I would like to float an idea in this here column which I know to be the height of heresy, and one which would in many quarters signal the arrival of men in white coats with a big van parked outside bearing the sign “Funny Farm. It’s now or never.”

The idea is undoubtedly eccentric and completely unique to these pages, but we’ll give it a whirl anyway.

Manchester United are not going to win the Carling Premiership.

Immediately I hear the sounds of raucous, hysterical laughter emanating from the throats of millions of Foul Play readers who have naturally assumed that the rest of the season is a formality, and that they should probably wrap up the League now, in order to give the Republic’s players a bit of rest and recreation before the World Cup.

With the bookies offering odds of 3/1 against United winning the treble, and pundits the world over declaring the League title to be a fait accompli, the overwhelming consensus is that it is all over bar the shouting, and including the shouting.

Overwhelming consensus, though, ignores the fact that at the time of writing, Blackburn Rovers are just seven points behind what my venerable colleague George Byrne refers to as The Filth. That is not exactly an insuperable obstacle, considering that they still have to play The Filth, and that they can concentrate solely on the League, while United are committed to every competition short of the Leinster Senior League.

Consensus can be a tricky old customer. A couple of years ago, every pundit in the Western hemisphere was insisting that a few top clubs such as United, Arsenal, Tottenham and Liverpool would draw away from the rest of the pack and possibly even start their own Super League.

Well, United may be drawing away from the pack (not by much) but Spurs are drawing away in the opposite direction, Liverpool are thrashing around in the quicksand and Arsenal are not exactly burning up the opposition on all fronts.

They have all – United apart, that is – been turned over in the Cup by clubs with flawed pedigrees, indicating that far from the elite setting a new agenda, there appears to be a levelling off in standards, though whether it is levelling up or down is a matter of some conjecture.

Something similar appears to be happening in the world of rugger buggery.

A couple of years ago, the wise men of the oval ball game were convinced that England and France were plotting a dynamic course towards world domination, leaving gluggers such as Wales, Scotland and Ireland floundering around in a swamp of mediocrity and amateurism.

Now, Ireland can beat England at Twickers by the simple stratagem of giving the ball to Simon Geoghegan. England helped them out by giving Geoghegan the ball themselves, perhaps out of basic human sympathy.

France can go to Cardiff and prove themselves to be only as good, or as bad, as Wales.

Thus, there is a fine body of precedent for dismissing the notion that sport occasionally throws up a team who completely dominate the scene for an entire generation, as people are currently suggesting about the Old Trafford outfit.

Why, even in the pulsating Bord Gais National League, there was a widespread belief that Shamrock Rovers were back in the big time, sweeping all before them, until they suddenly developed the unfortunate habit of losing all before them. In fact, they are currently displaying a genuine talent for not doing the business, and would be shaping up as serious contenders for relegation if the season were being played in reverse order.

My argument about the inevitable levelling off in sporting matters is not helped by the fact that Alex Ferguson’s team does appear to be “different class,” as TV panellists are wont to say.

But I am not going to allow the mere evidence of my own eyes to interfere with a good argument and, having tipped United to win the League in these very pages, I am now going to predict that Blackburn Rovers will win the League and that United will probably end up with the League Cup, and nowt else.

Football is a funny old game, but that would be hilarious in the extreme.

On the subject of levelling things, a newspaper report recently informed us that drugs are now a growing factor in Irish sport.

There was particular reference to one extraordinary individual, a rugger bugger, who is taking steroids to improve his performance.

This man is a nondescript club player, who reckons that the steroids lifted him from the Thirds to the Seconds, and that if he continues to take them, he may arrive at the fringes of the First team and thus achieve a state of perfect Nirvana.

It’s an interesting life choice, you’ve got to admit.

For an opportunity to play in the National League, you will eventually turn into a female orang-utan with fourteen tits and a high, squeaky voice.

These are the breaks.