Sam McPhail

The end of the World Darts Championship at Alexandra Palace is the end of the festive period for many sports fans. The tournament’s finals, nestled between Christmas Day and Epiphany, are now as synonymous with Christmas – or Dartsmas as Sky Sports likes to call it – as Wimbledon is with July. Pimms and strawberries swapped for lager and kebabs. Nearly four million people watched the darts final on the telly, closing in on the Wimbledon men’s final viewership. It’s hard to see today’s darts tournaments, with the thousands of inebriated fans clad in fancy dress, the fireworks, the cheerleaders, and acknowledge it as the same as the struggling sport of the late 1980s.

‘I've proven in my career that I will always win,’ Erik ten Hag told the press last month. ‘In the last six years I have won eight trophies.’ The now-sacked Manchester United manager’s words were true but said without conviction. As loss followed loss, it was just one of the many excuses he trotted out to try and maintain his dignity and placate the fans. Both pundits and punters could see that ten Hag had grown tired and embittered after two years under the yoke of England’s biggest but most troubled football club. But how did the prospects of a talented manager collapse so quickly? Ten Hag joined Manchester United just two years ago from Ajax in the Netherlands as one of Europe’s most-promising managers.

Sven-Goran Eriksson, who has died aged 76, was an unlikely choice for the England job in 2000. He was inexperienced with English football – his only exposure having been as young visiting coach in 1978 when Bobby Robson invited him to sit in the dugout during an Ipswich match. But Sven was a serial winner. He had just won the Italian league, the toughest in the world, with Lazio, the club’s first title in 30 years. Before that, he had won 17 trophies over two decades at clubs in Sweden, Portugal and Italy.  The Football Association had burned through top English managers in the previous decade.

Four years ago, Madrí didn’t exist. Today, the faux Spanish lager is sold in a quarter of British pubs, which makes it one of the fastest-growing beers of all time. ‘Madrí’ is the historic name for Madrid, which is peculiar for a beer brewed in Tadcaster – or Tada as the Anglo-Saxon mead-drinkers called it. Madrí has never been brewed in Spain, let alone Madrid. Yet it shares the same sanguine-red label of the real Spanish lagers, such as Estrella Galicia, Mahou (pronounced Mao) and Estrella Damm, which allows it to blend in with them on pub bars and supermarket shelves. ‘People think they are drinking a Spanish beer but it’s not,’ says Aitor de Artaza, international head of Estrella Galicia. He accuses Madrí of ‘lacking transparency’.

The greatest rivalry in football for the past decade is coming to an end. Managers Jürgen Klopp and Pep Guardiola clashed in 30 games across Germany and England, but neither came out decisively on top (their final meeting was a 1-1 draw earlier this month). In May, Klopp will leave Liverpool for good. It’s a shame that two of the best managers of all time may never face each other again, because their rivalry has raised the calibre of the sport so spectacularly. Klopp and Guardiola tinkered relentlessly with their squads, tweaking formations, positions and playing styles in order to best one another.