Dubya shoots from hip as old pros beat about the bush

TV View: There was so much guff spoken last week about the Big Story it came as an almighty relief when President George W Bush brought some sanity and level-headedness to the proceedings, writes Mary Hannigan.

"Events have set before us the clearest of divides," he said in a speech to the United Nations General Assembly, "between those who seek order and those who spread chaos, between those who work for peaceful change and those who adopt the methods of gangsters."

The president was careful not to name names, but this couch knew that Martin Keown couldn't fail to recognise himself. Nor could Roy Keane, a man who sought order at Old Trafford the Sunday before, while others spread only chaos, a sight that had some of us ringing our cable company to report a fault in our telly sets. In other words, President Bush's carefully coded message was, in fact, a pointed denunciation of Arsenal and those 975 retired footballers who appeared on 17 television channels last week to dismiss what happened at Old Trafford as "handbags at 10 paces".

Some even claimed it was handbags at 50 paces, but they were the really hard old pros, in the Norman Hunter and Chopper Harris mould.

President Bush, then, had his finger on the pulse, recognising the gravity and ugliness of the Manchester Mêlée, and he wasn't afraid to speak his mind, even if it would result in his approval ratings in parts of North London diving almost as dramatically as Robert Pires or Ruud van Nistelrooy.

It was only when the remote control flicked to RTÉ 1, just in time to see Bertie Ahern's speech, that parochialism set in. It's all very well for Bertie to promise to send Irish troops to the world's most troubled hot-spot, in an attempt to restore order, but how prepared are our young soldiers for the sights that will confront them in Highbury? They will, inevitably, be scarred for life. Let that be on your conscience, Mr Ahern.

When Sky News replayed, for the 8,734th time, those scenes from Old Trafford, one thing was apparent: if Keown, Lauren and Ashley Cole had been members of the Republican Guard Baghdad would still be in Saddam Hussein's hands. And Chuck, Buck and Huck would be back in Texas telling the world "our boys took one helluva beating".

"Handbags," though, insisted most of the old pros. Paul Davis was one of them, kind of. The retired Arsenal midfielder popped up on Sky News to say "you can't condone it, but." "Handbags," he implied, which it certainly was next to his darkest hour, when he was banned for nine matches, in 1988, for breaking the jaw of Southampton's Glen Cockerill. "Jeez, have you watched Gaelic football this year," Davis didn't add, but he would have, if his satellite dish picked up RTÉ.

Paddy Crerand, meanwhile, absolutely, unquestionably and very definitely didn't think it was handbags at all; he thought the "Arsenal players were a disgrace and something needs to be done", reckoned they should be hung, drawn and quartered, tarred and feathered, banned for life, or, as an ITV poll suggested as punishment, forced to listen to Mariah Carey records for the rest of their lives. A fine moral stand, until he added that if he'd been on the pitch he'd have "weighed straight back in, there is no danger of that". And not - trust us - with a handbag either.

Fast forward to The Premiership on Network 2. Liam Brady thought the reaction to the whole business was a bit over the top. Ronnie Whelan didn't. Bill O'Herlihy reached under his desk, whipped out a wooden spoon and proceeded to stir, delightfully. "There's a touch of paranoia in your comments," he said to Brady.

Rooooooonnie Wheeeeeelan, as George Hamilton renamed him after that goal against Russia, ducked for cover. Brady looked at Bill. Bill looked at Brady. Brady looked back. As did Bill. Stand-off. "Is it safe to come out yet," Ronnie asked himself, as he lay on the studio floor. It wasn't. Brady jostled Bill, gave him a verbal dig in the ribs and punch in the belly. Bill didn't flinch. Kept his composure, retained his dignity. "Okey doke," he said, as he limped to an ad break. At which point Kofi Annan arrived to calm things down. "Ronnie," he said. "Yes, Kofi?" "You can come out now."