutes, Chelsea will have the opportunity to close their lead to just a point tomorrow when they take on Newcastle.

ManU's epic 7-1 dickwhipping of Roma yesterday reminded me of a particularly gruesome torture scene on "24". First, the Italians were jolted with defibrillator paddles, in this case three goals within an electrifying eight-minute span early in the opening half. Then they were poked by a smoking hot scalpel otherwise known as Christiano Ronaldo, who scored twice within five minutes. Finally, in the 81st minute when the substitute left-back Patrice Evra — Patrice Evra, for God's sake! — lashed in a near-post drive, Roma — not to mention the once formidable reputation of Serie A — was hung on a hook like a carcass in a butcher shop for all the soccer world to gaze at in a mixture of awe and horror.

And, believe me, I felt their pain. I am, after all, an Arsenal fan, and I have been raised to believe that ManU is the embodiment of all that is evil in the universe. Of course, the last few years have taught me that is nonsense, and that ManU is a mere irritant compared to those scum-sucking Chelsea mercenaries and their preening Fayed-like boss, Jose Mourinho. It took Jack Bauer garrotting a steel chain around the "24" villain's neck to stop him from unleashing hell on earth, and now I fear it will require an equally heroic effort to keep ManU and Chelsea from meeting in the Champion's League final after Essien's wonder strike at the death kept the Blues alive.

(more after the jump)

Realistically, only Liverpool — does anyone fancy Milan's chances after yesterday? — stands in the way of that colossal showdown, and I don't care if Crouch is an ungainly bastard and Bellamy a putter-wielding psycho, I say, c'mon you Reds! Yes, I've been reduced to rooting for Liverpool, because, if you haven't noticed, Arsenal is the only one of the so-called Big Four not in the semi-finals. But hey, if we beat Bolton this weekend, we still have a shot at fourth place in the Premiership. Oh, I forgot, you can't win if you don't score goals, and the Gunners have been firing more blanks this season than Howard K. Stern.

But I am not here to wallow in Arsenal's sorry-ass plight. I am here to give ManU its props for what may have been the greatest exhibition of attacking football since HarperCollins United sliced and diced the New York Times 5-0 on four goals from former Columbia All-America Tommy McMenemy. But seriously, the impudent ease with which ManU shredded the Roma defense conjured memories of another glorious night and begs the question: Is this current ManU juggernaut better than the legendary treble-winning side of 1999? And for the answer, I turned to my friend Luke Dempsey, whose children proudly bear the middle names of Solskjaer and Cantona. Here's his breakdown:

May 22, 1999, was as much about the players who got us to the final as it was those who actually played on the night. Keane single-handedly won the semi-final second leg in Italy — don't forget we were 2-0 down in that game, and he got an early yellow so knew he'd miss the final, but he ran on every blade of grass to get us to Spain. Scholes had had a great season too, but he didn't play in the Nou Camp. (We started with Blomqvist in midfield. Ahem.) That said, Beckham was at his very best that year — if you watch the last 10 minutes of the final (as I still do every other weekend eight years on), he basically won the game for us. We had Schmeichel in goal, too; Van der Saha [sic.] scares me.

But now? Rooney and Ronaldo (vs. Cole and Yorke) and Giggs (vs. well, er, Giggs) win the comparison easily, and even Smith was scarily good. Carrick showed he's the best passer currently playing in English football (and he scored two cracking goals — to my eye he's the central midfield version of Beckham without the set-pieces). Scholes didn't play, redux; Fletcher came in and will be unlucky to have to sit down for the semifinals. Our back four, even with John O'Pie on the right, was excellent — Wes Brown is back to his best, and Heinze looked like he cared again. Our bench last night, though, was Richardson (lord save us), the legendary Solskjaer, Evra — oh, and Eagles, Dong and Cathcart. In Barcelona we brought on Sheringham and Solskjaer, both of whom scored. So the starting 11 now is better than eight years ago — but can Smith and Fletcher and Brown and the rest of the bench play like that again? (Don't underestimate how crap Roma were at the back, either. They gave up after Rooney's goal.)

But there's one other thing that's more significant: 1999's team won three trophies — we've won squat. And in 1999 there wasn't a formidable opponent standing in our way. Much as Chelsea play the worst kind of boring, hyper-fit soccer, they barely ever lose. We could play them three times in May and win nothing. That's the greatest test.

As for me, I'm about to board a plane to London. Back in February, I had booked a non-refundable ticket thinking I would catch Arsenal's Champion League or FA Cup match. Instead, I get fuckin' Bolton. Arrrgh!

Because we're in the mood to be kind of cheap today. Sometimes, circumstances collide to provide, in the midst of chaos, a rare moment of truth.

(Via Knees Up Mother Brown)

• 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.

• West Ham 0-1 Watford. West Ham was the only Premiership team to lose in the FA Cup today, and it came at the hands of another Premiership team. Watford is that for a little while longer, anyway. The good news for West Ham is that this particular loss isn't a league game, so their status as the first team in the relegation zone isn't threatened. They've still got that going for them.

• Manchester United 0 1-0 Portsmouth. Another game between two Premiership teams, and it's scoreless through about 70 minutes. Wayne Rooney just entered the game about minutes ago for United ... they've had the better of the play so far, but haven't been able to poke one home. Oh, they just did ... look at that, right on cue. Wayne Rooney with a right-footer from the top of the six-yard box, converting the cross from Ryan Giggs... I feel like I'm liveblogging.

FA Cup Scoreboard

• 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

"Could I have two bullets?" - when asked 'If you had one bullet and Victoria Beckham and Arsene Wenger were in the room, what would you do?' in 2004.

"It's getting tickly now. Squeaky-bum time, I call it" - tickling Arsenal's undercarriage in 2003.

A mid-week team go-karting trip apparently worked wonders for Liverpool, as they got a 2-0 win over Reading today. Dirt Kuyt (what is it with guys named dirk and scraggly blonde hair?) scored twice, and Liverpool continues to right the ship since their disastrous start to the season.

The good news for Watford is that their win over Middlesbrough yanked them out of the relegation zone. The bad news is that striker Marlon King has been ruled out for the season, and they still dress like they work at McDonalds. Middlesbrough, themselves just a couple of points ahead of Watford, might as well have played today with the words "Relegate Me" printed across the front of their jerseys. Their coach argues that they don't lack heart or character, they just aren't very good at soccer.

English Premiership Scoreboard [Soccernet]

• Arsenal 3-0 Watford. Arsenal is comfortably back to their ass-beating ways, stomping out Watford by a score of 3-0, marking the Gunners sixth straight win. Watford actually had their fair share of chances, but the only one they were able to put home was an own goal from Jordan Stewart. It was also the Premiership debut for young Theo Walcott, who looks like a really well-built 11-year-old. He slid into Robin van Persie's spot after his two-goal performance earlier in the week for England's under-21 team.

• Wigan 1-3 Manchester United. At different points throughout today, Manchester United was losing to Wigan, and then held a three-point lead over Chelsea at the top of the Premiership standings... both of them managed to change. Wigan led the entire first half on a fourth-minute goal from Leighton Baines, but United came out in the second half and treated Wigan like Wisconsin's currently treating Minnesota. Ryan Giggs, who hadn't played in a month, made all the difference. And Chelsea went on to beat Reading in the late game, so they're again knotted at the top of the standings.

Other scores:

Reading 0-1 Chelsea
Portsmouth 2-0 West Ham
Middlesbrough 2-1 Everton
Manchester City 0-0 Sheffield United
Liverpool 1-1 Blackburn

Watford 1-2 Manchester United. The Red Devils continue their hot start, downing Watford today behind a Ryan Giggs game winner in the 52nd minute. United is now 3-0. The good news for Watford, though, is that they can spend their off-days working at McDonalds in those uniforms.

Tottenham 0-2 Everton. Despite Kevin Kilbane's ejection at the 32-minute mark for compiling two yellow cards, Everton hung on to spank Spurs, 2-0. The loss leaves Tottenham with just three points in their first three games, despite opening against Bolton, Sheffield United, and Everton. I'm glad I didn't go with them as my preferred team, especially since...

Manchester City 1-0 Arsenal. CITY! (clap, clap) CITY! (clap, clap). A Joey Barton penalty kick in the 41st minute held up for City against Arsenal, giving them the huge upset victory that makes me damn near giddy. Arsenal doubled City up in both shots and shots on goal, but sometimes, a team like City can win a game on just pure awesomeness.

Elsewhere...

Liverpool 2-1 West Ham
Charlton 2-0 Bolton
Wigan 1-0 Reading