It just had to be Leeds, didn’t it. It fell to the laughing stock of English football, a doomed joke of a team condemned to the Nationwide since October, and with hardly a decent player to their name, to hammer the final nail into the coffin of Manchester United’s title challenge.
At the time of writing, Foul Play hasn’t seen the highlights, but let’s just say I was less than stunned to hear that Alan Smith (height: 5’8”) outjumped Wes Brown (height: 6’1”) for the Leeds equaliser. This sort of thing has been happening for months. Teams are walking through United’s defence at the moment, bad teams at that. Even a dreadful Manchester City side could have scored a hatful against them the other week if it hadn’t been for Tim Howard. He’s been the best keeper in the league all season, but at a certain point it becomes irrelevant – if you defend that badly, that sloppily, even Lev Yashin wouldn’t be able to keep bailing you out.
And further upfield, there’s no sense any more of United being able to rip teams apart at will, and the opposition know it. Solskjær has hardly played all season, Giggs has been ineffectual, Ronaldo isn’t there yet, and Fletcher never will be.
It now seems certain that Ferguson will reach for the sweeping brush this summer. The likes of Brown, Fortune, Forlán, Bellion and Fletcher will surely all have to be tossed out with the empties. No wonder they’re seven points behind Arsenal: it is totally fucking ridiculous that such players can get a regular game for United.
Take Quinton Fortune, probably the best of the five or six lads who aren’t up to the job. He’s a bit-part utility player let go by Atletico Madrid, who had never played left-back before the spring of 2003. And he’s appeared 25 times in the league for United this season, when someone of his abilities shouldn’t be getting more than seven or eight starts a year.
Meanwhile, others who were peripheral players for their entire careers seem to be guaranteed starting places this season. Have they improved that much? Nope.

As inconsequential, goal-free friendlies go, Ireland v Brazil wasn’t the worst, even if the Brazilians probably weren’t chugging along on anything more than 80% throttle. Some good performances, too, especially from Andy O’Brien, Clinton Morrison, Andy Reid and (gasp) Kevin Kilbane.
O’Brien somehow managed to get through the evening without receiving a painful bang in the face, which he seems to do every time Foul Play watches him in action: his nose, which was never a model of Roman symmetry to begin with, has taken more punishment than that of Stevie Nicks. But he was superb on the night, against some of the best forwards on the planet. And Ireland will need more of the same in the autumn, what with John O’Shea’s confidence and conviction having seemingly drained away completely.
For all the fine efforts of the aforementioned players, and the intermittent flashes of brilliance from Ronaldo, the night’s primary entertainment was provided by Roque Júnior, who continues to look like a man that has won a Nike-sponsored competition to appear with the Seleção.
He is, in fact, the world’s first punk rock centre-back: living, breathing, stumbling proof that anyone can do it.