Leicester City Celebrates, Tottenham Falters and John Terry Exits: The Premier League Review

The penultimate round of Premier League fixtures is over, and the sun-kissed monotony of summer is only a week away. We are about to enter the epoch of Salmonella-laced barbecues, family holidays, and mind-numbing arguments about Andy Murray's nationality.

But before all that awfulness, let us at least savour this weekend's action. God, we wish the Premier League would never end.

Prior to the weekend, we'd started to feel a little cynical about the Leicester fairytale. First and foremost, the prodigious overuse of the word "fairytale" was becoming a little grating. Add to that the fawning commentators, the endless stream of platitudes aimed in their direction and the incessant bants about Gary Lineker's pants, and we found ourselves wishing Manchester City had won the league, just so we could all be rightfully miserable come the end of the season.

We settled down to watch Leicester face Everton with cynicism in our hearts. By the end of the match, that cynicism had died and been resurrected as sheer, unadulterated joy.

The outpouring of emotion at the King Power Stadium was indescribably powerful. The terraces ran with tears of happiness. At one point, the cameras panned to a father and son, embracing and sobbing themselves hoarse while trying to serenade Jamie Vardy. That is what football is all about – adult human beings, weeping profusely while singing songs of praise for the sort of man who calls his own lookalike an absolute full-kit wanker.

When Claudio Ranieri stepped up to the victors' podium – voice choked with pride – and introduced Andrea Bocelli to the crowd, our spirits soared. Bocelli stunned 32,000 Leicester fans with a spine-tingling rendition of Nessun Dorma, wresting their voices from their very bodies and compelling them to croon along. If you watched Bocelli's performance and didn't physically piss yourself with appreciation, you will never appreciate the beauty of the universe. You are the sort of person that looks at a radiant sunset, a fresh-blooming flower or a newborn babe, shrugs and says "meh". The highs of human experience are lost on you – and we pity you for it.

If Saturday's trip to Sunderland was John Terry's last competitive appearance in a Chelsea shirt, it couldn't have gone much worse. Terry was partially culpable for Sunderland's second goal – deflecting Fabio Borini's shot past Thibaut Courtois and into the back of the net – before he received two yellow cards in quick succession for a raking tackle on Jermaine Defoe and a wild chop on Wahbi Khazri.

As he stormed off the pitch, hurling his captain's armband to the ground with barely a glance at his teammates, it was hard not to feel that his "Captain, Leader, Legend" image was left somewhat tarnished. Here was a man who had captained his team through their worst season for several decades, who had needlessly cost Chelsea the game, flouncing off the pitch like the embodiment of self-centred petulance.

In the context of a long, controversial and undeniably successful career, this might only be a minor footnote. Nonetheless, it serves as a snapshot in time – a flawed, sullen, resentful John Terry, trudging away from his glory days on the pitch and down the long tunnel of footballing decline.

You awaken. You find yourself in a vast hall of gleaming crystal, a veritable cathedral of reflected light. The sun shines through the translucent surface of the building, bathing your face in the warm glow of self-knowledge. Memories, thoughts and ideas file past you, taking you by the arm and shaking you by the hand. You have never experienced such clarity of mind, such perfect comprehension of the cosmos.

You look upward. There, on the ceiling of this sublime edifice, is a fresco depicting a godlike Sam Allardyce. To your astonishment, its mouth opens to reveal a gargantuan piece of chewing gum. "Ey up, me son!" the fresco cries.

This is Big Sam's mind palace, see. It is here that he conceived Sunderland's victory over Chelsea, here that he has masterminded their likely escape from relegation. In light of that victory – and Newcastle's limp draw at Aston Villa – the Black Cats are now out of the relegation zone with a game in hand on their north-east rivals. Sam couldn't have done it without the help of transcendental meditation, which he admitted to using late last week.

This palace is the result of Big Sam's mental labours. He might be a big lad from Dudley with a penchant for long-ball football, but – as Sunderland fans will attest – he is capable of creating something jaw-droppingly beautiful nonetheless. If the Black Cats do manage to avoid the drop come the end of the season, he will return to the recesses of his mind palace. There, in the luminous halls of the inner psyche, he will toast his achievement until the end of time.

St. Totteringham isn't officially recognised by the Catholic church. He has never been formally canonised, nor has he been beatified. He has never been openly welcomed into the Kingdom of Heaven, presumably because the last few Popes have been massive fans of Tottenham Hotspur. Nevertheless, he might be about to perform a minor miracle.

With Spurs losing to Southampton on the weekend and Arsenal thrashing out a hard-fought draw with Manchester City, the yearly celebration of Arsène Wenger's side finishing above their North London rivals is yet to be indefinitely postponed. The Gunners are now two points behind Mauricio Pochettino's men and – with Arsenal playing relegated Aston Villa at home and Tottenham travelling to Newcastle – there's a chance they could still usurp their old foes on the final day of the campaign.

That's pretty miraculous in itself, considering how superior Spurs have been this season. If Arsenal do manage it, there'll be thousands of prayers offered up to St. Totteringham all through the summer. Try telling us he's not a proper saint then, Pope.

In grinding out a woeful goalless draw with Newcastle, Aston Villa produced one of the highlights of the season. While the game itself was utterly turgid – misplaced passes, wayward shots and clumsy touches defining the entire 90 minutes – Villa did at least manage to avoid a new club record of 12 consecutive defeats.

That should give them a small modicum of comfort going into next season in the Championship. Maybe they could give the game pride of place on the end-of-season DVD? You know, just before the feature interview with Tim Sherwood's gillet.

@W_F_Magee