For once, the hype surrounding a Manchester United event was matched by the spectacle, not that this made it any more edifying. We are all in for some dark old days.
If and when this country goes to the dogs again, some bright spark is going to lay its demise at the feet of the wretched United fans who stalk the land, shouting each other down in depressingly bland conversations about Scholesy's heart and the benefits of the Blomqvist acquisition.
Alex Ferguson is, it seems, a fundamentally decent man and if he could but realise how much misery his team is inadvertently forcing upon the sizeable Irish minority of non-Manchester United followers, chances are he would throw the towel in.
As the Old Trafford club prepared for last Wednesday's Champions League semi-final tie in Turin, this country went into overdrive. Articles about the joys of being a Red Devil made the worthy sections of most newspapers and the views of several celebrity disciples were solicited and gladly given, including those of one Bertie Ahern.
Worrying. Some man went on the radio to declare that his young fella idolised Peter Schmeichel. The kid, we were told, had all the gear. (Shouldn't social services be told?)
On the day in question, those given to the cause walked around with a giddy smile which betrayed their nature and when the hour arrived, they duly squeezed into their shiny red shirts and packed the local pubs to gather shoulder to shoulder and gaze at the box with the kind of dumb fondness most folks reserve for new-borns.
The Manchester United phenomenon, in this country particularly, has nothing to do with sport; the games are purely TV dramas, pretty soap operas for people who, in truth, care not a damn about sport and know less.
Of course, there are many Irish people who invest their every waking moment acquiring sporting lore and who just happen to support Manchester United, but they contribute only a slim percentage to the body of cardboard cut-outs who boldly proclaim their affinity to United as though their vocal support was the intangible difference between failure and the dizzy success the club now enjoys.
It makes for good spectator sport, sitting in any bar across Ireland on nights watching these `Man-U' people do their watching thing.
See the rapture with which they greet a Yorke strike. Note the subtle head-shake as they appreciate another sublimely angled run by Giggsy, discernible only to their tutored eye. Observe the orchestral sweeps of their bottles of lager as they relive another Beckham surge and see how they clamour over one another when the shrill whistle clarion calls yet another victory.
Who are these people and why are they? Sure, almost every Irish person follows some English soccer club, generally for ludicrous reasons such as a childish gesture of loyalty to a since forgotten friend, a shirt for a birthday present, in honour of some player who wore sideburns and still looked cool. But where were all these ManU fans in the days of Duxberry and Arthur Albiston? Why weren't they bending our ear then?
No, Wednesday evening, marvellous though the athleticism and collective will was to behold, had nothing to do with sport in this country. Of much more value was a touching little piece on The Soccer Show about the disappearance of soccer from inner-city Dublin street-life. (This was not a topic which would have featured highly on the post-match agenda of the red-brigade, you can be sure).
Thomas Morgan of St Patrick's Athletic and journalist Rory Hafford took a walk around the once-celebrated asphalt play areas such as Gloucester Diamond off Gardiner Street, home to the now defunct seven-a-side tournament which Eamon Dunphy found so irresistible that he used risk his Manchester United (yes, the club existed back then) contract just to play in it.
"Street-life isn't the same anymore, it needs to be cultivated again," offered Dunphy, who remembers the city when virtually every side-street was fashioned into Wembley using four coats and a ball.
A delightful montage of 1950s tenement photographs featuring youngsters at play prompted dewy-eyed remembrances of a less complicated and somehow purer age and even if there was an element of rosy nostalgia to the feature, the subject made for great viewing and would merit a lengthier examination.
Chances are that Ken Doherty is one of the few current Manchester Untied fans who ever kicked ball on a street.
Dead-eyed Ken was up against it in the Crucible at the weekend, down 10-6 and fighting for breath against Nigel Bond, one of those everyday snooker names who manages to retain total anonymity.
Ken, those pallid features dispassionate to the last, made a brilliant recovery in the last session and eventually won out. Or rather, Nigel lost. When Nigel is at table, he looks just like the majority of the rest of them, tip-toeing around the baize while wearing an expression of utter boredom.
Snooker isn't about great shots, it's about facial tics. That's why Kirk Stevens and Alex Higgins heralded the golden age of the game. We tuned in simply to witness their angst, to eat our tea as they crumbled before us. Hungrily they sucked on fags and haggardly downed another gin and we loved them for it.
On Saturday, Nigel Bond watched Ken Doherty rip great swathes from his dream and he didn't even blink. Watching Nigel sit quietly, you didn't think "booze" or "turmoil", you thought "accountancy".
John Virgo assured us we should be feeling sympathy for Nigel, but it was difficult to determine if he was even still alive.
Ken we like. If Ken is eliminated at some stage over the week, at least he'll grimace and then exit the arena with a brave old smile. As he said himself afterwards, there are worse things happening in the world than losing a game. Would that he tell his fellow Reds that.
