Happy New Year, comrades. With our national football team (perhaps mercifully) not engaged in competitive combat until March, their rugby equivalents still limbering up for the Six Nations (on which more next issue) and the GAA in hibernation (I pay zero attention to the millions of Mickey Mouse competitions which clutter the midwinter schedule), this would seem an opportune time to assess the current state of the cross-channel Premier League.

Indisputably, this one has long since become a two-horse race, the weekend’s ‘Super Sunday’ double-header having conclusively established beyond any doubt that the two Mancunian superpowers are operating in a different universe to Arsenal and Liverpool, two of the traditional dreadnoughts, currently mired in sixth and eighth place respectively with scant evidence that any immediate improvement is forthcoming.
Accordingly, Foul Play spent a hugely pleasant Sunday taking the bookies to the cleaners, backing both United and City (and indeed Lazio, and the Atlanta Falcons) to do the business with minimum fuss. Strike rate: 100%. If I had to do it all again, I’d invest much, much more heavily. Caution is not always the best policy.
It doesn’t require the benefit of hindsight to point out that odds of almost evens for United to skin Liverpool – at Old Trafford – was one of the bargains of the century, a price surely related to the respective size of both clubs’ support bases rather than the actual difference between their playing abilities.
Fergie was in vintage form in the run-up to the match, slyly belittling the Anfield crew and the much-vaunted Rodgers revolution with the pointed observation that he no longer even bothers to keep track of where Liverpool stand in the league table.
The message was unambiguous: the ‘Pool have long since ceased to be of serious relevance as any sort of threat to the red-nosed one’s evil empire. While many of their fans continue to cling to the utopian delusion that world domination is surely just around the corner, all the evidence of Liverpool’s last three-and-a-half seasons speaks for itself.
A perfectly decent, respectable performance on Sunday, with a mildly stirring semi-comeback and a very encouraging showing from new arrival Daniel Sturridge, doesn’t camouflage the reality of just how far Liverpool have to go to even entertain notions of overhauling the other Red machine. There was a time when every single battle between these two clubs had a Clash Of The Titans heavyweight title bout feel to it; now, there is an almost David v Goliath subtext to their meetings, the gap between their respective statures seeming to widen all the time.
It would be insanely premature to pronounce Brendan Rodgers’ regime a failure after only half a season in charge, but the Antrim man surely ventured onto very unsafe ground with his comment that, “We are not 24 points behind United on quality.” A cursory look back over any amount of the team’s games so far this season would surely dispel him of this misconception.
Later that day, City kept their breath on United’s necks with a surprisingly routine stroll away to Arsenal. Obviously any game where one of the protagonists is sent off after 10 minutes instantly becomes a steep uphill climb for the remaining ten men, but it was still mildly shocking to see how tamely Arsenal surrendered thereafter. 20 minutes later, City were two goals to the good having also missed a penalty – and might have gone on to do some extremely serious damage on the scoreboard had they been a little more ruthless and incisive in front of goal.
Can City catch up, though? A seven-point gap between the sides is obviously very substantial, but as you will all recall, they were eight points behind last April and still pulled off the impossible. United are hardly invulnerable, with three defeats already this season and 29 goals conceded in 22 games; Robin van Persie has made the difference time and time again – they would hardly be on top if he hadn’t been there – and any injury or loss of form on his part might tip the balance back in City’s favour. With the table the way it is, it surely goes without saying that the title is now United’s to lose, but anybody pronouncing the outcome as done and dusted with 16 games still to play needs to grow a brain.
In truth, what limited excitement the weekend’s marquee games had to offer truly paled in comparison with the unbelievable riches on offer across the Atlantic Ocean in the four NFL quarter-finals, at least two of which have to go down in history as among the greatest sporting contests ever witnessed on Earth.
In particular, the epic extra-time shootout between Baltimore and Denver took on an almost Ali-vs-Frazier dimension, with the venerable Ray Lewis (in his last season before retirement) simply refusing to accept the seemingly inevitable, as if the very concept of defeat was an unacceptable personal affront.
The sensational levels of skill, intrigue and tactical complexity continued unabated in the following day’s Atlanta-Seattle match, wherein the Falcons (who stand to boost Foul Play’s coffers by almost 500 squid if they go all the way) raced into a 20-0 lead, almost hammered nails into my coffin by pissing it all away in a shocking late meltdown, which saw them trail 28-27 in the dying seconds, then pulled off a last-play feat of escapology which can only be described as a miracle of Resurrection-of-Christ proportions. I may have jumped out of my seat, punched the air and roared a primal scream of pure ecstasy. The South will rise again, as Mark E. Smith almost said.
I’ve banged this drum before very occasionally in this column, aware that not too many people over here are remotely interested. But plenty of feedback from people I’ve spoken to in the last year or two confirms that the bug is spreading, that anyone who tunes into the NFL for five minutes these days runs the serious risk of becoming hooked for life. “Is American football always this good??” asked a colleague on Sunday evening, wide-eyed in wonder and disbelief, to which one could only answer, “You bet.” If any of you remain sceptical, tune in for five minutes on Sunday and then tell me I’m wrong. Sport doesn’t get any better than this.
Next week: once more with feeling, it’s Six Nations time. Take care, y’all.