Wednesday columnist and excited supporter Giles Smith sets the manifesto for the league season's final day.

Everyone's talking about waiting to see whether Manchester United slip up against Wigan. I'm saying, let's take matters into our own hands and do it the Chelsea way - by beating Bolton at home on Sunday, 21-0.

Because that makes us masters of our own destiny again, doesn't it? A fairly comprehensive, 21-0 drubbing of the Wanderers (Drogba 8, Lampard 5, Ballack 5, Kalou 2 and - why not? It's Christmas! - Shevchenko 1) would mean that Manchester United could beat Wigan 3-0 and it wouldn't matter to us one jot. We'd be champions anyway and the tinsel would once more be exploding across the Stamford Bridge pitch, along with the players' wives and girlfriends.

What an afternoon that would be. The best ever, surely. Eat our goals, Sir Alex! And you, Ronaldo.

And you know something - the way our players are at the moment, I wouldn't completely put it past them. And, before anyone gets the wrong end of the stick, I'm not dismissing Bolton here, or suggesting that they represent in anyway a soft touch. On the contrary, Bolton still have a competitive interest left in the season, unlike certain teams we could mention, such as Wigan.

The point is, I'd feel the same if it were Everton who were due here, or Portsmouth or Aston Villa. 21-0? Very tough, yes. Almost impossible, you could say. Yet in the context of the other big asks that have been set before the team in recent days and which they have heroically answered in the affirmative - well, it's not altogether out of the question somehow.

In so many ways, big-hearted persistence in the face of hefty odds has been the story of the Chelsea season - or certainly the story of the season's sharp end.

Crush Arsenal after going a goal behind - and do it in such a manner as to drain the spirit from their entire season? OK, then - we will.

Beat Manchester United, when they are seemingly on the verge of the title - and not only beat them but thoroughly dominate the game, gift them a goal to get back into the match and then squeeze another and emerge victorious in any case? If you insist - then, yes.

Remove Liverpool from the Champions League when the weight of history was so annoyingly stacked against us and despite the fact that Liverpool perversely predicate their entire commercial operation upon success in that single competition, leaving them absolutely nothing else to think about? Right-ho - job done.

Go to Newcastle, where we traditionally stutter - go there in the always dangerous aftermath of a euphoric night in Europe, and take on a side playing for pride in a seven-game run of form - and yet take them apart with a display of sustained fortitude, continuous obstinacy and occasional brilliance? Yep - here you go, then.

It strikes me as completely fitting that we have the best away record in the league. We did the hard bit, you see.

Beat Wigan at home, remove Barnsley from the FA Cup, take down the less than mighty Tottenham at Wembley - it's these altogether smaller, less imposing feats that have eluded us this season; the occasions when the chips, for whatever reason, haven't been piled quite high enough for everybody's liking.

In the proper white heat of the season's closing stages, though, at exactly the point when they might perfectly reasonably have melted into the floor, the players seem to have tapped into whole new levels of inner strength. You've got to respect them for that, haven't you? Which is why the traditional end of season lap of honour on Sunday could - irrespective of how the game goes - be one of the most intense of recent times.

Just forcing the title race to the final day - and potentially obliging Manchester United to win it, but only on goal difference, which is like winning it, but not really -represents a major and admirable achievement on the part of the club, and quite enough glory, in itself, for one season, as those of us with longer memories will readily appreciate.

Nevertheless, come on, the Chels. One big, final, stonking goal glut and the title is ours, whatever happens.

And then (and only then) can we start to think about Moscow.