Heartiest congratulations are in order to the men from the United Kingdom who, for the second time in three years, have prised the Sam Maguire cup from the clutches of the Southern Ireland representatives.

This year it was the men of Londonderry who demonstrated the facility with which British people can adapt to uniquely Irish games.

It was a triumphant occasion for Foul Play, who, for the third year in a row, has realised a profit on the All-Ireland Final, thanks to the efforts of the men from the Northern territories.

Down and Donegal both obliged to a greater and lesser extent, while Londonderry made it a resounding three-in-a-row.

Emotionally, I suppose that I would prefer an Irish win, but the U.K. players are now becoming so proficient, it is hard to ignore their claims on logical grounds.

It was looking good for Eire at one stage, when Tony Davis of Cork was sent to the line for what seemed like a pretty innocuous foul, particularly following an offence by his colleague Niall Cahalane moments earlier, which certainly merited an early bath, with lots and lots of bubbles.

It was looking good because Gaelic Football must be one of the few games in the world in which a team tends to benefit by having a player sent off. It seems to concentrate the mind in some mysterious way.

Dublin ensured victory nigh on a decade ago by finishing up the match with about enough players for a game of handball. Their opponents, Galway, just couldn't match them when it came to getting their marching orders, though they tried hard enough.

Had Cahalane been sent to the line having made such a convincing effort with a punch which laid out Enda Gormley, off the ball, the tradition might have been maintained. Perhaps it was this feeling of being thwarted, which prevented Cork from taking full advantage of their good fortune.

In some ways, it was a very Australian occasion, too, what with up to nine players having had some experience of the Aussie Rules game, and Prime Minister Paul Keating softening the blow of British victory by lending a true Republican air to the proceedings.

Surely the nadir of the festivities was Saturday night's TV jamboree Up For The Final, presented by the remarkable Liam O'Murchú.

The Artane Boys Band, whose contribution to rock'n'roll includes Larry Mullen, and a picture on the last INXS album, opened the proceedings with versions of 'The Banks Of My Own Lovely Lee' and 'Danny Boy', which is all very fine, except that, at important moments, with the audience crooning along, they appeared to be playing all the wrong notes.

There was some horrendous discord in the works, as, at times, the Boys seemed to be essaying some novel, free-form rendition of these old favourites, something on the lines of Miles Davis on a particularly experimental night.

Then, there was a splendid moment when O'Murchú, greeting the dignitaries in the audience, went to give the Lady Mayoress of Londonderry a peck on the cheek.

He said that it is not every day that a man in his position gets to kiss a Mayor. For the wags watching, there was an immediate reaction to the fact that Mayor is pronounced exactly like "mare", and the obvious punch-line, "I suppose a ride is out of the question?"

So Sam Maguire leaves the country once again.

I see that the Cup is sometimes referred to by aficionados as "Baby Sam", since it is a replica of the original model.

Thus, the day must come when an Ulster player will accept the Dr. McKenna Cup, or "Baby Doc". The original will then become "Papa Doc", the well-known Haitian dictator. I await the day with relish: "And the Armagh captain, Mickey McElhatton, holds Baby Doc aloft. He's a big man and by Jaysus, he would need to be".

I'm sure that the Londonderry players, selectors, mentors and officials will be the first to congratulate their compatriots from Linfield, who registered an astonishing 3-0 win over F.C. Copenhagen in the European Cup at a rain-lashed, windswept Windsor Park.

For some reason, Windsor Park always seems to look rain-lashed and windswept, even when the sun is splitting the rocks.

In my mind's eye, I can see the Republic going up to Windsor, perhaps needing a point to qualify for the World Cup, and for 90 terrible minutes, the whole world will appear rain-lashed and windswept.

With Cork City getting a good result, losing 2-1 to the Turks, Galataseray, the alarming prospect loomed of Armageddon in the form of a Linfield v Cork City clash in the next round.

Mercifully, they are both seeded towards the bottom of the rankings, so this monstrous confrontation will not take place, whatever else happens.

Linfield's jousts with Southern teams have a murky history, including one scarifying episode at Oriel Park when a pitch battle seemed likely to end the broadcasting career of poor Philip Greene delivering his last, desperate messages from the commentary bunker.

Linfield v Cork would have set new precedents in TV coverage of sport. At half-time, Bill O'Herlihy would turn to the panel for some match analysis:

"Kate Adie, Robert Fisk, and John Simpson. Can I begin by asking you if you have ever seen anything like this in all your born days?"

Football would have been the loser that night, Brian. But thanks to UEFA, Doomsday will have to wait for a while yet.