Andrew Fifield On the Premiership: Champions are the masters of disguise. They can be jaw-droppingly average and audacious at a stroke, pilfering points under a cloak of mediocrity.

Trophies can be won in pulsating drama, but they are often snatched away before their enemies even know they are in a contest.

Manchester United's bare-faced cheek in beating Fulham on Saturday provided a case in point.

This was a victory which defied logic: United were largely out-played and out-fought at Craven Cottage but, like an exhausted marathon runner who somehow produces a sprint finish in the home straight, they timed their charge to perfection. Fulham were left scratching their heads as United tore past them and burst through the tape.

This was no hollow triumph. Alex Ferguson's side may be renowned as one of the Premiership's more mercurial outfits, and any team boasting the extravagant talents of Cristiano Ronaldo and Wayne Rooney will always be pleasing on the eye, but it is these patchy, scratchy performances which will fuel their title ambitions in the season's final furlong.

They are in good company. One of the remarkable features of Chelsea's rise under Jose Mourinho over the last two years is that, for all their domestic dominance, their displays have only occasionally transcended the ordinary.

Mourinho's most resounding triumph has been to drill into his players a ruthless, relentless approach to the art of winning football matches: it is what sets him apart from his Stamford Bridge predecessors, Ruud Gullit, Gianluca Vialli and Claudio Ranieri, whose teams invariably played better football while never threatening to top any tables. As all three men discovered, such habits tend to be rewarded with the sack.

Under Mourinho's regime, efficiency and athleticism are valued over effervescence and artistry, a principle encapsulated by the brutally brilliant Didier Drogba. The result? Successive league titles and a radical re-shaping of the landscape of English football.

But the Portuguese is now faced with a dual problem.

First, Chelsea's previously razor-sharp edge has been dulled, to the extent that poor performances now yield draws and defeats rather than undeserved victories. Injuries and the accommodation of ill-fitting new signings have not helped, but Mourinho's squad are also suffering the bloatedness which afflicts any squad who have over-fed on silverware.

Second, United are now showing the sort of pragmatism which used to be Chelsea's trademark.

Ferguson's recent signings lack the Hollywood glitz of Michael Ballack and Andriy Shevchenko, but they have been targeted with laser-guided precision: Michael Carrick has added balance and stability to midfield, Patrice Evra and Nemanda Vidic contribute energy and vigour in defence, while Henrik Larsson is a heaven-sent loanee.

Their success is proof of Ferguson's personal renaissance. The Scot had allowed his focus to be clouded in recent seasons, apparently spending more time squabbling over race-horses than plotting how to hoist United back to the Premiership summit.

Now, he leaves the bickering and back-stabbing to Mourinho and Roman Abramovich.

Proof of his renewed intensity came last Tuesday when Gary Neville's decision to remonstrate with Lille's players as they attempted a bizarre walk-off instead of continuing the game prompted a trademark tirade from his manager. The defender promptly spent his Saturday scowling on the substitutes' bench.

This was classic Ferguson, a piece of gratuitous bloody-mindedness designed, purely and simply, to remind everyone that attempts to cross him will end in disaster.

There is no suggestion that Neville - one of the Scot's closest allies among United's playing staff - is about to follow Ruud van Nistelrooy, Roy Keane and David Beckham in being air-brushed out of Old Trafford history, but he will know better than most that any further transgressions will not be tolerated.

The irony is that seasoned observers of Ferguson have noted a marked softening in his attitude this season. The spring has returned to his step and the twinkle to his eyes: even his pet hate, press conferences, have become fun again. Glaswegian frostiness has melted away in the onset of an unexpectedly warm Indian summer.

Ferguson would never admit it, but perhaps the old dog has learned from the young pup.

Mourinho's realpolitik approach to football matters is now flourishing at Old Trafford and results have been spectacular. A nine-point lead is seldom overhauled in the spring and red ribbons might as well be tied to the trophy if United march back down the East Lancashire road victorious after Saturday's meeting with Liverpool.

Ferguson has won too much to become misty-eyed at the prospect of another league title, but this triumph would be particularly sweet.

It would provide thumping, thundering proof not just of United's resurgence, but of their manager's remarkable gift for re-invention.