Mister - Geoff Harwood

The prima donnas of the Barclays Premier League would be proud of us. Handbags, the pundits would call it. Posturing, certainly. But while the whole country is talking about the first all-English Champions League final, we won’t be. A vow of silence is being observed under our roof for the sake of marital harmony.

You see, with the eyes of the world on our clubs of longstanding devotion — Chelsea and Manchester United — it should be better than sex. Instead, with one spouse in each camp, it is a lovers’ tiff that will run until the great referee in the sky blows time. Celtic-Rangers? A petty squabble. This is Family at War and careless talk costs wives.

So tomorrow night I shall be shouting at a big screen near Stamford Bridge for the team I have cherished for four decades. Carolyn will be somewhere, anywhere, far away from me.

In the throes of youngish love a decade ago, the rivalry had seemed a mere irritation, the buzz of her triumphal call from the Nou Camp hailing those red devils’ treble a fly to be swatted away. Then it all kicked off.

I remember when hostilities erupted as clear as day: December 1, 2001. Sir Alex’s hair had been given a three-goal ruffling on the champions’ home turf. Chelsea had arrived in the big league. That lunchtime we sat in the stand at Old Trafford as man and wife. By nightfall we were football divorcees and Roman’s roubles have only made it worse.

Since then a phoney war has set in. Big-match nights are spent together in brooding silence watching repeats of Top Gear with our teams on another channel, lest a throwaway line about Ronaldo’s diving should spark . . . more brooding silence.

There are the icy stares over breakfast at some perceived injustice to your team in the morning papers, the outpouring of feelings about the unmentionable match on the first soul you meet after kissing the missus goodbye. That I surrendered my season ticket to spend more time with the family counts for nothing; it is all too serious for Brownie points.

From a male perspective, when one partner feels a touch amorous in the warm afterglow of victory, the other is, well . . . out of the question. In every other respect, our marriage is strong. We are as one, uni . . . you get my gist. One old man put our situation perfectly. “Football, bloody hell.” Can’t remember his name — funny, that.

With the title come and gone, what the post-Moscow Cold War will bring, heaven only knows. But hey, who cares. Come on you Blues!

Mrs. - Carolyn Wigoder

The ticket did not come cheap — £350 to be precise — but it was worth every penny. How romantic, my friend had said when I bid successfully at a charity dinner for Geoff to go to Stamford Bridge the next day with the Premier League up for grabs. But romance was the last thing on my mind.

To see the back of my husband, leaving me free to cheer Ryan Giggs securing the title on the telly by scoring that goal at Wigan, was all I was dreaming of. The idea of us being together for the closest finish to a season in years was too much to bear.

Yet when we met working on The Times sports desk ten years ago, it had seemed the perfect match; so much to talk about with our mutual love of the game. One day, like all couples, we may need to visit Relate, but not because of football. How wrong can you be. Because you could cut the atmosphere in our house with a knife when the heat is on between United and Chelsea and it has never been more red-hot than now.

For so many years I had travelled the corners of Europe following the beloved club that was my father’s before me, shouting on United for all I was worth that glorious evening in the Nou Camp. It was hard enough giving up my football passport when kids came along; to have a husband who is an even bigger kid over Chelsea was the last straw. The sulks I can stand — just about. It is the gloating that gets me, the smugness. After that day at Old Trafford we vowed never to visit a football ground together again and we never will.

So far the saucepans have remained on the shelf, but only because of the lengths to which we are forced to go to escape the one issue that divides us.Such as the time we went on a romantic weekend to get away from United v Chelsea.

With the match in full swing, a stroll by the sea near Dover seemed the perfect neutral ground: no TV, no radio, no conflict. As so often, though, it went pear-shaped. Back at the car, the words “Diego Forlán . . . 90th-minute winner” roared out on 5 Live with the ignition. With Geoff ready to throw himself off the White Cliffs, we might as well have packed up and gone home there and then.

Thursday will be like any other morning after the match before: grieving on one side, jubilation on the other, all masked by a façade of total indifference. But it doesn’t end there. When Giggsy lifted the Premier League trophy, Sam, 3, declared: “I’m so proud of Manicher United.” I could have hugged him. On the flipside, Sophie, at 5, can sing Blue is the Colour word for word. And so it goes on . . .