They were described as the most successful Winter Olympics ever. And indeed, they may well have been.

23 million Brits tuned in to see Torvill and Dean do their funky thang, and countless zillions of Americans were engrossed by the contest between Nancy and Tonya.

It is one of those statistics which causes one to reflect on what a sad fucking world we live in.

Still, the organisers must be complemented on the fact that their preposterous games were watched by huge audiences for reasons which had little to do with the games themselves.

As someone who can watch most sports on TV without flinching, anything from Rugby League to rodeo, I’m afraid that I draw a blank on the old winter sports.

I can watch the bobsleighing for about five minutes, because it looks like good crack, and the ski-jumping can hold my attention if there’s nothing else on, like Oireachtas Report for example but the ice-dancing is strictly out to lunch, being one of those sports which is watched by people who don’t know anything about sport.

Not that the word “sport” should intrude too much into any discussion of this arcane activity.

If there is a dividing line between what is sport, and what is not sport, then you could say that any event which is decided by a panel of judges awarding marks, ceases to be a game, and becomes a sort of game-show.

This would eliminate boxing from the world of sport, and many would agree with that on basic principles, but at least in boxing, a bout can be decided by one of the participants being knocked unconscious.

You could say that ice-skating has taken on this dimension in recent times, though everyone seemed disturbingly contrite about the excellent skullduggery between Harding and Kerrigan.

Skullduggery was in the air too, as Torvill and Dean attempted to be “gracious” while communicating the clear signal that the judges were either mentally ill or crooked as a ram’s horn.

The air of violence which has been the saving grace and selling point of ice-skating, has continued apace with Tonya being mugged in a car-park, and Nancy being found out as a person of taste, denouncing an appearance at Disney World as the tackiest thing she has ever done.

There is no-one better placed in the world to judge such things.

Tonya must now go to jail, and emerge in a couple of years, looking for a re-match. The punters will settle for nothing less than ice-picks at noon, with no distractions on the skating front.

Jack’s squad for the “friendly” against Russia has “an unfamiliar look,” as they say in the best broadsheets.

Basically, he hasn’t got a team, as such, with the Villa and United players off the menu, so we will be given the opportunity of assessing the international credentials of Eoin Coyle, Sean McCarthy, Gary Kelly, Mick Milligan, Paul Byrne and the mysterious Phil Babb.

I would also like to see the less mysterious Alan Kelly taking over from Packie Bonner for one day at least, as I have just witnessed him making some stupendous saves for Sheffield United against Spurs while Packie is still grappling with the “new” back-pass rule in Celtic’s reserves.

However, my reading of the Charlton mind would suggest that Jack will adjudge this game as a good opportunity to give Packie some much-needed match practice, remaining convinced that a good big ’un is preferable to a good little ’un, even if the big ’un is exuding a lack of confidence all over the shop.

I guess that Coyle and Gary Kelly will make it to America, though with three Kelly’s in the squad, and given Jack’s difficulty with names, I hope they are prepared to be versatile, and that Gary or David Kelly will not blanch if they are nominated in goal.

It is the nearest we will get to “total football.”

Foul Play would like to fulsomely congratulate the GAA on their recent programme of events.

My many friends in Croke Park will read that sentence with some befuddlement, but to set their minds at ease, I am referring, of course, not to the organisation which so brilliantly oversees the world of bogball and stickfighting, but to Gaeilgeorí Acracha Aontaithe (the GAA), a grouping of Irish-speaking homosexuals which has been formed as a social outlet for . . . well, for Irish-speaking homosexuals.

On the subject of their unsavoury namesakes, I was disappointed recently at Croke Park’s lack of response to constructive criticism, when compared to that of the horse-racing community.

Mr. Liam Mackey, the illustrious journalist, recently penned an article in the Irish Press, confessing his complete inability to take pleasure in racing.

There was an immediate response by top trainer Jim Bolger, who invited Mackey to be his guest at Leopardstown, in the hope of converting him to the subtleties of the Turf.

At this rate of going, Foul Play should be allocated an executive box all to itself in the new, supersonic Croke Park, and possibly even an entire block of the next Cusack Stand.

Of course, it is for Congress to decide, and I’m sure that they will do the right thing. After due consideration. You know yourself.