It will not surprise you to learn that the most consummate New Labour politician, Trevor Phillips, OBE, is a Chelsea supporter. New Labour and Chelsea are almost indistinguishable from one another, institutions cut from the same cloth.

Both, for a start, have changed the words of that socialist anthem The Red Flag so that it means something very different, if not diametrically opposite to what was intended, literally so in the case of Chelsea, metaphorically in the case of New Labour. Both institutions spent years in the wilderness before suddenly finding enormous success thrust upon them. Both were led by a media-savvy, loquacious and dissembling showman with whom everybody got very, very weary indeed, despite the evident success each had acquired. Both Chelsea and New Labour ditched these leaders last summer for a dour, monosyllabic, stone-faced replacement quite devoid of flair. And both were screwed by Barnsley in the cup. Actually, that’s almost true, too; Labour managed to hold Barnsley in Thursday’s elections, but only just, by the skin of their teeth. You might add as a final point that both New Labour and Chelsea seem to have made themselves fairly unpopular of late. Among neutrals.

Phillips is now the boss of the Equality and Human Rights Commission; he’s an excellent chap, despite his unfortunate allegiance to Stamford Bridge. As chairman of the Commission for Racial Equality he took the unique viewpoint that the organisation should attempt to improve race relations in this country, rather than, in the manner of his predecessors, make them much worse. He also has a skittish sense of humour: in last week’s Spectator he reported how he had enjoyed watching the “Ghanaian hard man” Michael Essien score the goal with which his team beat Everton. And then - and this is the point - he added: “It occurs to me that the Premier League is the perfect metaphor for my message of managed migration and active integration. This is the most successful sporting operation in the world outside the USA, watched in 202 countries, with revenues up tenfold since the early 1990s. It is now turning over £2 billion a year and it couldn’t have achieved this without the 62% of players who aren’t eligible to play for England.”

Ah, well, there you are. Seen from such a narrow perspective, as a bloody Chelsea supporter, you would think that, mate. But the byproduct of that sporting success, of those vast sacks of moolah rolling into your club every year, is an impoverished underclass of smaller clubs hovering forever on the verge of administration. This season alone saw Rotherham, Luton Town and Bournemouth cop that 10-point deduction; Cardiff City, Coventry City and Swindon Town were among the scores of others who somehow kept the administrators at bay for another year.

The immense wealth of the Premier League and the poverty of the rest are inextricably linked; more than that, it is a causal link. How can a socialist politician exult in a process that leads inexorably to the rich getting richer and the poor going out of business? The cynics among you will have already muttered, “Well, there’s New Labour for you” to yourselves.

Another byproduct is the decline of our national team, with greatly restricted opportunities for English-born players to compete at the highest level. That 62% figure quoted by Phillips is probably correct for the Premier League as a whole - Trev usually gets his stats right - but it is not true of the top four, is it? The figure for Chelsea would be nearer 85% and at Arsenal, most of the time, 100%. Lies, damned lies, etc . . .

Let’s agree with him that the Premier League is a better model of integrated immigration than that which we’ve seen in the country at large. Foreign players do not huddle together in frowzy ghettos defined by race and religion, forming a profound antipathy to the indigenous culture that sometimes spills over into extremist violence against the state. Although, having said that, I would pay for an explosive backpack for El-Hadji Diouf, should he ever want one. In seriousness, by and large, the players mix and get on with one another, enjoy living in identical mansions in Alderley Edge or Cheshunt, designed in the style of the influential Tesco School of Architecture, and take part in the same roasting sessions with the same half-cut, crop-topped northern slappers in cheap white stilettos. Perhaps this is what Martin Luther King really had in mind when he mentioned about that dream he’d had.

Further, the presence of so many black African players in the top sides has probably done more to expunge racism from our national psyche than any amount of positive discrimination urged upon us by the organisation of which Trevor was once boss. You simply cannot cleave to a white supremacist position when you’re watching Thierry Henry or Didier Drogba slicing through the opposition. It is self-evidently a nonsense.

But “managed” migration? Is it really? It seems to me entirely unrestrained and unfettered. In a direct parallel with the country at large, it would be properly “managed” if there were quotas imposed, as Michel Platini has suggested. I suppose the most you can say is that at least the Premier League clubs have a vague idea of how many foreigners they have playing for them, which puts them one up on the government.

The thing is, unrestrained immigration has had a similar effect on British football and the country at large; there have been benefits, sure, but in both cases those at the bottom of the pile have suffered.

Familiarity breeds Fergie’s contempt

Avram doesn’t get on with Alex any more; apparently Alex wouldn’t even speak to him after Chelsea beat Manchester United the last time the two teams met - a week ago, in case you’d forgotten. Alex just stomped off in a huff, chomping on his endless bloody chewing gum. According to Avram, that is. I don’t know what happened the time before that when Chelsea played Manchester United, whether or not the two men shook hands affably and had a chat and maybe a cup of tea or a glass of wine.

I can make inquiries if you like, and maybe also ask about the personal disposition of the managers on the other 397 occasions the teams have played one another in the past few years.

If it feeds in somehow, if it helps pique your interest ahead of another groundhog day - Manchester United versus Chelsea in the final of the Champions League 0- then so be it. It could have been Liverpool versus Manchester United, or Arsenal versus Chelsea, mind. Or Arsenal versus Manchester United . . . oh, come on, you know the endless permutations of football today.

This nonsense - the Avram versus Alex thing, the carping from the sidelines, the page after page of speculation and prediction in your morning newspaper - is what we have these days instead of real interest in the outcome of the game. Like most neutral supporters I could not give a monkey’s either way who wins in Moscow; if you stood me up at the gates of Hell and pressed me for a preference, I suppose I’d come down on the side of United, but even the prospect of being roasted for eternity would not compel me to actually watch the game, yet again. Yet again and again. I would rather watch David Miliband, the foreign secretary, read out the telephone directory for Derby and Surrounding Areas naked. We will, however, have this quintessential boredom with us until the Premier League cops its own credit crunch and the bubble bursts, I suppose. In the meantime, Sir Alex, why not give Avram a big hug and maybe a kiss? Hell, life’s too short and you’re going to be seeing a lot of each other over the next year or two.

My Rocket regrets

Ronnie O’Sullivan - an apology. No sooner had I written him off last week as being an inherently errant and temperamental little monkey, than he produced the best snooker The Crucible has ever seen, whacked out an astonishing 147 break, then sailed imperiously into the final of the world championship, at the same time reclaiming his position as No 1 in the rankings.

As sporting predictions go, this ranked up there with the imbecile who tipped Leeds United to win promotion to the Premiership two years ago. Yep, that was me, too. Also last week, I suggested that the future of snooker lay in the hands of the flawless and meticulous Peter Ebdon - who, before the paper had even gone to the press, began to play with all the skill and precision of an extremely drunk David Blunkett.

Anyway, it has all been a magnificent spectacle, and one well presented by the BBC. Here is my updated prediction: O’Sullivan to beat Joe Perry by five frames in the final. I’m really sure about that; put your money down, you can’t go wrong.

Hugh McIlvanney is away

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