Fifth Official: Brown hangs on as Defoe smashes five

Few of us like Monday but The Fifth Official does, for it brings with it a chance for him to point the finger and laugh. Here he pulls out the pretty, the puzzling and the downright pig-ugly from a five-star weekend.

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Brown-watch rating: Murky

Another week, another home game at the KC Stadium, another afternoon for Tigers' chairman Adam Pearson to crawl into position on the roof of the stadium with an air rifle and train it on Phil Brown's headset, his finger hovering nervously over the trigger for the full 90 minutes.

After 11 of those minutes, the itch to deploy whatever poisonous pellets he'd loaded in said rifle and cut Brown down like an extra on Platoon must have been overwhelming, as first Guille Franco then Jack Collison fired the Hammers into a two-goal lead. But following a fight back of Dean Windass-sized proportions - assisted by hapless official Mark Clattenberg - Jimmy Bullard ensured Hull went in at half time 3-2, and Pearson could oil his weapon contentedly.

The second period was another war of attrition, as the Tigers were reduced to ten but held on for an admirable point, one that will probably extend Brown's tenure for at least a few days, until Everton visit on Wednesday. Brown repeated the word "trust" like a mantra in his post-match presser, as if he was hoping to hypnotise Pearson into affording him some on Thursday morning. Dream on, Phil.

Defoe's dazzler

Bing, bang, wallop what a pasting. Spurs dished out the second biggest Premier League thrashing of all time which obviously means they'll finish in the top four and Wigan are going down. Except it doesn't at all. But it is true that watching Roberto Martinez's side is like having an alcoholic schizophrenic for a mate: you never know which version is going to turn up, or whether you will escape without a hammering.

Jermain Defoe and Aaron Lennon couldn't believe their luck in the final 40 minutes, as they were afforded the sort of personal space usually reserved for the Queen. Titus Bramble and Erik Edman had a collective nightmare, forgetting all instincts of time and space as Defoe demonstrated the sort of goalscoring fury that can only be provoked when Darren Bent is picked ahead of you for England.

A look at Martinez's face on the touchline told you exactly what he was feeling: shame, embarrassment and depression. A glance over to the home bench and you'd never have guessed from 'Arry's 'angdog expression that his side were going goal crazy. He came alive when the press came calling though, extolling the virtues of everyone at the club. He was in such a fluster, he didn't even mention the Champions League once.

Wearside: parallel universe?

It may not surprise you to hear another half-baked, poorly researched theory popped into my brain as I watched Sunderland cut another 'top four' side down to size on Wearside. But after Darren Bent wheeled away in celebration after notching another fluky goal it struck me that perhaps the Stadium of Light is in a parallel universe.

First we had the freak "beach ball" goal that took care of Liverpool - even six weeks on I still can't stop laughing - now Bent has introduced us to a dynamic new technique I'm going to christen "the inadvertent one-two phenomenon". There he was, rising like a frisky salmon, all ready to nod the Black Cats in front from Andy Reid's inviting corner when he momentarily took his eye off the big, round yellow thing in front of him and ended up directing his effort nearer the corner flag than the net.

No matter, because Fraizer Campbell was lurking like a bad smell at the far post, and managed to play the perfect return ball without even realising what was happening. Manuel Almunia was swept into the vortex and before he knew it, he was plucking the ball from his red-and-white net.

Ginger horse Boltage

Big Sam might be the one in hospital but his prognosis is still considerably better than Gary Megson's. Before the Lancashire derby it was revealed Blackburn's boss is to undergo surgery on his ticker. We are assured it is a routine op and that Sam will be back fighting fit sooner rather than later, but by the time he bounces back his counterpart at Bolton may be joining the dole queue outside his nearest job centre.

Rovers turned up at the Reebok without an away win in eight months and with the gaffer laid up for a while, they dared to throw off the shackles of his archaic style of play to attempt to, you know, pass it and stuff. Instrumental in their win was David Dunn, a man reborn since he returned to the place of his birth (Blackburn). Rovers were still only half-decent, but that was more than enough to topple Wanderers, who generously afforded Rovers a second, when Brett Emerton's aimless cross prompted the sort of numbskullery usually reserved for Rio Ferdinand this season.

A pal of mine has a pre-match riff that likens the importance of chat on the football field to communication between fire-fighters entering a burning building. The overriding message being that you have to solve the problem as a unit, by talking to each other. But it's a fair bet Jussi Jaaskelainen and Samuel Ricketts won't be invited to join the Lancashire Fire Brigade when their careers are over after their calamitous double-act resulted in another rib-tickling OG.

All Day I Dream About Sponsorship

I couldn't sign off this week without a quick word on the Hand of God II controversy that prevented Ireland from taking their rightful place at the World Cup. The only thing more ridiculous than Thierry Henry's despicable act of cheating has been the reaction of the Irish players and the FAI. Every day since one of them has whinged, warbled or wibbled about a replay we all knew was a forlorn hope.

Damien Duff's latest conspiracy theory is too ludicrous for words. He thinks FIFA, Adidas and Michel Platini cooked up the plot in some smoke-filled Paris bunker before the match. He clearly hasn't heard the phrase about biting the hand that feeds you, seeing as his boots are sponsored by - yep, you guessed it - Adidas. Duff's never been the sharpest tool in the box, though. His outburst reminds me of one of his former Ireland team-mates, who was once asked if he'd like his pizza cut into four pieces or eight. He replied: "Four slices. I'll never eat eight."

And, of course, the issue got a little sidetracked by a wonderful, spitting tirade from former Ireland captain Roy Keane, who proved exactly why all his press conferences come with their own, unique health and safety disclaimer. Keano, still bitter at his acrimonious World Cup exit during the 2002 tournament, told Ireland's brooding players to get over it, said they were to blame for not clearing the ball before it reached Henry and rollocked a journalist whose phone went off twice during his press call. It all led me to this, simple equation: Messiah complex + Ipswich's league position = paradox.