FOUL Play would like to say "Fair Play" to Sonia O'Sullivan for winning the silver medal in the 15,000 metres, and for fooling everyone - the media, the general public, the other athletes - into thinking that she was really going for the 3,000 metres, and that she was only out for the gallop in the shorter event.

In this, she was copping a lick from the British middle-distance champions, Sebastian Coe and Steve Ovett, who made a bit of a habit of winning the "wrong" race after apparently suffering a crushing disappointment at their favourite distance.

A lingering sense of mystery and intrigue still surrounds the unusual goings-on in the "3,000", when it was suggested that Sonia just lost her concentration for a vital few seconds, allowing the Chinese trio to steal the race from under her nose.

Tactics or no tactics, those Orientals were going at a fair clip, leading to much speculation as to the contents of their medicine cabinets.

The sense of incredulity surrounding the emergence of the peril from the East, reached its apotheosis when the Chinese winner of the 10,000 metres was jeered and whistled at by a substantial section of the crowd, who clearly felt that what they had witnessed was a tribute to chemistry rather than athleticism . . .

BY any logical calculation, it does not seem fantastically unlikely that a nation of several zillion punters could produce a few nippy runners if they put their minds to it, but logic in sport is a poor relation to much more enjoyable inclinations such as chauvinism and racial prejudice, and that deliciously masochistic feeling that "we wuz robbed".

The Chinese may have made a pretty dramatic splash, but in their own way, the British turned in an even more impressive performance, with world records for Sally Gunnell and Colin Jackson, a remarkable showing by John Regis in the 200 metres, and Linford Christie blowing them off the track in the 100 metres.

Did anyone raise the issue of unorthodox training schedules in relation to the Britons? They did not.

So Foul Play might as well throw this one into the ring to be kicked around for a while, just for pig-iron.

The fact that the Britons represent the Free World, as distinct from the Chinese, who still bear the totalitarian stigma, may explain the disparity in reactions to their respective successes.

Ultimately, much of this fuss and bother is grounded in little more than atavistic stereotyping, but then, this is one of the primitive attractions of sport.

It is particularly unreasonable in horse-racing, where the nationality of a particular nag is taken into account as a factor in supporting it. We claim, quite without embarrassment, that the "Irish" horse won the Derby or the Grand National, regardless of the fact that horses really couldn't give a shit where they come from, as long as their nosebag is regularly replenished, and their stable is stocked with sufficient equine creature comforts.

Thus, while it is not logical to automatically assume that the Chinese are full of all kinds of jungle-juice, in sporting terms it makes emotional sense, and contributes to the gaiety of the nation.

After Sonia's tremendous victory, I presume that we will hear more of that ad, in which she extols the rejuvenating powers of Heinz soup after a hard day on the track.

It is the latest in an extraordinary line of ads featuring Irish sporting legends and their alliegance to a particular brand of food or drink, or, in the case of Kevin Moran., washing powder!

Stephen Roche began to lose his form in the wake of those hilarious evocations of Galtee products. Niall Quinn is currently starring in a gruesome celebration of the benefits of Lucozade. Sean Kelly, cute to the last, salvages a modicum of dignity by keeping a can of Cidona stuck in his mouth, lest he be tempted to open it to speak. And Moran's spirited defence of Radion is perhaps the most remarkable of the whole bizarre series.

His colleagues at Blackburn Rovers acquired a video of Kevin's performance, and to his consternation and their wild hilarity sprang a surprise on him by playing it on the team bus.

There is something heroic in Kevin's effort, a typically gritty attempt to avoid looking like a complete pillock against all the odds. He narrowly fails, but it is such a brave try, it contains within it the tarnished seeds of greatness.

Gone but not forgotten is Packie Bonner's cri de coeur on behalf of the Irish Permanent, while Jack Charlton's love affair with a huge range of products verges on the orgiastic.

IN poignant contrast, Linford Christie's championing of Lucozade, complete with a James Brown soundtrack, and numerous images of the great man in a number of charismatic postures, makes him look like a thoroughly sexy motherfucker.

You don't laugh at Linford in the way that you laugh at Kevin, or Niall, or Stephen. This probably demonstrates the superior integrity of your average Irish hero, who simply cannot tell a lie in a convincing fashion.

I don't know what Linford is throwing into himself to make him run like that, but it sure as shit is not Lucozade. To watch him glugging it down would suggest that he uses nothing else, and of course, there is no innuendo in any of this whatsoever.

Fair play to him, too. And commiserations to his former training partner, "Baby Ben" Livingstone, who still languishes in disgrace after being busted for steroids in Barcelona.

Win some, lose some.