There's been lots of somewhat meaningless but irresistible waffle about what the best sports event of the Noughties was, hasn't there?
Bolt's brilliance, Federer's dominance, the many conquests of Woods... but for my money you'd have to go a long way to beat the 2005 Ashes. Sport at its best - on a knife-edge, topsy-turvy and the right team winning.
But a new decade begins and my, oh my, what treats we have in store. I've being swilling the dregs at the bottom of me Christmas Ale pint-pot and this is what I foresee:
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It's that time of year when we all look forward to a portly man in a white beard showering us with gifts and goodwill. But sadly Ken Bates can only own one football club at a time.
It's the time of year when that red-nosed old dear usually comes into his own - however it looks like Fergie'll struggle this year.
It's the time of year when we think of nuts roasting on an open fire and thank the Lord we're not Tiger Woods.
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Trust a hard-nosed no-nonsense Yorkshire born and bred quasi-Irish centre-back to bring a new hard-nosed reality to the matter of Premier League survival.
He had the chance to send 11 snarling wolves out to face the stuttering Red Riding Hoods at Old Trafford and instead he sent out a bunch of puppies.
Buoyed by a win at White Hart Lane and crowing at how the Wolves win two on the spin just as people start writing them off, he looks down the fixture list and irrespective of form, selects the sort of XI county cricket sides put up against touring Australians.
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You're not the only one mate.
The SPOTY gong usually goes to someone who has reached the absolute pinnacle of their sport - and does so in a specific place and time: Gazza's tears, Becks's free-kick, Zara Phillips's ermm... well, her too.
And Giggs goes and gets it for - well, you know what, I don't really care why he's got it, but I'm mighty glad he did.
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Now I can't be seen to be touting for any one of the 10 contenders for this year's , but I do wish we could start calling it Sports Person of the Year; it seems a lot to ask of a blinkered, single-minded sports professional to be possessed of a personality as well. (Giggsy's 36 and he's just starting to develop one.)
If it was a true Sports Personality of the Year then it'd be the same contestants every December: Tuffers v Jimmy White. I'd like that, actually.
Successful sportspeople tend to be the ones who can cut out all the noise and just focus on the task in hand. Great goalscorers tend to be labelled 'cold-eyed' as if they're some sort of replicant from the future.
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... concluded with another terrible penalty kick. It was a weekend for spot-kick blunders and given that Lampard and Defoe were two of the culprits you couldn't help fast-forwarding to a potential last 16 World Cup shoot-out against the average-but-you-can-never-rule-'em-out Germans.
looks like having more bearing on the destination of the title. Citeh were impressive without looking like they can really bust a hole in the top four. Yet.
It was gutsy stuff and it was noticeable that despite the result Ancelotti was utterly unfazed by Sparky's technical area shenanigans. Sometimes Hughes stomps about like locked in a box, but a less petty man than Wenger seems to be able to rise above it.
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There's been a lot of talk about how Mickey Mouse the Carling Cup has become, but I think it gets more fascinating by the year. First of all, the Wenger-inspired notion of playing an under-23 side has caught on with other big clubs, and far from devaluing it you get to see some right talented lads coming through.
Of course, Wenger plays his B-team and responds to defeat with an. Just shake the man's hand, Arsene. For a man who so clearly enriched our national sport he really is a sniffy old so-and-so sometimes.
And I'm wondering whether Le Professeur hasn't taken the purity of his art to an impractical level now. It appears Wenger has completely discarded any notion of a midfield enforcer in his entire squad. You need a Vieira, mate. Or an Essien. Or, remember that - he'd be perfect.
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I'm Derek Robson. People call me Robbo. Legend has it I was raised in the furnace and smog of Teesside. Some might say I took the hard road. I like to tell folk I had trials for Middlesbrough, for Hartlepool and for burglary (not guilty). I've always loved sport. My job is to say it as I see it - whether it's in the bar of the Blue Bell or on this blog. You won't find me calling a spade a soil-redistribution implement.
