It’s the Bad Dream Team.

Each member has had a season to forget.

They are chapters of accidents, waiting to happen:

Heurelho Gomes (Tottenham): Has the air of a man juggling nitroglycerine when his trousers are on fire. A tragi-comedy made flesh.

Jerome Boateng (Man City): A World Cup semi-finalist who never recovered from a collision with an airline drinks trolley.

Matthew Upson (West Ham): Conscientious objector, masquerading as an England centre half. Failed to show a shred of professional pride as relegation was confirmed.

Sébastien Squillaci (Arsenal): Lacks pace, awareness of space, and aerial ability. A relatively cheap option, but poor value for money.

Wayne Bridge (Man City): Even City baulk at his £95,000 a week contract. A calamitous loan spell at West Ham will not help them to cut their losses.

David Bentley (Tottenham): Blew his last big chance on loan at Birmingham. Nice hair, though.

Stephen Ireland (Aston Villa): A player lost in the canyons of his mind. His career, on the slide since GrannyGate, has been further blighted by untimely injury.

Joe Cole (Liverpool): Whatever happened to the Likely Lad? He’s collateral damage from the Roy Hodgson era at Anfield.

Bébé (Man Utd): Sir Alex Ferguson trusted a DVD compilation, and the advice of former assistant Carlos Queiroz. A rare error, that cost £7.3million.

Robbie Keane (Tottenham): Responsible for more air shots than a 36 handicapper. Restless, unreliable, but has earned millions. Go figure.

Fernando Torres (Chelsea): Can you hear the drums, Fernando? They’re playing a £50million funeral march. Football’s equivalent of a shot fighter.

Ravel Morrison is The One.

He will either be football’s greatest treasure . . or its ­latest tragedy.

He is only 18. The choice between fame and oblivion is his.

He can repay Manchester United’s faith, defy the ­demons and become rich beyond reason.

Or he can revert to type, succumb to self-destructive anger and become just ­another doomed youth.

Last week was a snapshot of a schizophrenic life.

It was shaped in ­Wythenshawe, an estate in south Manchester blighted by the modern evils of gun crime and gang culture.

Morrison was a child of the streets, glowering out at the world beneath a Hoodie.

On Monday he was man of the match as United won the FA Youth Cup for the 10th time.

He scored twice, won a penalty and justified his reputation as the most ­naturally-talented player to emerge at Old Trafford since Paul Scholes

On Tuesday, Gary Neville’s testimonial reminded him of the unqualified love football fans reserve for one of their own.

The principal lesson of Neville’s career – that in ­football as in life, you get out what you put in – has never been more relevant.

On Wednesday, Morrison escaped the prison sentence that almost certainly would have ended his United ­career.

He was fined for criminal damage and, for the second time in two years, his ­girlfriend refused to press assault ­charges.

Last night at Wembley, he was shown what he has to lose.

A place in history, a storied contribution to something that is bigger than him.

The court heard he is paid £3,400 on the 25th of each month. Stay clean, stay safe, and those earnings will be multiplied by 100.

Assessing Morrison’s talent – the basis of such an equation – is the easy bit.

He is beautifully balanced, blessed with a searing turn of pace and strength of shot on either foot. Morrison’s vision, close control, physical dexterity and unerring opportunism remind me of David Villa.

There is a touch of Wayne Rooney, the street footballer, in his instinctive refusal to be intimidated.

He can play in central ­midfield or anywhere across a modern, fluid, front three.

Yet is he worth the effort?

His consistent rejection of authority and his hair-trigger temper led to the court ­ordering him to seek counselling.

Morrison was 15 when he was cautioned for assaulting his mother. Two days after turning ­professional on his 17th ­birthday he was ­arrested for intimidating a witness and given a ­12-month referral order.

His coaches at England level were on the verge of giving up on him.

It is easy to be cynical to suggest the quality of ­United’s mercy is linked to the rarity of his talent.

But one of the traits of Sir Alex Ferguson’s ­management is his devotion to the club’s duty of care

United’s tradition of youth development, established by Sir Matt Busby, occasionally involves the application of peer pressure.

I’m told Rio Ferdinand even offered to take ­Morrison into his family home.

We forget that footballers are a cross section of ­society.

Ferdinand grew up in a ground floor flat in Peckham where the street tsars ruled.

John Terry admits that some of his boyhood friends are in prison, on the dole or dead.

Paul Ince, a former Old Trafford Guvnor, came from a similarly bleak ­background.

Morrison’s value as a rehabilitated role model would be immeasurable.

On the pitch, great players are defined by the quality of the decisions they take, under pressure.

Off it, the same principle applies.

There are small signs of hope, but the choice is ­Morrison’s.

For his sake, pray he makes the right one.

Pelé or Puskás? Beckenbauer or Beckham? Cruyff or Charlton? Maradona or Messi?

Who is the greatest? An impossible question, but I’ll come clean.

Diego Armando Maradona has been my secret vice since 22 June, 1986.

I was in the Azteca Stadium, Mexico City, watching England’s elimination from the World Cup.

It was ferociously hot. Smog invaded our lungs.

Maradona invaded our senses.

He outraged, with the Hand of God.

He seduced, with the Goal of the Century.

Since then, I’ve been defending the indefensible.

He was a drug abuser, an affront to common decency.

But he’s living proof that true greats shape occasions to their will.

Barcelona’s Lionel Messi faces that challenge at Wembley on Saturday.

Can he turn the Champions League final into a showcase for his genius?

It’s harder for him these days than when fellow Barcelona player Maradona was at his maddest.

Opponents are bigger, quicker, stronger. They are subjugated by coaches who attempt to minimise risk.

Football has evolved into a game of containment. Everything is geared to neutralising individual brilliance.

Messi is mesmeric. The ball is an extension of his personality.

He is only 23, the same number of years it took Pelé to score 1,281 goals in 1,363 games.

It will be a modern miracle if he manages to match those numbers.

Will he ever match Maradona’s magnetism?

In Argentina, the anarchy which swirls around Diego is irresistible.

But different cultures judge people by different standards.

Here’s the deal, Lionel: dominate with Barcelona, and win the World Cup in 2014.

Then, and only then, will you be my latest greatest.

The Clash were spokesmen for a generation.

No one would claim they were the authentic voice of the professional footballer.

But their anthem Should I Stay Or Should I Go? summarises the toughest decision in an athlete’s life.

In essence it comes down to a simple question:

Should I give up the game, before it gives up on me?

The reality of retirement confronted Paul Scholes at Old Trafford last night.

Manchester United’s Class of 92 were reunited at Gary Neville’s testimonial.

Attention focused on David Beckham and Ryan Giggs, for vastly different reasons.

But, in a football sense, Scholes deserved the spotlight.

Sir Bobby Charlton and Xavi Hernández hail him as their favourite player.

Andrés Iniesta, Barcelona’s other orchestrator, calls him “a living legend”.

Pep Guardiola’s greatest regret is that he never played alongside him.

Scholes recoils from such praise. He has never played the fame game.

He seeks simple pleasures, like taking his boys to watch Oldham Athletic.

He values basic attributes – loyalty, honesty, humility – above the assets of empty celebrity.

He is a craftsman. His passes have a geometric beauty, his shots have venom and accuracy.

He is imperfect. His tackles are spiteful, revealing.

They signal that he is starting to slow down, that his legs cannot match the speed of his brain.

He has a testimonial planned for August, and Sir Alex Ferguson has earmarked him as a quietly effective coach.

Saying farewell, after the Champions League is won at Wembley, seems somehow appropriate.

Another Premier League season is instant history, something to be dissected and debated.

Everyone sees football through the prism of their emotions, and beliefs.

Here’s my team of the season:

Ali Al Habsi (Wigan): Eccentric Omani goalkeeper, Bolton’s bench warmer, became the symbol of Wigan’s resistance to relegation. A loan star who deserves a permanent move.

Micah Richards (Man City): Space cadet who fell to Earth. Prematurely selected and rejected by England, he is fulfilling his potential in a problem position, right back.

Christopher Samba (Blackburn Rovers): Man mountain who couldn’t hide, even if tempted. Led by example in a team effectively run by its senior pros.

Nemanja Vidic (Man Utd): Powerful, quick, and ruthless. Sir Alex Ferguson trusts his strength of character, his ability to bring out the best in those around him.

Leighton Baines (Everton): If Ashley Cole ever had a smile on his face, Baines would wipe it off. The season’s most effective left back – great energy and delivery.

Scott Parker (West Ham): Diamond in the dustbin. His selection as Footballer of the Year, as his club imploded, testified to his personality and his professionalism.

Charlie Adam (Blackpool): Repaid his debt to Ian Holloway and will cash in over the summer. His creativity and class deserve a top-six club.

David Silva (Man City): Small in stature, huge in impact. The speed of his brain complements the intelligence of his movement.

Wayne Rooney (Man Utd): Won’t be proud of his prolonged sulk, but reinvented himself in a quarterback role that will extend his career and his influence.

Gareth Bale (Tottenham): His fragility is a worry, but the punishment he takes is a painful compliment. Responsible for the performance of the season, against Inter Milan.

Javier Hernández (Man Utd): He’s The One. Instant acclimatisation to the Premier League proved that great strikers are born, not made.

Subs: Van der Sar (Man Utd), Kompany (Man City), Tioté (Newcastle), Y.Toure (Man City), Tevez (Man City), Van Persie (Arsenal).

There is a thin line between love and hate.

I hate what football has become. I loathe its ugliness, arrogance and avarice.

There is a special place in the seventh circle of Hell for its charlatans and its petty criminals.

And yet . .

I love what football can be. I recognise its beauty, its ­purity as the people’s game.

There is a special place in everyday life for its heroes, and even its heretics.

Saturday’s Champions League Final straddles that thin dividing line.

It is sullied by the naked greed of UEFA.

They ignore online touts charging £12,000 plus a £2160 booking fee for two together in Wembley’s top tier.

Manchester United, ­redefined as an investment vehicle for the Glazers, are slaves to the Yankee dollar.

Barcelona sold their soul, ­compromised basic beliefs, by accepting ­billions of ­Qatari Riyal.

They are rival corporations seeking new markets.

Barcelona are making a ­strategic push into China and the United States. They have satellite centres in Egypt, Hong Kong, Japan, Mexico, and Peru

United will break the £100m barrier in annual commercial income, despite Asia’s ­counterfeit economy.

More than 2.5million MUFC credit cards featuring Park ­Ji-Sung are used in Korea alone. But each club has the power of dreams.

Maybe, just maybe, their meeting will represent everything that is good about the game.

Each has its living legends, men who embody the ­traditions of what, in more ­innocent times, was known as the European Cup.

Sir Bobby Charlton has the unforced dignity of an old ­soldier.

His sacrifice is unspoken, uniquely powerful. His tears at Wembley in 1968 are ­United’s holy water. Johann Cruyff won the European Cup three times for Ajax as a ­player.

He managed Barcelona’s Dream Team at Wembley in 1992.

His legacy is a total ­footballer’s sense of style, ­captured by his two word team talk on that fabled night: “Enjoy it”.

This final will be shaped by tribal elders, leaders who build for the future with one eye on the past.

Sir Alex Ferguson has learned the lessons of defeat in Rome two years ago. Europe is a definitive challenge, and some suspect he will only ­retire happily after equalling, or exceeding, the three ­European Cups won by Bob Paisley.

Pep Guardiola is a different character, but no less ­intelligent, or driven.

He is a symbol of continuity and commitment to ­Barcelona’s ideals, but he is an Anglophile who may yet ­occupy the manger’s office at Old Trafford.

Both finalists are more than a club, mes que un club, to ­borrow the Catalan statement of intent. Their players are taught to understand who they are playing for, and why it matters.

Carles Puyol, a captain with a social conscience, ­responds with the intensity of a freedom fighter.

Eric Abidal’s remarkable recovery from cancer ­surgery has made him a folk hero.

Ryan Giggs is similarly cherished, because his ­career mirrors United’s ­recent development.

Youthful promise ­carefully nurtured. Substantial achievement sustained ­cleverly.

There is unforced respect between the teams, which should protect us from the shameful excesses of Barca’s semi final win over Real ­Madrid.

Xavi, the footballers’ ­footballer, hails Paul Scholes as a role model.

Lionel Messi sees a little of himself in Wayne Rooney.

I have only the vaguest memories of Wembley in 1968, watched, as a family on a boxy black and white TV.

Charlton seemed so old.

Sir Matt Busby reminded me of my Grandad.

A moment, frozen in time, acquired more meaning when I learned about ­Munich and the ghosts who will be a spectral presence on Saturday.

Since love is blind, I can’t wait.

Everyone loves a newborn baby.

Matrons coo, fathers fret.

The child is a symbol of hope, innocence and renewal.

In that spirit, we welcome AFC Wimbledon to the Football League family.

It has taken nine years for them to rise from the Combined Counties League.

They’ve won many friends and influenced many people.

They’re a source of inspiration, an infusion of idealism.

Owned by the fans, run by 35 volunteers, they are an antidote to the avarice and amorality of the modern game.

Their chairman earns a guinea a year (that’s £1.10, kids).

Their manager, Terry Brown, is a purist.

Their players, led by talismanic captain Danny Kedwell, appreciate the bigger picture.

They have won five promotions in eight seasons.

Yet there is a tinge of bitterness, a sense of enduring betrayal.

Nothing will change history.

AFC was formed 12 days after the survivors of Wimbledon’s Crazy Gang relocated to Milton Keynes.

MK Dons, Franchise FC, stole a cherished possession.

But bear with me, while I play devil’s advocate.

The original Wimbledon was a carcass of a club.

It had been run down by charlatans, abandoned by the local community.

It was heading for oblivion.

MK Dons, by contrast, work hard in local schools.

They attract new fans, young and old.

My next-door neighbours had never watched a live game before MK were formed. Now they’re season-ticket holders.

I know this is not what the majority want to hear. But each club, AFC and MKD, has merit.

Move on, people. Look forward, rather than backwards.

Let’s talk about Cesc.

It will save time in the silly season.

That’s when “Fabregas for Barcelona” headlines litter the place like abandoned tents at Glastonbury.

The man himself has already told us to ignore speculation linking him with Manchester City.

He promises never to join another English club.

Any sentient being treats stories linking him with Real Madrid as sheer fantasy.

But it’s a time of reckoning, of retribution, at Arsenal.

That “35 years” banner at Old Trafford is not the only one that’s outdated.

The “In Arsène We Trust” banner, behind the goal at the Emirates, is no longer holy writ.

Wenger might not appreciate it, but he needs to do something drastic to restate his authority.

The theory, that he’s overindulged underachievers, has too much substance to ignore.

He could make no more powerful point than selling his captain.

Fabregas may shut out the jeers, and tweet his thanks to his fans for keeping faith.

He remains a winner, but he’s been ­diminished by disappointment and ­recurrent injury.

He’s only 24, but his body has taken consistent punishment. He’s a candidate for burn-out.

The team has also evolved, to his detriment. With the exception of Theo Walcott, it lacks the pace his passes once exploited.

Younger models, such as Aaron Ramsey and Jack Wilshere, are in vogue.

Wenger has been a master at buying cheap, and selling dear.

If he could get £35million from Barcelona for Fabregas he’d be doing himself, and his club, a favour.

The rest of us would enjoy the quiet life.

It tends to be a summary execution, with few frills.

The more fortunate victims have a blindfold, in the form of a compensation cheque.

Avram Grant, for instance, will walk away from West Ham with as much as £3.5million.

Nice work, if you can lose it.

Football men are conditioned to the consequences of failure.

Most CVs are studded with P45s.

The sack is a fact of life. Rejection is endemic.

For some, it comes at 16, or 18. Only the strong survive the refusal of a first professional contract.

They are lost in a twilight world, of what could have been, what should have been.

The veterans get used to the tyranny of the team sheet.

They have an animal’s instinct for impending indignity.

First, they lose their place in the pivotal pattern of play training sessions.

Before they know it, they are training with the stiffs, and fearing the worst.

It’s the same with managers. A furtive look in the boardroom, from a once friendly director, is all it takes.

Some have to fight for their rights.

It took Jim Magilton two years to get his contract paid up by Ipswich, a club he had served for ten years.

It is a dehumanising process.

Carlo Ancelotti was on the verge of tears at Stamford Bridge on Sunday.

He will pick up a small fortune in compensation when he is sacked by Chelsea. Roma will offer him refuge.

But his professionalism has been impugned. His achievements have been treated with contempt.

Money can’t buy self-esteem.

It will all end in cheers.

It usually does, when money is no object.

The question is: when?

Roberto Mancini is already talking about Manchester City winning the Premier League.

Anything less would be a dereliction of duty.

When the hangovers clear, City fans will want more days like Saturday.

More days when they surf on a rip tide of emotion, and remember why they programme their lives around a simple ball game.

It might not be as easy as they think.

Next season is already shaping up as a classic.

Manchester United’s 19th title is Sir Alex Ferguson’s greatest achievement.

He may well augment his squad with Atletico Madrid goalkeeper David de Gea and Inter Milan’s playmaker Wesley Sneijder.

At Liverpool, Kenny Dalglish is a man with a three-year plan.

He has at least £50million to play with.

In the gilded world of Roman Abramovich that buys you a single, unreliable player.

Chelsea cannot afford to indulge his executive toy, Fernando Torres, too much longer.

Arsène Wenger will never morph from a philosopher into a street fighter.

But the strength of his principles is becoming a glaring weakness.

Harry Redknapp knows the value of a pound note.

But Tottenham seem to be in a holding pattern, just beneath the top four.

City will set the agenda.

They too need a playmaker, and a potential replacement for Carlos Tevez.

A partner for the outstanding Vincent Kompany would not go amiss.

They also need a manager to take them to the next level.

Is Mancini that man? The jury is out.