A dull final if ever there was one — not!!

And so, it boils down to this. Despite Chelsea’s vehement protests, despite the evidence and despite their defiance, really, the final of the biggest club competition will be between the champions and the entertainers.

Barcelona somehow didn’t make Petr Cech make a save for all of 90 minutes on Wednesday night. But when they did work him, he didn’t have a chance.

Andres Iniesta, take a bow.

Pep Guardiola, take a bow.

For crying out loud, Messi take a bow.

For a side to remain calm, even with the clock feverishly ticking, it takes a deep belief in your ability to win things. Time after time, after time, the ball could not find a way past the Blue brigade. Or should it be the blue bus. Jose Mourinho once likened certain teams’ approach against his Chelsea as plonking a double decker in front of goal, and what Chelsea did over two legs bordered rather closely to public transport than entertainment.

And yet, when they did go forward, they were a threat themselves.

Michael Essien’s wonder strike is still yet to register. This is simply because Essien somehow contrives to mix unbelievable, rugby-befitting strikes into the crowd with a sporadic mind-boggler.

Remember his banana kick against Arsenal a few years back? Exactly. But once they scored, you always feared that one was never going to be enough. And let’s be honest, they did deserve a penalty, or two, or possibly even three.

These nagging statistics still do not justify their insane behaviour at the end.

Didier Drogba’s reaction seemed to be that of a man who knew that had he buried at least one of his chances over two legs, it would not have come to the heartbreak they suffered.

Yes, it hurts and yes it was controversial, but to hound a referee — even when being pulled back — smacks of an immaturity that is sadly poisoning the Premiership.

Drogba, Ballack and even John Terry need to be hit hard for their actions.

A fine will not do, because they will simply whip out a cheque and still buy a Bentley with the spare change. It was lowly and undignified, and there is no place for it in front of the TV cameras.

Drogba’s lame effort to shoo the camera away was akin to a school headmaster closing the door after being caught in the act with his secretary.

The deed was done, the die has been cast. And Drogba’s career in London may be dead.

And what of Barca, the purveyors of the beautiful game.

Boy, did they miss Thierry Henry. He is currently their form man, his efforts down the left against Madrid a throwback to the Titi of old, va-va-voom and all! When he plays, Eto’o plays, and Iniesta is free to cast his spell from the middle, and not from out wide.

Funnily, once Drogba was substituted, it freed up Barca as they knew that Nicolas Anelka was nowhere near as menacing. Gerard Pique was shovelled up front, and Iniesta went in the middle.

As chance after chance was missed by the Blues, there was always the thought that they may regret it. One swoosh of Iniesta’s boot later and it was pandemonium.

You had to feel some sympathy for Chelsea — until they declared war on a man who was sadly out of his depth.

They won’t be marching to Rome, intent on revenge like one General Maximus.

The Norwegian whistle-blower got plenty wrong, but it was not he who squandered several gilt-edged chances. They dubbed this Beauty and the Beast. What Chelsea were reduced to was not so much beastly as it was downright barbaric.

And so, we can now look forward to the dullest of European finals ever.

United? Barca?

What fun could they possibly carve up for us?