This annus sportingus currently drawing to a close will surely be remembered not for Ireland’s qualification for the World Cup, but as the year that Foul Play finally managed to get a couple of predictions right. I correctly forecast, for example, the manner of England’s gloriously inevitable self-destruction at the climax of the Six Nations, a full nine months before it happened.

“Even though an Italian win at Twickenham this weekend, or even an Azzurri display that remotely embarrasses the home side, is far too much to hope for, perhaps it’s better that England get some momentum going, a few wins on the board, before once more, at the last possible moment, falling flat on their complacent faces like a ton of bricks.”

I penned those words in February of this year, long before foot and mouth had its wicked way with the Six Nations calendar and before Keith Wood et al had theirs with the hapless English. Aren’t I great, all the same?

I also managed to prophesy a 3-0 win for Ireland away to Andorra in the World Cup qualifiers, although my confidence in such an outcome didn’t extend to sticking a few quid on it happening. Still, one step at a time, eh?

Aside from Foul Play’s audacious reinvention of himself as a self-styled Nostradamus of the press box, there were plenty of other sideshows to occupy those of a sporting bent during 2001.

The Republic, of course, made it to Korea Japan 2002 by confidently brushing aside the pathetic challenge of a Dutch team who clearly regarded themselves as far too good to be sharing the same pitch as these green-shirted oiks. The fact that they were absolutely correct is beside the point.

Meanwhile, in a galaxy far, far away, England spluttered into the finals with a 2-2 draw against Greece, thanks to a late, late intervention by old Goldenballs himself, David Beckham. They earlier subjected the Germans to a five-goal fisting that has probably gone some way to hastening Franz Beckenbauer into an early grave.

Man United won the title again. Nobody cared. They were much more absorbed in Liverpool’s step-by-step acquisition of the Worthless Cup, UEFA Cup and FA Cup, a laudable but hardly seismic achievement which some rather ill-advised members of the Pool squad kept referring to as “the treble”.

Sorry, but as Sir Alex Ferguson would tell you, there are trebles, and then there are trebles. Such as the one completed by Celtic in May, when Martin O’Neill – 11 months after taking charge of the most corpulent, ill-disciplined rabble this side of Chelsea – led them to a clean sweep of the Scottish trophies.

Celtic defeated Rangers four times during 2001, and were attempting to make it five out of five two days after I handed this column in to HP. That’s fantastic enough, but when one considers that they administered beatings to Ajax, Porto, Rosenborg and (gulp) Juventus during an ultimately unsuccessful but tremendously stirring Champions League campaign, one gets some sense of what O’Neill has done up there. Man of the year, without a doubt.

Followed closely by Pádraig Joyce, scorer of a rake of points as Galway saw off the dreaded Meath in the All-Ireland football final. It was undoubtedly the most interesting football championship in several years.

Reigning champions Kerry were dethroned by An Bhastairds, sorry, An Mhí, in the semi-final, but not before they knocked out a rejuvenated Dublin in a replay in Thurles. The original drawn match was the game of the summer, graced by a last-minute equalising free of uncommon beauty from Kerry’s Maurice Fitzgerald.

The Dublin county board, in their infinite wisdom, responded to their replay defeat by sacking manager Tommy Carr in a manner too disgracefully Machiavellian to even bother going into here.

Tipperary became hurling champions with a professional win over Galway, who themselves had thrashed favourites Kilkenny in the semi-final. Tipp had earlier beaten Clare 0-11 to 0-10 in Páirc Uí Chaoimh, 70 minutes of ill-tempered, joyless, attritional hackwork that was, by a yawning (and I do mean yawning) margin, the dreariest sporting event I saw all year.

Virtually nothing happened in boxing this year except for Lennox Lewis’ two fights with Hasim Rahman, and the long overdue implosion of the insufferable Naseem Hamed, who had his ass beaten like a gong by Marco Antonio Barrera in Las Vegas.

Hamed has since effectively disappeared off the radar, refusing to set up another fight or give any interviews. In a statement recently released by his PR handlers, he ascribed his current subterranean profile to the rise in anti-Muslim sentiment since September 11th. Classy guy.

In rugby, the Lions lost 2-1 to Australia. Their challenge disintegrated in a flurry of acrimony and backbiting: coach Graham Henry blamed Austin Healey, the scrum of the earth, for costing the Lions the third Test after Healey had heaped abuse on Australia’s new lock-forward Justin Harrison (an “ape” and a “plank”, apparently) in an Observer column. Harrison promptly went out and played the game of his life. Poor Austin.

And it didn’t get any better for him in October, when – I’m sorry, but there is really no other way of saying this – a shockingly complacent English team had the Grand Slam ripped from their clutches for the third year in a row. The task of kicking the legs out from under Clive Woodward’s team this year fell to Ireland, after Wales in 1999 and Scotland last year.

England’s 2002 Six Nations fixture list, incidentally, concludes with a home game against Italy. Surely not…?