TV View: "Xzwmsnak ansy hagsn ayhbns," said Freddie Flintoff.

"Indeed," said David Gower, "did you, um, celebrate quite a bit last night?"

"Wlsya yjagh - yesh," said Freddie, swaying like a weeping willow in a gale.

David then noted that Freddie was wearing very, very dark sunglasses and felt obliged to ask if he was wearing them for a reason related to the activities of the night/morning before.

"Zsadf - yesssssh," confirmed Freddie. And so concluded England's Ashes-winning celebrations - as aired live by Sky News - the morning after the evening before, when Freddie and his pals regained possession of the little urn that contains the remains of a burnt-out lump of wood. Not the most glamorous trophy in world sport, but maybe the loveliest, one that England hadn't got their hands on since the Birdie Song sat atop the Hit Parade.

So nobody begrudged Freddie his one or 427 jars, he'd more than earned them - damn it, the boy's a bit special - and he is now very, very, very much English sport's golden boy.

But you kind of wonder how long the love affair will last.

There was a time they felt that way about Wayne Rooney; as recently as the summer of last year, if we recall correctly, when he was, on the whole, declared to be the greatest living Englishman.

Roomania? Remember all that? Now? It's "Wayne Looney!" By our estimation, every single news programme on every single English channel hired themselves a behavioural therapist/psychologist-type person last week to analyse Rooney's sending off in Manchester United's Champions League game on Wednesday.

Brattish behaviour that, a few months ago, was taken as an indication of how passionate he was about winning is now interpreted as proof he's just a plain old yob.

Their main conclusion? Wayne has "issues". Go 'way!

Most importantly, though, it was determined that he, unlike, say, Flintoff, is not a role model for young people. You have to wonder, though, how many 19-year-olds are role models for young folk roughly aged in or around . . . 19. And isn't 19, and the short fuse that goes with it, more or less the age when you make a bagful of mistakes and do stuff that brings a seismic blush to your cheeks a year or 10 down the line? Even if you're Wayne Rooney, a sublimely, wondrously gifted footballer.

You'd guess, then, that what Wayne needs is a role model or two himself. Fast forward to Liverpool v Manchester United on Sky Sports yesterday. Peter Crouch is fouled at the edge of the United box; a free is correctly given. Rio Ferdinand, a pillar of England's footballing community who was giving Wayne a bit of advice through the tabloid press last week, grabbed Crouch by the collar, stuck his face in his, and informed him he was a "f*****g p***k". No red card, not even a yellow, and, you can be sure, no front-page headlines.

Later, Rooney takes a tumble; no free is given. The replay shows, quite clearly, that fresh air caused Rooney to fall. On the touchline Alex Ferguson, red-faced and enraged, informs the referee he is a "f*****g" something or other. And so, not for the first time in his time at United, it's kind of intimated to Rooney that even when he's in the wrong he's a persecuted genius whom the refereeing community is out to get. Oh lordy, here we go again.

Upon realising that fresh air had tripped Rooney, Martin Tyler and Andy Gray applauded the referee for getting the decision right, but stopped short of ridiculing Ferguson for spontaneously combusting on the sideline, or pointing out that it's little wonder the teenager doesn't know how to behave when the "grown-ups" around him are, on the whole, men behaving badly, week in, week out. Cripes, is honesty obsolete?

Anyway. If Pat Spillane was in the Sky studio for the game, rather than the nice Jamie Redknapp and the even nicer Steve Bruce, he'd have dismissed it all as "puke football". The first 0-0 between the teams since, well, not long after the Birdie Song sat atop the Hit Parade.

"Whatever you do, don't lose," seems to be the guiding principal for the bulk of the English Premiership's teams this weather. It's grim.

Little wonder we felt liberated, shackles chucked to the wind, when we tuned in to the camogie All-Ireland final yesterday.

Maybe we're just getting weary of professionalism, but there's something joyous about unbridled sportsmanship, honesty, skill, passion and brilliance. Hats off to Cork, whose lads won the boy version of the camogie All-Ireland last week, a double to savour. Enjoy the celebrations.

You might even bump into Freddie on your travels.