Football FanCast columnist

Ignoring our carefully worded hints that we hadn't got round to doing out the spare room yet, 'Grand Slam Sunday' arrived at the nation's door on Friday night armed with a worn down Adidas sports bag, their own toilet roll and a spare cushion just in case.  Sitting in our favourite chair unselfconsciously, talking loudly throughout Harry Hill's T.V Burp and eating all the purple Quality Street, they were one more sly remark about the lack of ice cube holders or decent corkscrews away from being thrown out into the snow.

"Be polite", our spouses hissed darkly, nudging us sharply in the ribs, "these games are only generated by an impartial computer completely at random two times a year.  It's not that big a deal".

It is a big deal though, representing another move towards football as little more than an executive's scheduling trump card, a bullet point on a flip chart, a smug clinking of oversized mugs in celebration at 10% upwards sales of satellite boxes at a ludicrously priced coffee shop. 

Sky have been subtly shifting the dynamic of televised sport since first getting their hands on it and this represents yet another liberty taken, their dominance now extending to deciding when teams should play one another; a malevolent dictatorship, forcing their suffering subjects to endure infinite amounts of close up on Cristiano Ronaldo boots and colourful yet curiously unexciting montages played over a limp U2 soundtrack (unless it's a local derby or relegation battle in which case the montage is in black and white and the DJ mixes in ‘Carmina Burana').  

It is in this sort of climate where football supporters who, y'know, attend football matches can be neglected like an unfortunate stepchild inflicted with a speech impediment and overbite.  A climate where Newcastle United can have an away match at Portsmouth changed to a 5.15pm kick off - after selling two thousand tickets to people who will now have no trains home available to them - with nary a word uttered in protest.

It's interesting seeing Sky cover these ‘Grand Slam' games, desperate to rub our faces in their handpicking of them, at the same time cautious to never reveal outright their influence, perhaps they're waiting until we're flanked by armed Henchmen or strapped to a laser equipped laboratory table to detail the full extent of their dastardly scheme.  I may be just about able to tolerate the concept of ‘Grand Slam Sunday' (and, I swear, every time I capitalize those three words my spell checker sniggers under its breath at me) if Sky weren't so bloody obnoxious about their publicising of it; I'm aware my mother uses the toilet regularly but don't need an SMS text alert every time it happens.

This considered, Andy Gray (in one of his little moods) getting twisty faced and huffy about the negative impact Mascherano's red card could have on the entire game of football in a general sense felt not only tremendously hypocritical and miss-leading (like the Elephant Man blaming his recent lack of an active love life on commitment issues) but also tellingly symbolic.  Whatever the rights and wrongs of the sending off (a little harsh, I felt), the impact it has on the match itself should be of no concern to the referee, whose job it is to make sure everything runs according to the rules and has no obligation to satisfy the every whim of Andy Gray or the "neutrals watching at home".   

So my day was one spent engulfed in spite; rooting for Santa Clause to fall clumsily down the chimney, break his leg and order loudly his mortified children to ring the bloody ambulance.  In that vein the Manchester United Liverpool game was terrific; even before the red card it was evident the teams weren't on the same stratosphere and what proceeded made a whole mockery of the entire ‘big four' concept, Liverpool comfortably outclassed.

Chelsea Arsenal was more disappointing.  A thrilling second half and a win for Chelsea (a vile club, the mirrored ‘Chelsea' lettering that runs along their West Stand betraying their hopeless lack of imagination, that stupid sodding wristband band Ashley Cole always wears emblematic of their sheer tackiness) meant Sky could justify their hype and kept Chelsea in title contention ahead of the infinitely more likable Arsenal.

Watching Thierry Henry sweetly and sincerely express his wishes for an Arsenal win was rather endearing - and helped humanise Arsenal in the face of the more militaristic and functional Chelsea, who once had Gianfranco Zola in their team and precisely no other player before or since worth admiring - but the highlight of the entire afternoon had to be watching Jamie Rednapp and Richard Key's relationship descend from forced civility into outright hostility. 

Their big day ruined by too much wine with dinner and a silly argument about the free parking rule in Monopoly, they studiously ignored one another - save the occasional barbed comment and loaded glance - and vied gamely for Tony Adam's attention. 

Adams had the hesitant demeanour of a man invited for 2am Brandies and a couple of rounds of Pictionary at George and Martha's place, weary of saying the wrong thing or appearing to be taking sides, but did get my Man of the Match award (and sharp looks off everybody in the room with him) when he reminded Keys that, contrary to revisionist Sky Sports' presenters' preaching's, football did actually exist before the Premier League was formed.

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