Blue Moon of Manchester.

A last-minute goal to win the League, to be crowned champions, to exorcise 44 years of hurt and agony and disappointment of being shadowed by their neighbours. Manchester City won the Premier League, and didn’t they win it in style. Leading courtesy Pablo Zabaleta’s goal in the first half, went into half-time, then came back to concede an equaliser quickly (Cisse made it 1-1). Then the saintly and ‘pacifist’ Joey Barton was sent off for roughing up Carlos Tevez and then kicking out at Sergio Aguero in a fit of temper and petulance. Then Jamie Mackie made it 1-2 to send all the City fans into fits of anger and despair. All this happened while United were still leading 1-0 at the Stadium of Light. “As it stands” became the most famous and quoted phrase of the night, and, as it stood, United were going to pip City to the post and go on to win their 20th title.

As it turns out, City had other plans. They left it too late to score, shocking for those fans who exited the Etihad around the 90th minute only to miss the party of a lifetime. Edin Dzeko scored in the 92nd minute to give everyone a brief ray of hope. And when Aguero unleased an unstoppable shot into Paddy Kenny’s net in the 94th minute of added time (there was a minute left), Etihad erupted into scenes of chaos. Mayhem. Bedlam. Pandemonium. I have never before witnessed such a crazy, topsy-turvy last day of football in my 13 years of following the league. Today was simple crazy, more than madness. Aguero whipped off his shirt and ran, Marco Tardelli-esque to the celebrating fans. The rest crowded around him, jumped on him, exchanged hugs and kisses. Fans did the Poznan, tears of joy were shed. At the other end, the QPR players, who had battled valiantly on for so long and defended marvellously, stood defeated, waiting for the final whistle to be sounded. At least they were safe from relegation (Bolton went down on the last day). And when the referee did blow the whistle, it was the culmination of ten months of careful planning, management, strategy, and hard work (and madness) on the pitch. It all came together in the last minute of the Premier League to ensure that the red ribbons on the trophy were changed for the sky blue ones.

Cameras cut to the fans. There were those who had been there to see City lift the title in 1968, believing it would happen again some year, to be called delusional in the process. People poured into the pitch like water, it was a congealing mass of sky blue-and-red-and-black-stripes everywhere. A fan knelt near the centre circle, unable to hold back his tears. An old man hugged a younger kid, possibly his grandchild. Boys and girls hugged and danced and twirled the scarves, their hearts beating and faces smiling with the indescribable happiness of being crowned champions. Manchester was blue once again, after a very long time. They could sleep comfortably, peaceful in the knowledge that they would be able to set foot into the market/pub/office tomorrow and brag how City won the title. They would be able to troll the United fans. For a change, they would be having the upper hand. For a change, they wouldn’t be the ones at the receiving end of a butt of jokes.

These are times when you realise how football is capable of delivering a range of emotions. Where there is elation, there is also misery and heartbreak. Undoubtedly, football IS the beautiful game. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

Congratulations, Manchester City, champions of England.

Song of the Day: 'Wonderwall' (Oasis)