So that’s it. No trophies this year for the most despised club in christendom, unless you count Ruud van Nistelrooy’s PFA Player of the Year Award. And in fairness, watching Manchester United give their luck that one shove too many against Bayer Leverkusen, nobody could really complain.

Except for Fergie, that is, who volunteered the frankly astonishing post-match suggestion that his team had deserved to win. Excuse me?!??!?

In nineteen years watching United, I have heard Uncle Alex come out with some world-class shite in my time, but that one was positively Dunphy-esque.

United were frankly abysmal for most of the two legs against the Germans, and had Diego Forlan’s lob gone in with four minutes to go, it would have been a travesty of justice not witnessed on a football field since Holland got shunted out of Euro 2000 by Italy’s 10-0-0 formation.

Only one United player rose above the collective malaise. Relentlessly powerful and aggressive throughout, the indefatigable Roy Keane looked every inch the best footballer in the world, which is fair enough, as that’s what he is.

The savage majesty of Keane’s performance (which, of course, augurs extremely well for Ireland’s World Cup campaign) contrasted sharply with the sufferings of Juan Veron, who brooded enigmatically on the wing all night.

Veron was predictably mauled by the papers the next day for his ineffectuality, but, as ever, there was an air of pointlessness about the abuse that was being hurled at him.

Criticising a player like Veron for not tracking back and tackling diligently is like getting annoyed with water for being wet. As has been painfully obvious all season, his languid style of play doesn’t remotely suit the rest of the team’s high-octane approach.

Those of you who watched the Leverkusen second leg may have been struck by the numerous close-ups that showed Rudi Völler sitting next to a portly gentleman with a moustache and an ill-fitting blazer.

It was none other than Reiner Calmund, Leverkusen’s managing director. Foul Play recently read a quite fascinating profile of this man, in which it was reported that he had to take sedatives before sitting through a vital Bundesliga match against Nuremberg two weeks ago.

The twice-divorced Calmund has also suffered three heart attacks in the past couple of years, a medical detail which is not unadjacent to the fact that he weighs an amazing 24 (twenty-four) stone.

Not that United gave him, or his cardiologist, too much to be worried about, aside from Forlan’s opportunistic effort late on.

Foul Play would love to believe that Leverkusen will have enough left in the tank for one more tilt at the windmills, tearing Real to pieces in the manner of Borussia Dortmund’s surprise rout of Juventus five years ago in Munich, but that would be some leap of faith.

For all their trophies and glamour, I’ve always thought that there’s something deeply naff and uncool about Real Madrid. It’s probably a combination of the General Franco factor, the presence of 90 percent of their playing staff in those cringeworthy Nike ads, and their remarkable ability to spend their way out of trouble despite having debts that would embarrass Enron.

Then there’s Steve McManaman, the thinking man’s Quinton Fortune, getting an estimated sixty grand sterling a week in return for about 15 minutes on the pitch each Saturday.

The obviously stupid British press have been screaming for “Macca” to be recalled to the England squad all week, on the grounds of one admittedly very well taken goal against Barcelona, in the context of a nine-minute appearance as sub.

However, Sven-Goran Eriksson, to his eternal credit, gives every impression of not wanting to touch this guy with a ten-foot pole, so it seems that the World Cup finals will be deprived of the floppy-haired one’s, eh, talents.

Unfortunately for England’s chances, Danny Mills is another matter entirely…