Foul Play: High Noon

Game on. It might have been supposed that the title race of two years ago, when the two Mancunian superpowers slugged it out until the last minute of the last game, couldn’t be surpassed for sheer drama. But this Premiership season has brought us a cliffhanger to match, a stunningly satisfying shootout between three extremely potent sides.

There is the added drama of Manchester United’s shocking implosion, which has given devoted ABU’s hours of exquisite pleasure after the agonies of their 20-year reign of terror. There is an intriguing race underway between a rapidly-atrophying Arsenal and a constantly-improving Everton for the fourth Champions League spot. There is also a deeply compelling relegation battle afoot, involving about half the clubs in the top flight. But above all, the scuffle for supremacy atop the table is truly one to savour. Foul Play most certainly hasn’t an earthly clue who’s going to win it, and neither does anyone else, the combatants included.

England’s top flight isn’t yet a perfect ecosystem; no league in sport is, with the probable exception of America’s NFL. The Premiership remains inherently structurally divided between haves and have-nots, and will continue to for as long as the prevailing rules of Western capitalism apply. The fans are exploited to a very significant extent, the owners are by and large a thoroughly disreputable bunch of stinking-rich crooks, the on- and off-field behaviour of many of the players could do with some improvement, the referees and managers are routinely treated like shit and subjected to indefensible levels of abuse, and the refusal to use technology to minimise mistaken decisions looks more and more pigheaded with every result that ends up warped by avoidable human error. But in terms of the pure excitement levels, there’s no arguing with the riches on display. Finally, we have a beautifully-balanced league which fully deserves all the attention its fans lavish upon it, not something you could honestly have said ten or fifteen years ago.

If you’d speculated before the season started that it would be a three-horse race, nobody would have batted an eyelid, but it might have reasonably been assumed that United would be one of the trio in question, with Liverpool in the role of by standers aspiring to fourth place. They finished eighth and seventh in the two previous seasons, a wholly accurate reflection of their general strength. Now they stand top of the pile, and for the life visibly overflowing with confidence. They look as if they are already at least one-nil up every time they take to the field: there is a fearless, swashbuckling enterprise about their play, possibly born of the fact that they know no-one will judge them too harshly if they do come up short. They’ve banged in 88 goals in 32 games thus far, the highest scoring rate witnessed in England’s top flight since 1945 (not a misprint). The Reds are finishing like an express train: Arsene Wenger’s first title-winning Arsenal side, in the spring of 1998, were the last team that looked quite this relentless.

Chelsea, favourites about ten days ago, have slumped right back in the betting to a dismissive 7/1 in the wake of John Terry’s heroic own-goal at Crystal Palace, a setback which has caused many respected observers (their manager included) to declare their title challenge over. This is surely a ridiculously premature over reaction, given that a win for the Blues at Anfield would transform the picture completely, in exactly the sort of fixture Jose Mourinho routinely specialises in (he remains the only manager to avoid defeat at Man City’s Eastlands fortress this season, and not content with a draw, emerged with all three points).

The self-styled Special One has laid it on a little too thick all season with his constant protestations of underdog status; his squad is one of the most expensively-assembled on the globe. It is, though, hard to escape the impression that he has a valid point when he laments the Blues’ lack of firepower. 62 goals all season (City have 80, having played two games fewer, and Liverpool 88) is a little short of what would normally be required to win, and there is no real sense that they have a higher gear to find, the distinct impression all season being that Chelsea’s results have outstripped their performances. It would be daft to count them out, but they do look a notch or two below City at their best or Liverpool in their current state.

The possibility now looms of a Pool-City showdown at Anfield which, if the teams harvest maximum points from their other assignments, will decide the destination of the title (very possibly on goal difference). If it comes to pass, don’t expect a cagey chess match: these teams are built to attack without mercy, while both can err on the side of slackness defensively. Pool’s approach is more direct, based on breaking at speed, crucifying teams on the counter, often more or less bypassing midfield. City’s method is the more intricate, with breathtakingly precise build-up play and swift interchanging of positions. David Silva is in godlike form right now, they will soon be welcoming back the mighty Aguero, and if it is to come down to a matter of trading bullets, one still suspects Joe Hart to be a better bet between the sticks than his Reds counterpart Simon Mignolet. Foul Play invested quite heavily on City back in August at 9/4: I don’t regret it, but I deeply regretnot taking a saver on the ‘Pool at 14/1 round about Christmas (it certainly crossed my mind more than once).

North of Hadrian’s Wall, the eyes of the world may have been largely directed elsewhere when Celtic won the Glasgow derby 5-1 (at Partick Thistle) to seal their third straight title, an achievement on which it would be almost pointless to congratulate them, so pathetic has been the level of opposition. Hoops goalkeeper Fraser Forster deserves plaudits for keeping about a dozen clean sheets in a row, but the reality is that he could easily have laid down between the posts and fallen asleep for ninety minutes every week without jeopardising Celtic’s title challenge unduly.

At the other end, to the dismay of my dear Uncle John (happy 75th!) Hearts are surely sinking down to the wastelands of Division One, but not before reprising their time-honoured routine as eternal tormentors of Foul Play’s first love Hibs, having sunk us 2-0 on Sunday in a derby which had looked all set up to be a joyful celebration of Hearts’ relegation.

With Hibs having lost four in a row and looking every bit as hopeless as ever, safety is no longer assured: the possibility now looms of a relegation play-off with Hamilton Academicals or Queen of the South or someone like that, an encounter we would undoubtedly be more than capable of losing. And with Rangers all set to stalk the First Division next season, there would be no guarantee of a swift return.

Would I trade a City title triumph for a guarantee of Hibs safety? Hmm. Can I think this one over for a little longer?