Morning:
6°c
For suggesting an analogy for the captivating chase for the Premier League, I am indebted to a bout of the flu. There isn't a lot to be said for this particular virus. If you must succumb, however, Cheltenham week is the time to do it, and despite a feverish, circuitous nightmare involving John McCririck and a gold-lame jockstrap the uninterrupted viewing was bliss.
The one letdown was a Gold Cup showdown which, for all the (Don) Kingly hype that preceded it, proved a disappointingly facile win for Denman when Kauto Star never ran his race. A few hours before this anticlimax, Channel 4 wheeled out Sir Peter O'Sullevan, and seeing the old boy brought to mind the two snippets of commentary I cannot hear without sobbing paroxysmically.
One was Red Rum's Grand National in 1977 ("It's hats off and a tremendous reception," declared Sir Peter, "you've never heard one like it at Liverpool!").
The other concerned what remains the greatest Gold Cup in living memory, Dawn Run's win in 1986 ("And the mare's beginning to get up . . . she's made it!").
Second only to her peerless courage in coming again when apparently beaten, what made this race unforgettable was the sight, over the last fence, of three horses (Wayward Lad and Forgive 'N Forget as well) landing in line and beginning that long uphill slog to the line with barely a neck between them.
This is where we stand today with the Premier League. The race for the title is not a sprint, as you may have gathered, but a marathon, so it's no wonder that the weekend offered signs that stamina reserves are dwindling.
Six weeks ago, Chelsea and Manchester United would have won at a canter, rather than sweatily clinging on for 1-0, at Sunderland and Derby respectively, while Arsenal would not have required a late equaliser to hold mighty Middlesbrough at the Emirates.
Judging by Arsene Wenger's unwontedly phlegmatic tone after a fourth consecutive League draw, he has mentally conceded the title already. Certainly the contrast between Arsenal's domestic and European form suggests they would be wise to follow Red Rum's example by saving themselves for Liverpool in the Champions League.
Chelsea, meanwhile, a bit like Denman-albeit without offering the same aesthetic thrill, plug on remorselessly at the same impressive pace.
If they clear a tricky hurdle at Spurs on Wednesday (and the motivation to avenge the League Cup Final should be enough to secure all points), they will be dead level with Arsenal when the two meet at Stamford Bridge on Easter Sunday, and poised to overtake.
With both Arsenal and Manchester United still to play at the Bridge, technically at least they have the title in their own hands, and on no account can be written off.
As for United, the best balanced and most versatile of the trio, they have contented themselves with cruising in Arsenal's slipstream for months. The question is whether, having finally hit the front, they will find the requisite acceleration when Sir Alex unleashes his whip.
If United do indeed pull away on the run in to make it look easy, it won't be the photo finish the neutral would prefer, but so be it. The three may have reached the final fence at different speeds, but at this precise moment they are in the air together with nothing to separate them, and if that it isn't a sight to revive even the most jaded of flu-laden palates, I can't imagine what is.
