Sky, like the crack dealers on the corner (not my corner, obviously. Enda Kenny's perhaps), provided a couple of cheap fixes once the pure stuff had left the system. Just enough to get by until the next hit. So it was on Sky Two, so what? I often watch Sky Two. Yes, there is a Sky Two. It has many good. . . graphics and, em, things.

Alright, I admit it, I have a problem. Sitting alone on a Wednesday evening watching a programme called Football Fakes and experimenting with combinations of Cadbury's Fingers, Lindt balls and Walkers Sensations isn't helping anyone, least of all myself (but for the benefit of those with an open mind, any combination is enjoyable, although you need a good bit of Coke to really seal the deal).

Football Fakes was a programme with a slightly deceptive title, seeing as how there was really just one fake, an Italian lad called Allesandro Zaletti (if that is his real name?

I can't remember) who tried to hawk himself to rubbish teams in Nowheresville, UK and then attempted to get as much cash as he could before moving on. With no aptitude for football but looking and sounding the part, he managed to convince the likes of Bangor, Carnarvon and Lisburn that he was an Italian superstar-in-waiting who had played with the likes of Torino, Rangers and Sheffield Wednesday.

When he eventually got onto a pitch it became immediately clear that he was more pants than a Farah factory and he swiftly moved on, but not before cadging as much cash as he could out of the club, the kit man and local hotels. Lacking a cunning criminal mind, he tended to move on to the nearest club down the road, with his story getting there before him. Not Carlos the Jackal then. Somehow though, they managed to knock an hour-long documentary out of him, travelling to his home town in Italy to harass his mother and set up a sting where an agent arranged to meet him in a hotel to discuss representation. He showed up and settled into the sort of multi-camera trap usually reserved for child killers and international football managers.

After minutes of incredibly dull conversation, the voiceover solemnly decided that "the time has come to confront Zarelli". Out went the 'agent', in came a woman who hysterically declared "you've told enough lies". Zarelli, who they had clearly been hoping would break down in tears or start swinging punches, remained ice cold. "It was a mistake that I did, I just wanted to play football, " he said calmly, before getting up to leave.

"It's not normal to tell the kind of lies you've been telling!" shrieked our intrepid reporter, clearly upset that the dangerous man they had just incriminated was about to walk out the door.

Over slow motion shots of him flipping the bird at every camera he saw on the way out, graphics flashed up saying that Torino had never heard of him, Rangers had never heard of him etc. Alright, we get it, he lied, that's what he just admitted to. Go and find some real criminals, like those responsible for Celebrity World Cup.

Apart from fighting the good fight for the gullible kit men of this world, Sky decided to lecture us on the 'art of football' on the week that was in it. John Cleese presented what was a distinctly strange 90 minutes or so. Judging by the credits, it seemed to be some sort of pan-European Fifa World Cup-sanctioned effort. It also appeared to have cost about 20. In between Cleese shouting desperately like a man who was last funny over 30 years ago, we saw grainy footage of contributions from top players and managers on what makes football. . . well, football.

Dizzyingly random quotes popped up from all contributors, as if there was an editing iPod that had been left on shuffle while the director went out for a crafty fag. Maybe when you've got the likes of Archbishop Tutu, Dennis Hopper, Henry Kissinger and Wim Wenders all giving their own thoughts about football, weaving it all together proves impossible. Shame about the slapdash nature though, because with thoughtful contributions from players and managers (the French ones mainly) and its wacky list of outsiders, it could have been beautiful.

So it wasn't really art, not even a fake really. Best make the most of the real thing while it lasts.