Manchester City 0 Manchester Utd 1: In an ideal world Alex Ferguson would rather have won the league at Old Trafford, but as an alternative Manchester United's supporters will cherish the fact their ninth coronation in 14 years was preordained at a stadium where employees are forbidden to have red company cars and, no kidding, diners in the executive lounges splash blue ketchup on their chips.
The crowning of Ferguson's team as champions is so galling for one side of this divided city that one anguished City supporter hurled his blue and white scarf at Wayne Rooney as he came to the dugout after being substituted in the final moments.
Rooney looked at what had landed at his feet, then contemptuously ground his studs into it. As put-downs go, this was brutally choreographed chutzpah.
Not long afterwards it was Rooney's turn to be discarding items of clothing as the final whistle sounded and, one by one, the victorious United players pulled off their shirts, shin-pads, socks and other sweaty souvenirs to toss into the away end. Cristiano Ronaldo made traffic bollards of the panic-stricken stewards just as he has done with opposition full backs all season and eventually left the field wearing nothing more than his white shorts and a pair of diamond earrings.
Ferguson did that strange little uncoordinated victory jig and it was here, in these moments of euphoric celebration, that the United fans knew that, however galling the 3-0 pasting in Milan last week, this would be a Premiership season to treasure.
The chastening experiences of a rain-soaked night at San Siro will occupy Ferguson's thoughts long into the summer but the sense of anguish will be forgotten when he gets his hands on the cold, metallic piece of job satisfaction otherwise known as the championship trophy after Sunday's game at home to West Ham. Nor will it matter to him that United looked so sluggish in reminding maligned and, in Michael Ball's case, unpleasant opponents that, truly, the only thing they have in common these days is the first letter of their postcode.
United have thrilled us with such beguiling frequency, accumulating more goals than all but one of Ferguson's eight previous title-winning sides, that they can be forgiven for having a rare day when they failed to scintillate.
The cold reality, and it is a reality which could spell the end for Stuart Pearce at Manchester City, is that their opponents were so sterile in attack, so bereft of ideas, that the leg-weary lot from Old Trafford sussed out pretty early on that they could get by without striving much.
The consequence was a match of high stakes but low, occasionally subterranean quality, with one side content to sit on Ronaldo's penalty and the other, in Ferguson's words, "not trying to win". Observers deprived of the full information could have been forgiven, indeed, for wondering whether they had stumbled across a meaningless mid-table kickabout rather than a championship-deciding derby. Even the pitch invader was hopeless.
There were certainly none of the pyrotechnics that had been predicted ever since it became clear this fixture would be telling. United's was a game of keep-ball, their most lauded players noticeably weary after the trip to Italy.
City huffed and puffed but they had no guile to break down the United walls and there was something extraordinarily predictable about the way Darius Vassell scruffily squandered his 80th-minute chance to equalise from the penalty spot.
Pearce is a hugely admirable character and there will be many sympathisers if, as expected, he loses his job this summer, but the arguments for him are undermined by one shocking fact: City's total of 10 goals at home is the lowest total of any top-flight club in 119 years of league football.
On the face of it there is not much else wrong with City but the imbalance of talent with their neighbours is so immense the home players seemed to have no idea of what was required to delay United's glory. Instead, Ball resorted to bringing down his studs into Ronaldo's ribs when the referee, Rob Styles, had turned his back and thereafter spent most of the match trying to direct the Premiership's footballer of the year to the nearest hospital.
The beauty of Ronaldo is he takes revenge on kvetch kickers by making them look stupid and there was poetic justice that his quick footwork bamboozled Ball into conceding the decisive penalty. It was supremely fitting he should score the goal that had fans joyously heading for Sir Matt Busby Way last night.
- Guardian Service
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