I cupped the fleshy lobes, angling them gently towards a group of thinly minded and meekly mannered lads. A chav, all of 20, eyes flickering like diamonds and arms flailing around like roaring bunsen burners, was sounding the death knell to the Premier League season. Vision and sound locked in, and I gazed in wanton disbelief as this procession of prose continued to emanate from his mouth, declaring in no uncertain terms that Man United's failure to beat Newcastle United "could be the game they look back on and realise that's where the title was lost".

Do what? It's the first game of the season.

I scoured around looking for a camera crew, suspecting that this was another of those 'honest it's genuine' X-Factor auditions, but no bright lights, no Minogue or Louie Walsh, not a sniff of an arrogant bloke in a tight black sweater, and the bathroom attendant still had all her teeth, so Cheryl Cole was definitely elsewhere.

Have we really got to the point where a two-point lead with 37 games to go is a dangerous lead? Of course not, but he can't have been the only onlooker to have wondered.

That kind of youthful naivety aside, it's good to have the Premier League back. I even sensed a warm feeling inside when I saw Richard Keys' manboobs again for the first time in three months. I wonder if he reckons his beloved Coventry stay top of the Championship? Yeah, probably!