Tomorrow's lunchtime kick-off should be no different. United on a title tilt, and West Ham ripe for spoiling the party despite already having one foot in Magaluf.

But this is where football presents a difficult anomaly. Any right-minded fan must know that Chelsea winning the title is akin to staying in for the night watching Holby City whilst sipping a flaming sambuca, but the chance to see Ferdinand laying into a breeze block and/or steward, and Patrice Evra scrapping like a nancy .. hmm, these are real tempters.

Then you've got Fergie himself. Forget his squeaky arse, that's just a convenient diversion. But the look of utter dismay on those rosy Scottish cheeks warms me inside like last night's 2am e.coli offering from West London Kebabs.

The reality is that we've got no control over what happens anyway. We are mere onlookers to the Premier League's royal parade, piping up like twats every now and again, and waving those stupid fucking flags. Of course, if anything remotely exciting happens we're jumping around like babboons, calling up mates and making primitive honks down the phone, or texting so frantically it's like we've been on some world record attempt, not to mention decorating internet forums with crass diatribe like our lives depended on it.

But when United pull off a pedestrian 3-0 win as they surely will to end days of intense excitement from wallys who write on internet websites, it'll be a case of forgetting about the game instantly, flicking the channels, and seeing what the Countdown conundrum is.

That's football, my dears. Remind me why we do it again?