That's the question, along with 'how does Jamie Carragher manage to get a wedgie every time he makes a slide tackle?' which has most frequently interrupted my thoughts when watching football this season.

I've become obsessed. I'll spend whole Sunday afternoons watching re-runs of United games through the eyes of the Bulgarian via player-cam, desperate to catch him mouth an obscenity or sneer when his Argentine team-mate runs the length of the field with United 4-0 up at home to Bolton to tackle Danny Shittu. With his head.

There's something mesmeric about watching two players, both undeniably of world class calibre, play the game from such contrasting mindsets. Put simply, Tevez is everything Berbatov isn't and it's clear from the 'Argentina' chants that serenade the former's every touch that the Old Trafford faithful have made up their mind which they prefer. At times it seems as though there's more chance of the home crowd adopting a chant for Uncle Bulgaria than their own number nine.

It is though the man that matters who has nailed his colours to Berbatov's mast this season, with Sir Alex Ferguson unequivocal in his conviction that his £30million acquisition is the heir apparent to King Eric. To date, the crown has not quite fitted. When quizzed on the United crowd's affection for Tevez, Fergie replied 'they love a trier' which sounded not dissimilar to a teacher telling a pupil they're 'special' because they have particular needs.

Throughout his two seasons at Old Trafford Tevez has been the model professional and is popular with his team-mates, fans and manager alike but his recent behaviour smacks of a petulance that owes as much to his 'owners'' desire for a lucrative pay-day as it does his own ambition and frustration. Giving Fergie the old Hulk Hogan ears and sulking whenever he is withdrawn sits better with his team-mate Cristiano Ronaldo and could, in the long-run, prove to be his undoing when United's board meet to talk cold figures. They'll be loath to add diapers to next season's kit bill.

Berbatov's laissez-faire school of thought/movement can be frustrating for the partisan but the manner in he which he nonchalantly brought down Darren Fletcher's long ball and laid on the perfect pass for Tevez in the recent Manchester derby was more je ne sais quoi. Berbatov's got that certain something you just can't bottle, although there have been reports he has been in talks about fronting a new antiperspirant, it's got the tagline - BERBATOV: Guaranteed no sweat.

It would do a disservice to Tevez's talent though to label this a bout between the artisan and artist; craft and art, but there are clear parallels that can be drawn. Berbatov is Eubank to Tevez's street fighting Benn, is Peter Cook to Dudley Moore, is Baddiel to Skinner, Style Council to The Jam, Blur to Oasis. If the pair were pets, admittedly unlikely, Berbatov would be a cat that barely looks up when you get home, while Tevez would lick you and run off with a shoe. Think Garfield and Odie.

Berbatov's physique hardly does him any favours either. He's got the head of Andy Garcia and body of Jarvis Cocker and just doesn't look like a footballer. An up and coming mafioso maybe, but when he finally takes the hint and tracks back his tackling is reminiscent of a geography teacher that's had to take PE at the last minute. Somewhat perversely, he's fast becoming a poster boy for fat Sunday League strikers. His mantra is one I used to embrace; once when a centre-half lost patience with my reluctance to hare after one of his aimless punts forward and screamed 'CHASE IT!' I retorted 'You chase it, you f***** kicked it.' Berba would have been proud of that one.

Tevez, in stark contrast, is Brian Glover in Kes. He's probably only up to Berbatov's nipples but has an infectious and insatiable appetite for the fight that has United fans beating their chests and doing the unthinkable: singing about a team in blue and white.

Think with the head r