It appeared to be an unsubtle and strangely significant piece of news management by Manchester United. They were accused of massaging a post-match quote by Chris Smalling, who dared to reveal an inconvenient truth: Manchester City’s bank balance cannot buy them a backbone.

This is what Smalling said about Man City, after Sunday’s win at Arsenal: “If we keep ticking off these wins, then they’ll crumble.” These are the words put into his mouth by Man Utd’s website: “If we keep ticking off these wins, then we’ll be in a good position.” Spot the difference?

No great surprise, really. Anyone who takes at face value the half-truths, white lies and spun-dried quotes delivered by official club media outlets is either blindly loyal or terminally naive. What is interesting is the implication that City’s vulnerability to pressure deserves such deception.

It hints at an underlying assumption that Man City lack the substance of champions. Winning the FA Cup, at the expense of a collection of tourists in Stoke City shirts, might have torn down that Old Trafford banner, but it proved little beyond the inevitability of City’s artificially accelerated development.

Ah, the m-word. Money. No piece on City is complete without it. But conviction and character are as important as cash. Starting with tonight’s Carling Cup semi-final at Anfield, we are about to discover whether City’s multi-millionaires are made of the right stuff.

Roberto Mancini is looking, and sounding, a little flaky. He insists it was a sore throat, rather than a lack of moral courage, that prompted him to push David Platt into the firing line after Mario Balotelli’s latest mind burp. Hmmm.

January was always going to be a bumpy month, with or without the Last of the Mohicans. From City’s point of view, the Ivory Coast’s status as favourites for the Africa Cup of Nations, is depressingly logical. There’s little chance of a convenient implosion, and an early flight back to the UK for Yaya Touré.

Someone needs to lead from the front. David Silva is setting a peerless example but, in terms of providing a rallying point, Micah Richards fits the bill. The DJ-ing, blingtastic youth, who seems to have scarred Fabio Capello’s psyche, has matured.

Richards is not only the best right back in the Premier League, he also has the potential to be a key character in its pivotal storyline, the emergence of City as champions. Fall in behind him, chaps. He can give United greater problems than a few heartfelt, but ill chosen, words.

Tottenham’s frustration will fade. Their future is bright, enticing. The underlying mood at the club is jaunty, optimistic. Unless, that is, your name is David Bentley, and you see your career ebbing away, like a weak wave soaking into sodden sand.

Bentley is an afterthought at Tottenham, an under-achiever seeking to purge himself in the rehabilitation gym at the training ground. His is a lonely, painful ritual. A long-term knee injury, sustained when on loan at West Ham, has ruined his season.

Games like Sunday’s gut-wrenching defeat at Manchester City merely emphasise his marginalisation. Instead of being at his peak, as an essential element of a Spurs side that, at worst, will finish third in the Premier League, he is working towards a summer loan spell in Major League Soccer.

The irony of Bentley seeking to reinvent himself in the MLS – which retains its image as a retirement home for jaded European stars – has not passed unremarked. Despite the best ambassadorial efforts of David Beckham, and the emergence of players like Tim Ream, Bolton’s new signing from the New York Red Bulls, US football is still seen as second class.

Bentley could have – should have – had it all. He won the last of his seven England caps in 2008 and has never truly been forgiven for citing fatigue as the reason for his refusal to play for the under-21 team. His descent from Beckham Lite to David Who? has been swift, and brutal. Even before his injury, he started only two games for West Ham.

The talent, which prompted Spurs to pay Blackburn £15million for him in 2008, is widely assumed to have been compromised by his temperament. It is all very well cultivating a self-image as a gelled vision of loveliness, but that must be accompanied by a willingness to put in what the old pros refer to as ‘hard yakka’. You’ve sometimes got to grind your way to greatness.

At 27, Bentley is in the last-chance saloon. He’s young enough to walk out unscathed, but only if he remembers what gave him his public profile in the first place.

It has been a terrible week for foreign managers in the Premier League. First Roberto Mancini, now André Villas-Boas, the man who is supposed to be the fresh face of a new, user-friendly Chelsea. Each has been exposed as shallow, selfish, and utterly deluded.

Villas-Boas’ ignorance and arrogance is more disturbing than Mancini’s impulsive histrionics. By suggesting that English football should scrap its most sacred principle and abandon the concept of a 92-club professional pyramid, he has re-established Chelsea as the team neutrals love to loathe.

Viewed from his oligarch-sponsored ivory tower, the notion of Chelsea having a feeder club in the Championship makes perfect sense. Who cares what the poor people are doing in outposts like Darlington, where the concern for a stricken football club emphasises the bond between the game and its community?

Villas-Boas has a ruinously expensive academy system to justify. It is no coincidence that Neil Bath, Chelsea’s academy manager, was one of the founding fathers of the Premier League’s new Elite Player Performance Plan (EPPP), which institutionalises greed and hypocrisy in youth football.

In the Orwellian double-speak of Premier League chief executive Richard Scudamore and his acolytes, the Football League’s constituent clubs are to blame for our inability to produce a successful England team, and consistent challengers to Barcelona and Real Madrid. That’s arrant nonsense, with a sinister subplot.

The Premier League has already bullied Football League clubs into accepting EPPP, by threatening to withhold so-called solidarity payments. If you follow the warped logic of that strategy, lesser clubs should acknowledge a higher purpose, and operate as slaves to the elite.

Why should Charlton be subservient to Chelsea? Why must Macclesfield bow and scrape before the Manchester giants? Is a club like Luton Town, struggling to regain a place in the Football League, any less worthy than Liverpool? Many would value Torquay United over Tottenham Hotspur.

The strength of the English game is its diversity. If Scudamore wants to scrap promotion and relegation, and reinvent the Premier League as a Skytastic franchise fest, let him. If Villas-Boas wants to inhabit a billionaire’s ghetto, we should wave him on his way.

Let’s be clear. If you tolerate this, your club will be next. It is time for the silent majority to find a voice, and remind the likes of Villas-Boas of their ultimate insignificance.

Alan Pardew is the flavour of the month. He is being prematurely proclaimed as the next England manager. His Newcastle United team are over-achieving, and bidding to hijack a place in the Premier League’s top six. He has even persuaded owner Mike Ashley to spend £10million, in a dormant transfer market, on Senegal international striker Papiss Demba Cisse.

What could possibly go wrong? Plenty, as any Newcastle fan will tell you. The faithful, in that football cathedral they still know as St James’, have the self-defensive reflexes of a dog that has been kicked once too often. If it feels too good to be true, it usually is.

And yet…

Although Cisse’s immediate return, to the African Cup of Nations, is likely to lead to a month-long hiatus before his debut in Newcastle’s sacred number nine shirt, his signing is a statement of intent. The deal took more than a year to put together, but was completed with impressive efficiency.

Strikers are expensive items. In the words of one frustrated manager I spoke to this week: “They cost you basically twice as much as a player in any other area of the team.” With 31 Bundesliga goals in the last 18 months, Cisse represents value and a modicum of insurance against Demba Ba, his international teammate, being lured elsewhere.

Integrating foreign players, and the contrasting cultures they represent, is one of the challenges of modern management. Graham Carr’s exemplary scouting network ensures Pardew’s Newcastle team has an axis of African and French talent. The manager’s next trick will be to coax the best out of Hatem Ben Arfa.

Alan Shearer might not have heard of him, but I’ve a hunch he will provide compelling viewing on and off the field in the second half of the season. He’s mercurial, and so high maintenance he makes Eric Cantona appear dull and conformist.

Ben Arfa has already scored one of the goals of the season, a Ski Sunday slalom against Blackburn in the FA Cup, and refused to play for the reserves. He suggested, in a dark, revelatory interview published in France this week that his father’s unwillingness to tell him he loved him resulted in a deep distrust of authority figures.

The French-Tunisian midfield player has a haughty disdain for Route One football, tracking back, and coaches who attempt to bend him to their will. He represents the ultimate test of Pardew’s man-management skills. Moulding him, into something other than an impact substitute will require tactical maturity and emotional intelligence.

Succeed at that, and the bandwagon will really pick up speed.

Roberto Mancini may insist, with ill-concealed disdain, that “I know football”. But he has much to learn if he and Manchester City are not to continue to alienate their natural ally, the fair-minded fan.

Mancini’s petulant mime at the DW Stadium last night, which involved flourishing another imaginary red card, against Wigan defender Maynor Figueroa, was the act of a serial hypocrite. It was ignorant, indefensible and took the gloss off a victory that leaves Manchester City three points clear at the top of the Premier League.

The City manager was allowed to get away with it, during an obsequious post-match TV interview, but needs to be held to account. Fourth officials have enough to do, in the Punch and Judy show on the touchline, without the excesses of self-obsessed drama queens. The FA should be clear and unequivocal: if he does it again, Mancini will be sent to the stands, and banned for the next three games.

His strength of character, in dealing with pond life like Carlos Tevez, has been admirable. But his wilful failure to understand the culture in which he is working hints at the sense of entitlement that is one of the least attractive aspects of the City “project”.

We’ve already had to put up with his self-pitying whine about the depth of a squad that has been the centrepiece of a £1billion investment programme. UEFA’s financial fair play strategy may not be perfect, but it is necessary to level the playing field.

If Mancini wants to understand injustice, I suggest he contacts former Darlington manager Craig Liddle who, together with his players, was sacked by the administrator on Monday afternoon. Two of those players have not been paid since October.

If he wants to understand the need for prudence, he should examine the lunacy of incompetent clubs being freed from administration to repeat the mistake of paying players with money they simply do not have.

If he wants to understand the corrosive effect of institutionalised hypocrisy, he need only examine the Premier League’s deeply flawed youth football strategy, in which greed is hailed as progress.

Mancini won’t get any guidance from his assistant David Platt, one of those superannuated nodding dogs who find gainful employment in football. But he should listen to Brian Kidd, his most trusted coach.

Kidd is a fair man, a football man to his bootstraps. It was significant that he was the one, urging Mancini to walk away when the final whistle sounded at Wigan.

Roberto Martinez has already disproved the theory that nice guys are destined to finish last. Whether he can repeat the trick, and keep Wigan in the Premier League against increasingly daunting odds, is open to doubt.

Manchester City’s visit to the DW Stadium tonight at least means the car parks will be full, for something other than the New Year sales at the adjoining retail park. Whether Wigan respond to the sense of occasion generated by the visit of their nouveau riche neighbours remains to be seen.

Martinez is attempting to build a Wigan side in his own image – youthful, optimistic and forward thinking. That he has been allowed to do so, relatively unmolested, is one of the wonders of the modern game.

At any other club, he’d be getting the Steve Kean treatment. He would be scorned, second-guessed and, inevitably, sacked. Not too many are willing to make the leap of faith that Wigan will survive, yet Martinez’s reputation remains Teflon-coated.

He’s a man of integrity, difficult to dislike, a breath of fresh air. But, viewed objectively, he’s going nowhere. He made the wrong decision, for the right reasons, when he declined the opportunity to join Aston Villa in the summer. It earned him a pay rise, and plaudits for his loyalty, but posed questions about his ambition.

Strangely, just over halfway through the season, the Villa job seems a pivotal position. A leading manager confided recently he thought David Moyes should have summoned the courage to leave Everton, to take over at Villa Park. Villa fans, locked into a loveless shotgun marriage with Alex McLeish, would probably agree.

Wigan’s Premier League survival, in a rugby league town, for six seasons goes against economic logic. If I were Martinez I’d be worried about noises from owner Dave Whelan, who is considering introducing his grandson to the club’s hierarchy.

Wigan are one of those clubs, like Bolton and Blackburn, which will haemorrhage hope and hard cash in the event of relegation. Realistically, all Martinez can do is manage decline, and hope his career is not among the collateral damage.

Imagine this, Chelsea fans. You have a favourite puppy, reared from a runt rescued from an animal sanctuary. It is precocious, loving, loyal. It doesn’t ask for much, apart from food and shelter. One day, it may develop into a champion at Crufts.

What do you do? A no brainer, surely. You cherish it, nurture it, pamper it. You take pride in its progress. You make sure it gets enough exercise. And that’s where reality sets in. Chelsea is not run on the same principles as Battersea Dogs & Cats Home.

Football is a dog-eat-dog world. Everyone agrees about the potential of Josh McEachran. No one at Chelsea, it seems, can guarantee him undivided attention. André Villas-Boas pays lip service to his promise, but has evidently decided he is surplus to his immediate requirements.

McEachran will no doubt flourish on loan at Swansea. Brendan Rodgers, their manager, may yet turn out to be the most substantial of the young coaches inspired by José Mourinho, during his time at Chelsea. He’s certainly made a better impression on the Premier League this season than AVB, the most conspicuous member of the Special One’s erstwhile support staff.

Defenders of the faith will highlight the way Daniel Sturridge, an unqualified success at Stamford Bridge this season, has flourished since a similar loan spell at Bolton last season. Arsenal were delighted with the grounding given to Jack Wilshere by another temporary move to the Reebok.

But the principle, of loans between Premier League clubs, is unsustainable. At best they are marriages of economic convenience, such as Emmanuel Adebayor’s subsidised move to Tottenham. At worst, they are cop-out clauses, used by managers fearful of gambling on talented prodigies.

McEachran is quietly dismissed by some at Chelsea as being a little too lightweight for the attritional demands of regular Premier League football. I’d argue that his craft and vision is precisely what a transitional Chelsea team lacks.

Supporters have an undervalued affinity with home-grown players. John Terry may be a divisive personality, but Chelsea fans rally behind his leadership, because of his background as an academy product. McEachran is also regarded as one of their own.

I’ve no doubt he will excel in exile. But will that be enough for McEachran to earn his keep at Stamford Bridge? It had better be. Otherwise a pedigree player might, one day, bite Chelsea in the backside.

Anyone who wants to understand professional football, and footballers, should have squeezed into the cramped home dressing room at Barnet, when Danny Senda needed oxygen to control his pain, while he waited for an ambulance. It was the beautiful game, at its most brutal.

Senda had been so looking forward to the first leg of Barnet’s Johnstone’s Paint Trophy southern area final against Swindon on Tuesday night. Wembley beckoned, and life was good. Then, just before the interval, he went into an innocuous challenge, and dislocated his kneecap for the second time in his career.

Barnet manager Lawrie Sanchez, who gave Senda his first-team debut when in charge at Wycombe, understood the futility of a half-time team talk. He, and his players, were sick to their stomachs. A colleague, a friend, a fellow pro, lay in distress. Senda’s team-mates shared an unspoken thought: There but for the grace of God….

Such moments tend to have a horrible symmetry. Swindon were also the opposition when Senda first suffered the injury, playing for Millwall in the last game of the 2007-08 season. Surgeons removed a large fragment of bone, which had snapped under pressure, looped his hamstring through the top of the kneecap and pinned it to his shin. His cartilage was also torn, as the kneecap dislocated.

It was, to all intents and purposes, a career-ending injury, but he returned after 15 months to play for a contract. Things were going well until he collapsed with a sharp scream, on landing from a routine aerial challenge in a testimonial match. He had ruptured his Achilles tendon.

I will never forget the scene in the home dressing room at the Den. Senda was lying face down on a physio’s bench, with his team-mates clustered around him. Neil Harris, the team’s spiritual leader, leaned over and kissed him tenderly on the back of the head. It was a gesture of solidarity that brought tears to my eyes.

Rehabilitation is a painful process, fraught with fear and frustration. It took Senda another six months to get back. There was no room for him at Millwall, but he earned short-term contracts at Torquay and Bristol Rovers in the second half of last season. He was thrilled by his subsequent one-year deal at Barnet.

At the age of 30, he had mellowed, matured. His tweets were punctuated by quotes from the Dalai Lama. He understood the privilege of playing football for a living. Then, in an instant, everything changed.

Stay strong, Dan. You are not alone

Think the unthinkable, and suggest that Tottenham have a decent chance of winning the Premier League, and Harry Redknapp launches into a mime of alarm and disbelief. It is as if you’ve mentioned, in passing, that the old Queen Mum was a part-time Burlesque dancer who performed under the stage name of Fifi La Phew.

Ain’t gonna happen, old son, he’ll tell you, when his eyes are back in their sockets. How can little old Tottenham compete with the Abu Dhabi All Stars? Spurs haven’t got a brass farthing. How could he look his old mate, Fergie, in the eye, and tell him his time at the top is up? That’d be a right liberty.

Sorry, but it is a possibility. The motto, which screams “To Dare is to do” from the stands at White Hart Lane, could do with a little editing. “Dare to Dream” is a far more appropriate maxim for a club with Tottenham’s understated ambitions.

Assumptions of a Manchester monopoly at the top of the Premier League are premature. Should Tottenham win their game in hand, at home to Everton tonight, they will draw level on points with Manchester United. Suddenly, the prospect of a first title in 50 years has more than mere historical symmetry.

There was an element of mischief in Sir Alex Ferguson’s suggestion that Tottenham are playing the best football at the moment. He rarely misses a chance to belittle Manchester City, but there was substance to the jibe.

At times, Tottenham have been irresistible. They have a goalpost-for-jumpers mentality, a thrilling fluidity. Anything is possible if Redknapp reaches agreement with his parsimonious chairman, Daniel Levy, and invests wisely in this transfer window.

Of course, he has personal issues to address. Tottenham’s squad is thin, compared to their natural rivals. But at this time of year, Redknapp is in his element. He’s hoping against hope that Gary Cahill and Chris Samba don’t go to Chelsea and QPR respectively, as seems likely. He has more chance of getting Blackburn’s Junior Hoilett and Marseille striker Loïc Rémy. There are also persistent rumours of a move for a marquee player like Kaka.

Mention that, and Redknapp changes tack: “It will be difficult for us to finish above Man Utd or Man City,” he says. “But you just never know, do you?”

Statistics are arid, bloodless, one dimensional. But when it comes to Lionel Messi, they acquire a beauty and eloquence befitting the world’s greatest footballer. Barcelona’s resident genius writes poetry, on a pocket calculator.

A few numbers. Messi is aged 24. He has scored 211 goals for Barcelona, 53 last season, 31 this season. The 12 goals he scored, in helping win the Champions League, was a record. No one in La Liga made as many assists in the 2010/11 season, 18. He won five trophies last year. His first, in 2012, was the Ballon d’Or, which he received with due pomp and ceremony in Zurich last night.

He is only the second player, after Michel Platini, to win football’s greatest individual prize for three consecutive years. But the Frenchman was honoured by a largely French-voting panel. Messi was the overwhelming choice of an expanded electorate that included the coach and captain of every nation. Fabio Capello fell into line, John Terry voted for Xavi.

Cristiano Ronaldo averages a goal a game, and is an athletic phenomenon. Yet José Mourinho recognised the futility of his place on the three-man shortlist, and kept him close in Madrid, rather than subject him to a walk-on role in Switzerland. It was a genuflection before greatness that begs an unfair question: who has been better?

We all have our favourite players from formative years. Mine were Pelé, Maradona, Cruyff, Charlton and Colin Bell, Manchester City’s artist in residence. My dad’s generation spoke in awe of Puskas, Di Stefano, and Matthews. I suspect that, this morning, many fathers are preoccupied explaining the wonder of Thierry Henry to their sons.

The only obvious omission from Messi’s CV is international success. One of his few misfortunes has been to emerge in an era when Argentina’s national team has been riven by complacency, mismanagement, and the politics of the Monster Raving Loony Party.

I suspect he will end all arguments by helping Argentina win the World Cup in Brazil’s backyard in 2014. If he does so, I will retreat to a favourite YouTube video of him as a 10-year-old, playing in a tournament in Peru. He is small, waif-like, but literally unplayable.

At the end, when everyone has lost count of the score, an opponent crumples to the ground in tears. Messi is the first to reach him, and falls to his knees to give him a hug. Celebrate the Humble Hero while you can.