LAST WEEK had gone so well: then the weekend’s clouds started to gather.

SALUT, camarades! Greetings from Monte Carlo where it’s 28 degrees, sunny and pleasingly packed with lithe, tanned mademoiselles.

GREETINGS chaps, and occasional chap-esse: we can be this familiar now, can we not?

SO here we all are this week, at last: a whole continent’s eyes cast towards a venerable Eastern Bloc capital, where a thrilling competition comes to a primetime TV climax — amidst, no doubt, much muttering about skulduggery and bias.

IF there was one reason for United being able to go one better in 2007/08 compared to last season’s slight shortfall, then it was surely the injection of the Latino vitamin-booster into the squad’s body: Tevez, Anderson and Nani have all exceeded expectations and made the difference — we hope — between being also-rans and continental kings.

SQUEAKY-BUMMED terror, tearful total joy and sweat-stained relief: Tuesday night was what football emotion is all about.

ONE spends much of any season these days complaining about the grim plastic fraud of the modern game but every now and then you get an afternoon like last Saturday to keep you hooked nonetheless. Ewood Park was everything you want the football experience to be about: a fittingly throbbing start to what could be the best Red week of the century.

THERE’S something about a double-act that fascinates in any walk of life.

I DOUBT anyone will ever top Garret FitzGerald in my list of Five Fave Irish Leaders (in my fantasy play-off, he beat Michael Collins after extra-time) but, like most Manc Reds, I had a big soft spot for Bertie Ahern, due to his evident love of the Reds. And of a good time. (Oh, and for that Northern peace treaty stuff, I guess.)