Ah, this sporting life. This sporting year. (This sporting decade. This sporting millenium – Ed) It has been a year of ups and down, ins and outs, good, bad and indifferent stuff and the usual bollocks as well.

It would be less than accurate to say that the Republic’s qualification for the World Cup was the highlight of the year. That afternoon of sin against Spain at Lansdowne Road, and that evening of horror against Norn Iron in Belfast are experiences which one wouldn’t wish on a dog.

I thought that when Galtieri put it in the cobwebs for San Marino against England, the night could not go very wrong no matter what happened, but even this thrilling endeavour failed to deaden the pain of watching the appalling goings-on in Windsor Park.

Foul Play, of course, will not be going to the United States, because you will miss most of the action over there. The draw in Las Vegas is an enticing prospect, because there will be full bar facilities, and you are unlikely to encounter people with green hair talking shite. But the tournament itself is a thing to be avoided.

Wretched Graham Taylor and his wretched men will not be there either way, nor will sexy Andy Roxburgh’s plucky outfit, while Terry Yorath’s Wales will never qualify, for no particular reason other than the fact that they never do qualify. It has been written. Billy Bingham’s Norn Iron can, of course, shove it up their ass. Or words to that effect . . .

All of this is good stuff, and a bit of a hoot all round. On the ever-thrilling domestic scene, meantime, Cork City finally won a League ‘Race’ which looked like it was going to drag on for as long as the conflict in former Yugoslavia. By their European Cup performance against Galatasaray, they staked their claim as one of the world’s crack sides – or was it just a case of Galatasaray being extremely drunk on both occasions? And where did the booze emanate from?

So for this season, Shamrock Rovers have staged a revival, while in the crucial First Division, Athlone town are putting together the longest unbeaten run of any team in Europe. And still no-one goes to see them, being somehow more attracted to the fey acrobatics of Serie A on Channel 4, rather than the goings-on at St. Mel’s – that Stadium of Light, that Theatre of Dreams . . .

Those black bastards from Rangers swept all before them in Scotland – and doubtless contributing to Liam Brady’s early exit from the managerial role at Celtic in the process – though along with their black bastard cousins from Linfield, they were hilariously ejected from the European Cup, both sides going down to identical strikes in injury time.

Manchester United finally won the League, and proceeded to make Roy Keane richer than the entire population of Mayfield put together.

It was a sad, sick year for the French, as Marseilles conned themselves out of the European Cup, while the national team somehow knocked themselves out of the World Cup reckoning when it seemed eminently easier to qualify.

From Colombia comes news that Senor Higuita, the crazed goalkeeper who was reluctant to handle the ball in Italia ’90, is facing serious criminal charges arising out of a kidnapping scenario in which he collected the ransom, allegedly out of a sense of Christian charity . . .

Since this is now verging into the territory of my learned friend, Samuel Snort, I will turn my attention to the Turf, where it was another satisfactory year for the Foul Play stable, backing the winner of the Epsom Derby, Commander In Chief, and the winner of the Cheltenham Gold Cup, Jodami, both at attractive odds.

The quote of the year came from the never-less-than-excellent Ted Walsh. Speaking about the Galway races, Ted opined: “If you’re thinking of going to Galway, take a fiver and throw it in the fire, and see if you can stand the pain. If you can, then fire away.”

It was a strange year for the Irish Rugby team, but then, they are pretty strange people out there in Rugger Bugger Land.

They looked like extending their beaten run into infinity at the start of the season, and then proceeded to go bonkers, beating Wales in Cardiff, and England at the Theatre of Bad Dreams, Lansdowne Road.

Amazingly enough, Peter “Hard But Fair” Clohessy, was given a ten-week suspension by the authorities for “raking” an opponent, while the touring All-Blacks did enough raking, digging and shit-kicking to qualify for the International Gardener of the Year contest.

It is thought that the Irish authorities have commissioned a statue of Simon Geoghegan to be erected near the Lansdowne touchline. Since he never gets the ball, it will spare the expense of flying him over and putting him up in a fancy hotel.

On the bogball front, it was another tumultuous year for the United Kingdom, with Londonderry bringing the Sam Maguire to the U.K. for the third successive year.

Foul Play again profited from a wager with a supporter of the Eire representatives, who can’t seem to realise that the British now have the upper hand in these encounters.

Stickfighting is still dominated by teams from Southern Ireland, but I’m sure it is just a matter of time before the Commonwealth embraces this as their own, too.

As I write, there is a late flash about Niall Quinn.

It appears that some American medic thinks that with the advanced gadgets at his disposal, he can fix up Quinners knee in time for the World Cup.

He has the technology. And since we mightn’t be playing too many games in any event, Quinner ought to give it a lash.

Que sera, sera.