PREMIER LEAGUE:Kevin Keegan's recent criticism's of English football's boring top flight were, if anything, understated

QUOTE OF the week - hell, even the season - from the Premiership's chief executive Richard Scudamore last Wednesday, in response to Kevin Keegan's assertion that the Premier League is about to become "the most boring league in the world" thanks to the big four's chokehold on the rest of their so-called competitors.

"That's Kevin for you," Scudamore replied, flashing the kind of smile usually sported by a crocodile just before it rips off the hind legs of some unsuspecting antelope. "I'm sure once he's had time to reflect, he will acknowledge that what he meant to say was how great a challenge it will be to get Newcastle into the top four and how much he is relishing that challenge." Hmmm. Not seeing it myself, Richard, but keep up this level of spin-duggery and, if you ever tire of the role of The Most Exciting League In The World's representative on earth, you should be a shoo-in for a job with the public relations department of the Beijing Olympics.

It might come as a surprise to some of you that Mr Scudamore - he of the 39th step - is still in a job given the way his last suggestion was laughed out of court but the top flight needs an energetic apologist. The league could announce their intention to stage a mid-season tournament in the seventh circle of hell, on pitches of molten lava and before crowds of the very worst the underworld has to offer - horned beasts, bloodied ghouls, Millwall fans, everything - and Scudamore would still be there, smiling that wearily indulgent smile and pointing out the unprecedented commercial opportunities presented by a link-up with Beelzebub and his demonic hoards.

The problem is, the Premier League is becoming harder and harder to defend. We might just be emerging from one of those breathless final weekends which are the stuff of wet dreams for Sky Sports TV executives, and with an all-English Champions League final looming on Moscow's onion-domed horizon, but for the vast majority of supporters, Keegan summed it up perfectly.

In fact, he could have gone further. The Premier League is not only the most boring league in the world, it is also one of the most sickly. Scratch away the hype and hysteria and what are we left with? A division where the winners are plucked from an elite group of two or, at a real push, three; where also-rans such as West Ham, muddling along in rank mediocrity, are happy to pay obscene salaries to players who give up as soon as safety is assured; and where even the most successful clubs are underpinned by the sort of debts which would shame a tin-pot banana republic.

It went almost unreported last week that United, our new league champions and with their eyes firmly set on a third European Cup, have recently increased their borrowings to £666 million - a neatly coincidental figure, given Malcolm Glazer's satanic reputation among Old Trafford regulars, but also so monumental as to be utterly beyond the comprehension of most people who prefer to exist in the real world.

There was a time when such a brazen piece of profligacy would have prompted violent protests and a mass outbreak of tut-tutting and finger-wagging in the media. The fact that nobody batted an eyelid this time is down to two things: first, that United's on-field successes mean nobody really cares that they could also be heading for financial melt-down and, second, people expect nothing less from the Glazers.

Either way, it all spells big trouble. Perhaps we should now consider the Premier League one great optical illusion, a sporting version of a magnificent, old-fashioned Hollywood film set which makes stone and concrete out of bolser wood and polystyrene.

We know the whole thing is just elaborate make-believe but still we watch, saucer-eyed, ignoring the fact that the merest puff of wind will send the thing tumbling down. In Hollywood's case, this was literally the case; with the Premier League, all it would take is a few multi-millionaire owners becoming bored of their playthings, or a few more growing twitchy at the impending global recession and bang! The end of the footballing world as we know it.

Nothing will change, of course. Criticism and caution are not allowed in our picture-perfect top flight and Keegan's reward for airing his concerns was to be summoned, like a naughty schoolboy, for a lecture from an owner who goofily embraces all the Premier League's froth and nonsense each time he sports his Newcastle jersey in the St James' Park directors' box. Now the speculation is rife that Keegan will pay for his honesty with his job. He's probably better off out of it.