Manchester United are imploding, Arsenal are soaring, Roy Keane is facing the axe and England will retain the Ashes in Australia... what a way to bow out!



One of the greatest pleasures in the world (and I realise most of you are just going to have to take my word for this) is drinking Chateau Latour 1961. Conversely, one of the greatest displeasures is that moment when the last drop of the gods' nectar disappears down your gullet and you realise the bottle is empty.

This is kind of how I'm feeling today because this is my last Morgan on Sport column. It has been a sumptuously enjoyable ride, as rich, varied, complex and inspiring as the great French chateau of Latour has ever produced.



But, sadly, my new job replacing Larry King at CNN in America means I'm going, very reluctantly, to have put down my literary sporting sabre.

Soaring: Arsenal are on the up again, and won against West Ham on Saturday

Given that I ripped Sir Alex Ferguson and Wayne Rooney to shreds last week and given that Manchester United have always been my favourite target for

abuse, I thought it only right and fair that I let the Old Trafford faithful, who have bombarded me with hilariously abusive emails since last Sunday, have the last

word.

But then I changed my mind. Seriously, though, I really appreciate all the letters and emails you’ve sent since this column started. They’ve been perhaps uniquely abusive but also funny, warm and perceptive. I’ll miss you all a lot more than many of you will miss me.

Before Sir Alex cracks open his own bottle of Latour '61 (for an unreconstructed old Glaswegian growler, he has surprisingly good taste when it comes to wine), let me add that I'm not vanishing from these pages completely.



I'll still be writing the odd piece of deeply inflammatory, angst-ridden, stupendously prejudicial and partisan invective when the mood takes me.



In many ways, though, it's the perfect time to quit. My sporting firmament has never looked more sparkly - Manchester United self-imploding, Arsenal soaring, England looking good to retain the Ashes after Andrew Strauss led them to glory, Roy Keane facing the sack...

I've never tried to write as a seasoned sporting journalist, with a calm, measured impartial view. Instead, I've tried to write as a fan would write: over-emotionally, angrily, reactively, inconsistently. Many times I've woken up after penning some furious diatribe in the heat of the moment and thought: 'Why the hell did I say that?' But the truth is, that like all sports fans, I always meant every word I said... at the time.



I've enjoyed some spectacular experiences while writing this column. A private meeting in Barbados with Sir Garry Sobers, the greatest living cricketer, and Freddie Flintoff (along with Sir Ian Botham, my favourite living cricketer) was incredible. As was opening the batting on my village pitch with Kevin Pietersen the day after he'd captained England at Lord's.

Christmas come early: United are facing trouble and Roy Keane (right) is struggling at Ipswich



And watching Shane Warne, the best bowler ever, give my three sons a 30-minute guide to cricket in the Sky commentary box during a rain-break during the 2009 Edgbaston Test. Not to mention Freddie taking us all into the England dressing room that day, introducing us to the team and giving us all signed bats.

There was the surreal dinner with Lewis Hamilton and P Diddy during which I discovered they're both Gooners, getting drunk with Frank Lampard (such a nice bloke, for a Chelsea player) and introducing him to Christine Bleakley, exchanging regular hilarious text banter with Rio Ferdinand (who is, as he would say, a 'top geezer'), having Rod Stewart lecture me on Arsenal's back four and giving me a Celtic tie, and Jerry Springer introducing me to Muhammad Ali in LA.



Other highlights include spending three hours in Harry Redknapp's stunning house in Sandbanks and hearing him enthuse about football in a way that convinced me he should be England manager; hitting the kerb, hard, while driving David Coulthard round the Monaco Grand Prix track; and watching his mate Jenson Button win the drivers' title nine months after we chatted at Amanda Holden's wedding, when he'd lost his car after Honda pulled out of Formula One and he had 'not a clue' whether he'd get one again.



Ashes to Ashes: Andrew Strauss will again lift the urn in Australia

Inevitably, my favourite memories involve Arsenal. Appearing on a charity fashion show catwalk with Cesc Fabregas and hearing him promise me 'I'm staying' when everyone assumed he was leaving for Barcelona.



Receiving a random text from Patrick Vieira, thanking me for some compliment – which, short of Scarlett Johansson texting me to say 'My place or yours', is about as excited as I've ever been by a technological communication.

I also remember standing in an East London church at the wedding of an old friend, and fellow Gooner, Steve Purdew, and seeing the next pews fill up with Tony Adams, David Seaman, Ian Wright and George Graham. Then a flash of light beamed in on to their he ads, creating what looked like a giant halo. And quite right, too.



Most of all, I want to say a final word to Arsene Wenger, who has brought me more pleasure, and pain, than any woman could. He's an indisputable footballing genius and a refined, cultured, intelligent, well-spoken, urbane and impressive man.



For the first half of his tenure at Arsenal, he seemed to be an unstoppable trophy-winner. We had two magnificent Double-winning teams, full of big, powerful, wonderfully talented footballers who played in a way that secretly delighted opposition fans.

I'd say my greatest moment in sport was sitting with Arsene and Pat Rice (the greatest unsung hero in football) in the Tottenham boardroom after we'd won the League in the old enemy's backyard. We and my Spurs-supporting father were the only people left there, so I ordered the most expensive bottle of red wine and we celebrated this extraordinary achievement together.



Genius: Arsenal manager Arsene Wenger is leading the club back to glory

I loved Arsene more than life itself that night and could never imagine feeling any different. But then came the Abramovich revolution that sparked a culture clash of epic proportions between clubs like Chelsea and Manchester City, with their billionaire spend-spend-spend foreign owners, and clubs like Arsenal, with their old-school family-run ownership and old-school 'hit the budget, make-a-profit' economic philosophy.



Wenger disposed of the 2004 Invincibles team with astonishing speed, replacing them with a load of brilliant but inexperienced kids. They were smaller, leaner, faster but, to my eyes, lacked the toughness required to win competitions in this new, money-no-object world.

And we stopped winning trophies. In our nadir, we were thumped 3-0 at Manchester City and I rewrote this column late that night, fuelled by a few consolation pints of Harveys real ale, suggesting it was maybe time Wenger was replaced.

Le Boss ignored my treacherous demand (I still shudder at what I did) and persisted in his strategy, insisting these kids would come good. And do so in a way that didn't bankrupt Arsenal in the process.



In the past two weeks, we've walloped Shakhtar Donetsk 5-1, destroyed the oil-backed Manchester City 3-0 at their ground (nearly two years since that earlier drubbing) and demolished Newcastle 4-0 away in the Carling Cup. Yesterday we beat West Ham 1-0 to keep our title hopes alive.



And after all the doubting, cursing and berating, it looks like Arsene's boys have come good. The great man has even started smiling again.



I hope we win something big this season. Not just so that Wenger can prove everyone who questioned him wrong. But because it would be such a wonderful victory for football. It would show that you can't just buy trophies and prove that a man who has a long-term dream, and backs himself to achieve it however rough the criticism, can realise it against apparently insurmountable odds.



And can anyone, hand on heart, deny that Wenger's determination to always, ALWAYS play football in the most beautiful, skilful, sublimely enjoyable way does not deserve it?

So, as I take my final bow from this column, I say this on behalf of all Arsenal fans: Vive La Wenger!



