THERE was a caller to David Mellor’s Radio 5 phone-in show a few years ago who chatted about one of the weekend’s games and then said, apropos of nothing: “By the way, David - you’re a ****.” He was quickly taken off the air and the BBC issued a magnificent apology, the first words of which I still remember clearly to this day: “We are very sorry that your enjoyment of the programme was spoiled . . .”

Yes indeed, our enjoyment spoiled, egregiously so.

Much as my enjoyment of the Champions League final was spoiled by the sending-off of the likeable and humble Didier Drogba. And then spoiled even further when poor Cristiano Ronaldo missed a penalty. And then, even worse, the equally likeable and humble Nicolas Anelka missing his spot-kick and therefore not getting a chance to do that flappy bird thing with his hands. And John Terry blubbing on the pitch - that put a real crimp in my evening too, I can tell you.

In fact I cannot remember a televised game of football in which my enjoyment has been so comprehensively spoiled since Eric Cantona executed that scissor kick against a gobby Crystal Palace fan at Selhurst Park all those years ago. On that occasion I actually tore a muscle in my back leaping up in a spasm of spoiled enjoyment.

Wednesday night came very close, though. If you could have chosen four players to end the evening in ignominy, good sense insists it would have been at least three of the four: Drogba, Ronaldo, Anelka. Maybe you would have chosen old Ashley Cole to miss rather than Terry, though it was a close call for me. Heard about Chelsea’s new product, John Terry Vodka? Made in London, bottled in Moscow. So, so unfair.

Ah, it was a great game, for all the good reasons that the serious commentators and pundits extolled - the dramatic shifts in the balance of power, the battle between guile and muscularity on the one hand and verve and flamboyance on the other. This was the 703rd meeting between the two teams since February this year and I had prepared myself for an evening of consummate ennui.

I found myself slightly favouring Manchester United, but only in the sense that if there was a nuclear war between Saudi Arabia and Syria, I would slightly favour the plucky lads from Damascus. Not much in it, frankly.

But great though it was, it was made greater still by those things that decent, sententious people will insist marred the game. The spite, the scuffles, the misplaced hubris, Drogba’s endless sulky, pouting walk to the dressing room. Anelka’s insouciance. And then the blubbing. And Sir Alex Ferguson, the colour of an overripe plum, apoplectic with fury that Chelsea were 30 seconds late coming out for the second half. The ludicrous sight of Peter Kenyon, for reasons unknown to mankind, ascending the steps to collect his runners-up medal (at least Sir Bobby Charlton had the grace to place his winner’s medal in his pocket quietly). All that stuff surely added to the enjoyment for the neutral, none more than the performance - during the match and indeed after it - of Anelka. Not so long ago, the serious commentators were applauding his move to Chelsea, insisting that he was nearly as good as he thought he was, when the rest of us suspected that he had just about found his appropriate level at Bolton Wanderers and would struggle at Stamford Bridge.

Well, his record stands at two goals from 14 starts plus a sackful of substitute appearances. If that miserable tally isn’t sufficient to show him the door at Chelsea, then surely the utter indifference with which he greeted his lamentable penalty failure should be. He appeared to be bored with the proceedings, having struck the ball with all the force and conviction of a Gordon Brown press conference.

After the game, he whined that he was cold, that he hadn’t been given time to warm up properly, that he had been brought on to play in a defensive role, that he had been played out of position all season, that life’s not fair, that it’s not his fault, that everybody else was to blame, etc.

If John Terry’s grief somewhat exceeded that which is appropriate for a game of football, then at least it suggested an intimation of culpability, of personal responsibility. Anelka, like Drogba, never thinks he is to blame for anything. Much like Lampard, Robinson et al when they are playing for England, defeat was the consequence of either blind fate or the failure of others.

As the prospect of penalties loomed, off came some of the English from either side. It was not a terribly good night for our domestic players. Wayne Rooney was largely ineffectual; that wonderful early promise seems to diminish a little with every season that passes. Even more so Joe Cole, yet another modern English international winger possessed of minuscule quantities of speed and little more of guile.

Only Frank Lampard excelled. He, along with Nemanja Vidic, Ronaldo and, as ever, Claude Makelele, were the finest players on display. I would take Makelele down at The Den for a season or two, couple of grand per week if he kept his nose clean and avoided injury.

Still, one way or another, the final worked; it was, sadly for the grimacing Michel Platini, a dramatic spectacle and a decent advertisement for the Premier League.

Roll on next season, when we can have the pleasure of watching the same game again, ad infinitum.

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