Frontlines: Fallen Empires

One for the ages, then, as lifelong mortal enemies Tipp and Kilkenny prepare to lock horns in what seems to be the millionth All-Ireland final between the pair. It’s a prospect of which one could never tire: the rivalry has become a monster that feeds on itself, raw hostility and mutual respect equally in evidence, and this one has an end-of-days feel about it.

It is almost certainly the final chapter for Henry Shefflin, who stands to win an unprecedented tenth crown if all goes to plan. Boss Brian Cody is also shooting for a tenth All-Ireland, though you suspect he’s only getting started and has every intention of still patrolling the sidelines at age 100.
This is not, by their exalted recent standards, an especially lavishly gifted Kilkenny line-up, but rarely have you seen a unit so willing to lay down their lives for one another. Tipp, in marked contrast, look not too far off recapturing the performance levels that propelled them to the summit in 2010. Their reign lasted for precisely one season, as stagnation set in and the team gave the strong impression of having bought into their own hype. Hard questions have been asked of their character since then, and the 2014 incarnation have shown a steeliness and resolve not always evident in recent blue-and-gold vintages. Since being out-fought by Limerick in early summertime, they have laid Galway, Offaly, Dublin and Cork to waste by an average margin of more than 12 points.
It is arguably a more impressive route to the Final than that taken by the Cats, who required a replay to see off Galway and barely scraped through their semi-final, either side of a facile swatting of Dublin in the Leinster final. However, Kilkenny are still Kilkenny, and no amount of logic, current form or reasoned evaluation can persuade me to back against them with the ultimate prize at stake. Somehow, they will find a way. This may well be our last opportunity to witness King Henry in full flight, so it would be downright obscene not to tune in. Bring it on.
Elsewhere, the Premiership has returned to keep us hypnotised for the next nine months (to the less-than-boundless delight of Mrs. Foul Play, for whom the interminable football-free interlude after the World Cup appeared to pass in the blinking of an eye). Opening day did not disappoint: the mighty MUFC picked up exactly where they left off last season, managing to lose at home to Swansea, while a bird literally shat into Ashley Young’s mouth and the Godlike Genius of Louis van Gaal sat there expressionless. The Dutch master’s general inscrutability failed to entirely mask the inner turmoil of a man who must be asking himself: what in God’s name have I got myself into here, and how on earth am I meant to win anything with this squad?
I cannot pretend to be a neutral unbiased observer when it comes to United, whom I regard as the sporting wing of Satan on earth, but I’ll be the first to give them credit if and when it’s due. The truth is that anyone who thought a change of manager would effect a dramatic improvement in United’s fortunes is in for a sharp reality check.
The sight of their starting line-up on Saturday must have given Swansea an instant lift. I don’t mean to pick on individual players whom I haven’t seen enough of to form a proper judgement, but a back three comprising Jones, Smalling and 20-year-old Tyler Blackett, with Jesse Lingard at wing-back and the unwanted Javier Hernandez up front, will not have struck fear into Swans’ hearts, nor will any team in the Premiership feel that victory at Old Trafford this season is beyond their grasp.
This meltdown has been a long time coming – you can pinpoint the Glazers’ arrival as the moment that sealed the empire’s fate. It is questionable whether even Sir Alex would have been able to stave it off, and changing the manager’s accent will not in itself restore the Red Devils faithful to the global domination they feel is their birthright. For the many observers who don’t particularly warm to the club, this season is already shaping up to be every bit as enjoyable as the last one. Sure, they had a few lads missing on Saturday, the boy Rooney can play a bit when he’s in the mood, they’re not exactly short of a few squid and they have the incalculable advantage of no European distractions this year, but this is a mess we have here.
When empires collapse, it tends to be sudden and dramatic. And a wager on LVG to be elsewhere by season’s end, or possibly before then, might not be entirely ill-advised. The reign of Red terror is well and truly over.