Two semi-final first-legs in the Champions League – Liverpool v Chelsea tomorrow and Barcelona v Manchester United the following night – will set the scene perfectly for Saturday lunchtime's Premiership pinnacle, the meeting of Chelsea and United at Stamford Bridge. The golf clubs will stay in the garage that afternoon.

All the world, or at least that part of it acquainted with the Premier League scenario, knows that United could lose to Chelsea and still win the title; their superior goal difference ensures that if the clubs finish level on points when the campaign is over then the trophy will remain at Old Trafford.

But Sir Alex Ferguson hates losing, particularly in matches against the other members of the accepted big four. He will send out his best team – the skirmish at the Nou Camp permitting – and demand that they attack from the start. Nothing would satisfy the old chap more than taking a critical step towards another title at Stamford Bridge.

For Avram Grant the situation is less clear. Unlike Ferguson, he does not know whether he will be in a job when the new season starts. Even winning an unlikely title and a much more attainable European Cup might not save him, such are the demands of Roman Abramovich and his acolytes.

It appears likely that Frank Lampard, Didier Drogba and maybe the two Michaels, Essien and Ballack, could leave London this summer with the presence or otherwise of Grant being the defining factor; he stays, they go, or so the rumours have it. Finding replacements for that little galaxy will test any manager – and the wallet of even Mr Abramovich.

So if Grant wins everything he might be fired; if he wins nothing but stays he will be without several key players. So it was hardly surprising that one of yesterday's papers carried a story which was deliciously timed. It had Chelsea sources proclaiming that they once again coveted the services of Steven Gerrard, the man who will be at the heart of everything Liverpool attempt in the meeting tomorrow.

If Lampard goes, they argued, Gerrard would fill the vacancy perfectly. You can imagine how well that would have been received by Rafa Benitez and those he still trusts at the minefield of Anfield.

That is, of course, as much a part of the attraction of footy as the action on the field. The byplay of managers, the well-planned leaks, the off-the-record briefings, the snarls and smiles, the insincere handshakes, the torment of losing (witness Arsene Wenger as Arsenal's season collapsed) and the pure theatre of it all, good guys and bad, winners and the rest, combine to entertain wonderfully.

To borrow a phrase from another world, let's get it on.


Time to reconsider watching these middle-of-the-night fights

RISING at three in the morning to watch two chaps trying to hammer their opponent into oblivion is not recommended, even if it is a Sunday and even if Joe Calzaghe is defending his unbeaten professional record against an apparent ogre called Bernard Hopkins.

As happens so often in boxing the hype fooled us; we thought it would be a classic, instead it was all rather tedious, apart from one or two cameo moments.

The first came when Calzaghe, showing so much confidence at the opening bell that a critic might have construed his approach as arrogant, walked straight into a crunching right hand from Hopkins. If the Welshman had any preconceived ideas that at 43 Hopkins was past his best he had a rude awakening as he hit the canvas.

Then, in round 10, came a little pantomime as Hopkins claimed he was hit by a low blow and milked the moment with all the thespian talent at his disposal. That great fighter of the past Sylvester Stallone was on his feet appealing for justice for his fellow-American, but the referee took no action against Calzaghe and after allowing Hopkins time to "recover" ordered the combatants to box on. That was it really, apart from some bizarre judging with one wise man – the one who had one eye closed throughout the fight – giving Hopkins victory by a point. The two who really concentrated gave the spoils to Calzaghe by 115-112 and 116-111, convincing enough margins in any language and certainly that of Las Vegas.

There was modesty enough from Calzaghe after the fight. He admitted he had not been at his best, had found Hopkins a tough, clever, awkward opponent and added: "It wasn't my best fight, but I know I won it".

The talk then was of a meeting with Kelly Pavlik, at 25 the unbeaten WBC and WBO middleweight champion, or 39-year-old Roy Jones Jnr. Like Hopkins, Oscar De La Hoya and Floyd Mayweather, both are among the "marquee" names of boxing on that side of the pond.

For the fight to come off Calzaghe will have to go back to the States – or his promoters must guarantee the kind of money that filling the Millennium Stadium would bring, allied to those millions from the pay-to-view customers. There will be at least one fewer of those if the next big fight is in the middle of the night.

Guaranteed to be wolves out of sheep's clothing

IT was a sorry start to the cricket season; Yorkshire opening with a practice match played in biting easterly winds, the league programme being decimated by the effects of a soggy spring and the focus of attention falling squarely on the Twenty20 phenomenon.

In faraway Bangalore the New Zealander Brendon McCallum, playing for a team called – would you believe? – Calcutta Knight Riders, hit 158, a world-record score for this form of the game, as the home team, Royal Challengers, were hammered out of sight in the opening game of the Indian Premier League.

We have had England's players, notably Kevin Pietersen, drooling at the prospect of playing in a £10m winner-takes-all match against the West Indies next year – he has apparently not thought of the possibility that England might lose and come home without a penny of Allen Stanford's money – and hinting that perhaps winning the Ashes next summer might not be the major thing on their minds.

But worse, much worse, than all that was the revelation of a German involvement in cricket.

England have deserted yet another aspect of the game's tradition; they will no longer be wearing the traditional cable-knitted white sweater. The woolly pully is no more. Instead our heroes will be wearing a garment made from something called 'ClimaWarm fabric'. It is an invention of the Adidas group and the blurb insists the new tops "help to keep players' body temperature regulated while being breathable to ensure high performance in all weather conditions".

That's alright then. No matter that wool was good enough for everyone from Dr Grace to Jack Hobbs, Len Hutton, Fred Trueman, Ian Botham and all, we have now gone down the technology route and – for once – you can see why. Remember, it says on the can that the new jumpers can "ensure high performance in all weather conditions".

So now England have no excuses; in the heat of India, the glare of Australia and the chill of Headingley they will turn in high performance levels. We cannot lose.

Thankfully club cricketers are staying loyal to the game's roots with one manufacturer confirming that they had received orders for 750,000 traditional sweaters for the start of the new season. On the basis that Saturday's weather demanded three sweaters at least to keep out the cold, we can be confident 250,000 cricketers avoided hypothermia.

Good luck to Great Leighs now they are up and running

MUCH scorn has descended on the people behind the new Great Leighs all-weather racecourse which opened, in a fashion, for business yesterday.

Britain's first new course since Taunton 81 years ago was supposed to open in October 2006 and owner John Holmes as well as Arena Leisure, who actually manage the racing, have been the butt of many jokes as they have struggled to put in place a facility which meets the stringent demands, not least in safety matters, of the racing authorities.

For yesterday's less-than-grand opening there were no common-or-garden punters, instead it was invitation-only for a group of 300 owners, trainers and guests.

The next new course – Ffos Lan in Wales – is due to open next year and its arrival will intensify the continuing rumbles in the various bars and paddocks of the 59 tracks already running which underline the dilemma in which the racing business finds itself.

Many within racing, certainly in the North, would love to see one of Yorkshire's courses go down the all-weather road, without losing their traditional turf; the argument being that Southwell, just down the road from Newark-on-Trent, is the only all-weather course within easy reach of trainers in the North.

The other side of the argument is that there is already too much low-grade racing, put on essentially for the benefit of the bookmakers and offering prize-money which is little more than insulting to winning connections.

The British Horseracing Authority recently declared their intent to reduce the number of Sunday and winter evening meetings as a first step in cutting out some of the poor-quality races at the bottom level of ratings. But even that gesture will be opposed in some quarters as owners and trainers of those animals judged worthy of a rating somewhere in the low thirties argue that there ought to be races for them.

That debate will rage on without any apparent hope of an outcome which suits all parties. In the meantime, what of Great Leighs?

Unfortunately the invitation to attend yesterday's opening must have been lost in the post, so it had to be the boys at At The Races who coloured first impressions.

The downside was that the grandstand is still not fitted out – hence the absence of the general public – and the road on which the vehicles carrying doctors and vets follow the runners and riders in action is similarly not yet completed.

But on the upside the racing surface is superb, facilities for jockeys (of both sexes) appear to be first-class and the owners-and-trainers rooms and balcony overlooking the parade ring look exceptional.

It has been a long time coming but, at long last, they are off and running at Great Leighs. Good luck to them.

If Johnson succeeds it will be despite this smug duo

MY how smug they looked, Francis Baron and Rob Andrew, as they faced the cameras and the not so belligerent questioning at the press conference at which Martin Johnson was confirmed as the new top man in English rugby.

They were keen, perhaps too much so, to accept that mistakes had been made, without going so far as to suggest who had made them, and they were delighted to be able to tell us that Brian Ashton, the man whose career they had knee-capped, would be staying among the RFU family as head of the national academy rather than suing the britches off Twickenham.

Johnson is held in the highest regard throughout the rugby world and we wish him all the best of fortune in the coming years; hopefully his team will never perform as miserably as England did at Murrayfield this season. That was not down to Ashton, the coaching, the tactics, the weather or even the opposition; England played woefully and some of them at least accepted as much afterwards. That was the match which effectively ended Ashton's reign.

Johnson will miss the two-Test tour of New Zealand this summer – a remarkably accurate piece of family planning, that – and Andrew will manage the team. Quite who will be the head coach, or even the attacking coach, is not yet clear.

Johnson wants Jim Mallinder, the former Halifax full-back now the man guiding Northampton back to the Premiership big-time, but Keith Barwell, the man in charge at Franklins Gardens, promises to do anything – even double Mallinder's salary – to keep him on board for the challenge of next season.

Ashton has declined the invitation to work under Johnson and Mike Catt, the former England centre now learning the coaching trade with London Irish, has insisted he needs time, not least to make his mistakes at club level before being exposed to the glare of success and failure at international level.

No doubt someone will answer Johnson's call – the money will be good, you can be sure of that – and England will get on with the task of winning every Six Nations' title en route to taking the 2011 World Cup in New Zealand. That is Johnson's brief, whether he likes it or not.

It may well happen; if it does then all praise to Johnson and his players. But even if it does those faces from Friday's denouement at Twickenham will still haunt those who run the game. Make no mistake, if England become world champions again it will be despite, not thanks to in any way, Francis Baron and Rob Andrew.

Rob and Baron; put together there is even a touch of the mediaeval baddie about it. Perfect.