The Right Honourable Sir Brian Mawhinney (Baron Mawhinney to his numerous friends, and top dog of the Football League) is a man of remarkable standing and achievement.

Educated at Queen’s University, Belfast, and Iowa, he has a degree in radiation physics. He’s a Privy Counsellor and a former Secretary of State. He is also a Knight Bachelor. That, as you know, means that he is a member of a special but little-known order of bigwigs in Britain that also happens to includes such notables as Paul McCartney and Anthony Hopkins.

They’ve been swanning about since the reign of Henry III, but in a very low-key way, for they had no official insignia to mark them out from your common or garden knights of the realm.

Then, in 1926, King George V issued a warrant authorising the wearing of a distinctive badge on all appropriate occasions. The rules about it are pretty precise. The emblem may be worn on “the left side of the coat or outer garment of those upon whom the degree of Knight Bachelor has been conferred”.

Measuring, according to heraldic law, “2 inches in width”, it comprises “an oval medallion of vermilion, enclosed by a scroll a cross-hilted sword belted and sheathed, pommel upwards, between two spurs, rowels upwards, the whole set about with the sword belt, all gilt”.

But for a man of such panoramic accomplishments and wearing such a snazzy badge, Sir Brian is, in one way at least, a dolt. His high-profile support for the Football League’s investigation into the possibility of abolishing draws unmasks him as a cheese-brained dunderhead, unfit for high office.

Baron McW baldly defends this preposterous scheme by saying that it’s the ruminations of some shadowy committee whose remit is to ensure “the Football League’s product remains distinctive”. He also sees the plan (with penalty shoot-outs deciding a winner in the event of the teams finishing level) as a means whereby he can “get the League into a position where we could adopt the strap-line for our games: ‘We guarantee you excitement.’ ” In the end, though, the cloud of guff clears and the real reason for all this tomfoolery becomes clear. It is, of course, the same reason as always: “Clubs will have an additional commercial opportunity between the end of the game and the beginning of the shoot-outs.”

OK, so it’s not the end of the world if the Football League wants to tart itself up a bit. And with road tax on Range Rovers going up, footballers’ wives will definitely be pleased to hear that “clubs will have an additional commercial opportunity”. But, honestly, the one thing that people such as Sir Bri should not be messing around with is the draw.

Let’s not b around the b here. One of the bedrock reasons why football is more popular than any other sport is that it is very hard to score a goal. Hell, for half the teams in the world, it’s well nigh impossible. Thus games are close and, most crucially of all, superiority (unlike in other sports) is not easily, or always, translated into victory. The best team doesn’t always win. Do away with the draw and you do away with the value of a heartrending, last-minute equaliser.

And, truthfully, is there anything more wonderful in the entire universe of sport than a great football match in which both teams run and harry and pass and move and manoeuvre and tackle until their lungs and legs are burning jelly and yet, at the end of all that endeavour, no one comes out on top? The teams reach an exhausted, spent stalemate. It’s a draw. Maybe not a result that suits television moguls or marketeers, but a noble result, a very human result.

Football fans like their teams evenly matched. Football fans like the contest to be close. Football fans don’t want teams being too easily separated. It’s the reason why the most famous and marvellous league table of all time (certainly among anoraks like me) comes not from these shores, or even from the mighty likes of La Liga, Serie A or the Bundesliga. No, the most toe-twiddlingly close table of all time (one where the whole league was more or less a draw) comes from the lower reaches of Romanian football in 1983-84. Remember, this comes from the days when teams got only two points for a win. Take a deep breath and feast your eyes on the final table, right.

Check it out, Sir Brian of the Knights Bachelor. Nine teams with exactly the same points! Just two points between the runners-up and the second bottom! And most of the teams with the same name! Is it not a thing of beauty? Why would anyone with their rowels upward want to mess with such a gorgeous apparition?

Romania Divizia C, Seria A VIII-A, 1983-84

1 Meresul Deva 30 38
2 UTM Timisoara 30 31
3 Mecanica Orastie 30 31
4 Minerul Paroseni 30 31
5 Minerul Moldova-Noua 30 30
6 Minerul Stiinta Vulcan 30 30
7 Metalul Bosca 30 29
8 Dacia Orastie 30 29
9 Minerul Certej 30 29
10 Metalul Otelu-Rosu 30 29
11 Minerul Anina 30 29
12 Victoria Calan 30 29
13 Constructorul Timisoara 30 29
14 Minerul Oravita 30 29
15 Minerul Ghelar 30 29
16 Minerul Aninoasa 30 28