TV VIEW:IT MAY NOT have been instant karma but John Lennon would still have mightily approved of the turn of events in Vienna on Friday night. Ten years after twisting a knife into the guts of football justice, Slaven Bilic finally felt the stab of what might have been.

Nowadays the Croatian is one of the most admired young managers in the game, having brought a relatively unheralded team to the Euro 2008 finals at the expense of England and then orchestrated one of the championship's most memorable performances as the Croats beat Germany in the group stages.

Too old for the ring he sports in his left ear but young enough to indulge on the sideline histrionics the gullible mistake for passion, Bilic is a television director's dream; the face of Croatia on their way to their quarter-final with Turkey.

Sure enough when Ivan Klasnic headed Croatia into the lead with just a minute of extra-time remaining, we were treated to the sight of Bilic rampaging on to the pitch in the manner of a bullock let out to summer grass after a long winter indoors.

It has been reported it was a very human reaction, as no doubt was the whole of France's when a minute later Semih Senturk sent a screamer into the top corner to force penalties and the eventual elimination of Croatia.

Bilic, after all, is the same man who in the semi-final of the 1998 World Cup reacted to the presence of Laurent Blanc in the manner of a bullock who this time had just been shot with a bolt. In a gross sporting injustice, le Président missed the final as a result of a Bilic's play-acting.

So as Croatia exited there was a gratifying sense of a score settled, only magnified by the knowledge there would be no more opportunities for them to sing "ultranationalist" songs in the dressingroom to fan their competitive flames.

There's a tradition of such stuff in our own football history too. But a bunch of plastic Paddys in a bus belting out Seán South is patriot-lite compared to the rotten politics that run through modern Croatian history, where "ultranationalism" is just a public-relations spin on rampant fascism.

"The celebration of the Croatian goal added a minute," pointed out Eamon Dunphy, adding even further to the delicious irony of Bilic whining to the ref about not blowing his whistle before the Turks scored.

But then what had been noticeable even before all these Viennese fireworks was the proof that every match is in the eye of the beholder. At half-time, you were left wondering if the RTÉ and BBC panels were watching the same game.

"Drab," declared Alan Shearer, who would know.

"I'd love to say it's been great but the best I can say is that it's nearly been all right," droned Alan Hansen.

But over on RTÉ, Dunphy pursed his lips in approval: "A good, even game. A good contest."

The night before had provided more of the same. Portugal's elimination by Germany had Dunphy and Johnny Giles tut-tutting about Phil Scolari's tactical nous, or lack thereof, in the context of set-pieces.

"This is a guy being paid eight million a year by Chelsea. He's their saviour," Dunphy sneered. "A junior club wouldn't give away goals like that."

"I would agree with Eamon. He's had this team for four years," chipped in Gilesy.

But Hansen was having none of it the following night: "Scolari's done a great job. I think he's a tremendous manager."

Proof if ever it were needed that when facts are few, experts are many.

A remarkably successful week for Irish horses at Royal Ascot could have been even more memorable if the BBC had availed of the opportunity to productively use Willie Carson.

For years now the role of the tiny ex-jockey has been to stand on a box next to Claire Balding, cackle inanely and mangle the English language. But a chance for real, productive employment was lost this time.

Ascot's strict dress code was reportedly added to last week with the requirement for ladies to wear underwear. The problems in policing such a rule were enough to conjure images of those mirrors on the end of poles familiar to people who search for car bombs.

But it quickly became obvious Carson could have scurried into the gig in a manner that, say, George Foreman could not. He'd have been perfect.

It certainly would have given a new dimension to the Beeb's fashion coverage. As it was this year was a let-down.

Previously there was some diversion to be had from the wonderfully waspish remarks of the fashion journalist James Sherwood. Normally a thin streak of sneer, this time he wasn't off a yard. He'd been got at. Everything was wonderful, perfect, even sumptuous.

The sight of a pert Princess Haya of Jordan in the parade ring had Sherwood coming over all funny about her dress: "It's white. It's pure. It melts my heart."

He could have been expressing a fascist's fantasy.