A tournament chock-full of magnificent goals, jaw-dropping technique, fantastically cavalier attacking play and only a few numbskullish refereeing decisions, Euro 2000 had everything, even to the extent of featuring the finest defensive performance of the modern age, when ten-man Italy somehow held off hosts Holland to win their semi-final on penalties in the Amsterdam Arena.
England, lucky even to be at the finals after their vile play-off win over Scotland, were brutally exposed in losing to Portugal and Romania, the latter coming courtesy of a last-minute penalty. Rejoice! Rejoice! (Though the disgracefully unimaginative Germans, whom they defeated in a dreadful match in Charleroi, were even worse.)
Favourites France, who had at last unearthed a forward line to complement the rest of their sparkling line-up, eventually prevailed, in the process becoming the first team to be reigning world and European champions simultaneously.
The final, in Rotterdam, was as good a denouement to a major championship as this writer has seen: Italy clinging on grimly to their one-goal lead, marshalling their considerable defensive resources behind the ball to impervious effect until, with a mere ten seconds to go, Sylvain Wiltord squeezed a shot under goalkeeper Toldo s body to take it into extra-time, whereupon David Triziguet lashed home a golden-goal winner. A wonderful, unforgettable tournament. Now, if only some enterprising soul would bring out a highlights video
Man United cakewalked the English title race by an amazing 18 points, due to the total collapse of any meaningful opposition challenge in the spring. The pattern seemed set to be repeated in the 2000-2001 campaign: United went into the month of December a full eight points clear, and not even Arsenal, falling away alarmingly on both domestic and European fronts, seemed capable of living with them.
The utterly insufferable Dick Advocaat and his handsomely-paid mercenaries helped Rangers to romp to another Scottish championship in the spring. Celtic responded by showing the incompetent Barnes and the studiedly indifferent Dalglish the door, and by appointing a manager who at least looked like he might give a shit about the general fortunes of the team, as opposed to playing golf all day with Dermot Desmond.
Under Martin O Neill, then, the Bhoys finally roused themselves from their slumbers and started to resemble a decent side. At the start of the new season, they put together a 16-match unbeaten run in the league, including 14 wins, one of which was an unforgettable 6-2 annihilation of Rangers in August.
A semblance of normality, though, was restored when the Huns walloped them 5-1 at Ibrox, and then predictably started spouting reams of garbage about how they had won the tie on away goals. See you at Celtic Park in February.
The Sydney Olympics were acclaimed as the finest sporting event of all time, by a host of slavering journos whom, one suspects, had embraced the charms of the good life a little too enthusiastically while on secondment down there.
It might have seemed like a veritable riot of roistering to those who were actually present at the event, but for most of us at home, there seemed little on show but a seemingly endless succession of hard-faced, pumped-to-the-gills, over-musculated hulks (of indeterminate gender) mounting the podium. Or am I just totally out of step on this one?
Apart from Sonia O Sullivan s magnificent silver medal performance in the 5,000 metres, it was an even more abysmal Olympiad than usual for Ireland s alleged athletes, though one of the canoeists did his usual trick of claiming to have missed a certain medal by inches, due to having gently brushed against a slalom pole on the final bend, etc, etc.
In the world of Gaaaah, it was an interesting year for those of the Biffo persuasion. On the small ball front, Offaly were well to the forefront of proceedings. They withstood the loss of stalwarts like the recalcitrant John Troy and skipper Hubert Rigney to see off first Wexford, then Derry (via the ever-ajar back door) and finally Cork, but were eventually monstered in the final by Kilkenny, whose awesome Carter/Carey/Shefflin forward line proved unstoppable.
The Biffo footballers pulled off the shock of the year by whupping reigning holders Meath s ass in the first round of the championship, before throwing away what seemed like a certain victory against Kildare, and subsequently losing the replay.
Later on in the championship, Kildare would pulverise Dublin in yet another replayed match. The Dubs, again flattering to deceive, scored two miserable points in the second half after enjoying a comfortable lead at the break. The dolts.
Galway put a halt to Kildare s gallop in the semi, but were themselves seen off by a superb Kerry side in a replayed final. Led from the front by their heroic captain Seamus Moynihan, and spearheaded by the attacking gifts of Mike Frank Russell, Kerry were so good that they could afford to use Maurice Fitzgerald (probably the best footballer in the country, and by logical extension the entire universe) as a super-sub, utilising his skills in rapid-fire bursts against tiring opponents.
It says much about Kerry that they could elicit such admiration from even a jaundiced hack like myself, despite the fact that their feats cost me forty quid in lost bets on the day. So it goes