Bolt after the Blues
Many have argued, quite successfully, that David Moyes is pound-for-pound the best manager in the Premier League.
Statistically Ferguson is to Moyesy what Usain Bolt is to Dwain Chambers, but Fergie hasn't been achieving quite so much with quite so little, has he?
All of which makes Everton's astounding home defeat to Arsenal all the more difficult to fathom.
Moyes has spent the best part of his summer holidays telling Man City where to get off as they hunt down Joleon Lescott. If Lescott really did come and tell his manager that he wasn't up to it on Saturday, it rather suggests the Scot got it hopelessly wrong.
I've always had Moyes down as a dead-ringer for Moe from The Simpsons, but he currently resembles a cornered fugitive holed-up in some two-bit apartment with Lescott tied to a chair, while the Sky Blue Feds demand he throw out the hostage.
Every time Moyes refuses, they chuck another bag of cash at him through the window. The gaffer should've given this up long ago, although most of us down the Blue Bell were hoping he might get to keep hold of his star centre-back. But £22m?
If Moyes is still in any doubt he could watch Lescott's performances for England at left-back, when he kept drifting back into the centre like a knackered shopping trolley.
And if he still thinks the bloke's worth all that, then he can watch the re-runs of the Arsenal game.
A team like the Gunners can make any outfit look a shambles on its day but this didn't need to be a great performance. Arsene must've been furious with goals two and three - free kick, header, goal - it's not the Gooner way - who do they think he is, George Flaming Graham? But that's all it took.
I won't roll out the old cliché about schoolboy defending - that would be hard on the average eight-year old schoolboy. Everton (and not just Lescott) were Norwich in disguise.
The cherry on the cake was Fabregas's second: keeper rolls it out, Cesc runs 45 yards, no one gets within a royal residence of him, and he slots it in the corner. It was like a late effort in a three-a-side kickabout on a full-size pitch.
I admire Moyes's attempts to resist the Eastlands steamroller, but the truth is it's not up to him. The player's mind is made up. Everton can never match the wages at City and Lescott would clearly become a very, very, very rich boy very quickly.
None of which means that Everton won't do OK this season, any more than it means that Wenger's suddenly found the perfect recipe for success. Dishing out a hiding in the first game is not necessarily Premier League-winning form. Ask Phil Scolari.
Ancelotti and Fergie have had perfect starts - really average performances and very iffy victories. I can hear Big Al Hansen's 'Winning when you're not playing well' speech as I write.
Incidentally, how good it was to have Match of the Day back on the box? As ever it coincided with a rare attempt at a bit of kissy-cuddly stuff from the wife.
I have told her this so many times before and I wish the poor woman would get the blinking message, but it is physically impossible for a fella of certain standards to break off from an entertaining away display by, say, Wigan Athletic, in order to indulge in even the teensiest bit of snogging.
Regular posters have mentioned the marriage-healing properties of Sky+ but I like my MOTD in one fell swoop. However, even my favourite footie programme could not quite match the excitement that unfolded on Sunday evening.
Even Rafa's insistence that Liverpool should have had three pens and won the game doesn't matter. It's not important either that yours truly's ridiculed suggestion that Spurs might grab fourth doesn't look quite so stupid now.
It's not even that significant that Neil Warnock's enjoyable rant about the goal that wasn't, was - for a change - utterly justified.
Because at around half eight I sat down and watched some lanky Jamaican run 100m in the time it takes for the wife to bat an eyelid. When I saw Usain Bolt doing all that larking about on the blocks I thought he might just be on the way to making a right nana of himself. I shouldn't have worried.
He goes so fast he'll be on Top Gear soon with Clarkson on his back telling us how 'it moves... like a dream!'
I've not seen a better advert for fried chicken. He's got the 200m coming up and I wouldn't put it past him to run that quicker than the 100. I felt a little sorry for Tyson Gay. That's the fastest any man has ever run whilst eating dust.
The only pointless exercise really is the post-race interview. Bolt doesn't have a great deal to say about his races but then I can remember Linford Christie being asked to 'take us through the race' and the answer amounted to summat like: 'The gun went off and I ran like ****!'
Besides, Bolt defies description and indeed belief. I love the man. We are in privileged times, boys and girls.