Not unpredictably, last night's glitzy, schmoozy in-house annual BBC 1 sports bash dwelt with unabashed narcissism, on the prettier images from the exploits of England's soccer boys in France last summer.
Although they are masters of superficial ceremony over at Auntie, their finest tribute to soccer and the World Cup was screened without fuss or hype on BBC 2 on Wednesday night.
Modern Times traced the soccer festival through the eyes of Thomas, an 11-year-old West Evertonian with, we quickly learned, pessimistic educational prospects, inherent goodness and delightful, untutored flair with a football.
It was a programme concerned with sport only in the broadest (but truest) sense, wonderfully capturing the sense of utter wonder which Thomas and his cohorts (kid brother and Milky Bar Kid look-alike in Fowler jersey) greeted the skills of players from all nations and how it briefly enriched a fairly humdrum suburban existence.
At the outset of the programme, Thomas's lack of academic promise was briskly conveyed to his mother at a school meeting. This she accepted with little sign of undue regret or surprise and from then on the cameras followed a kid who was anything but dull for the rest of the summer.
For a youngster alleged to be lagging behind his peers in terms of prowess in the school-room, he did a pretty fine impression of the Memory Man, reeling off distant World Cup trivia and data, from Uruguay's historical record (and scores) in the competition to the Christian names of contemporary contenders like Batistuta and Valderamma.
The scope of his knowledge was all the more interesting when you consider the overwhelmingly partisan inclinations of the domestic media towards the home-teams.
Thus, we observed the World Cup progress through his reactions as he watched the matches on television. And there were some wonderful moments, from the joy after the win against Tunisia (heady stuff) to the reaction after the epic penalty shoot out against Argentina, when Tomas lamentfully declared that: "It wasn't Batty's fault, it was Ince's. England are chrap."
When they weren't watching the World Cup, the youngsters spent their time cycling the stilly, red-bricked wasteland of west Everton, whiling their time in a good humoured way.
"I've just seen two ones doin' iht in the back of a cah," confessed the Milky Bar Scouser at one stage before dashing off to inform his pals.
Thomas's chief adviser on surviving the vagaries of life was his sometime Dad, who tended to crop up on match days. Together they ruminated on the nature of pigeons, life on the sites, lottery cards and professional football.
"You chan't go out bein' rotthen dhrunk, son," said the old man at one stage (well, you can't unless Terry Venables is your manager).
The pater was caring after a Jimmy Corkhill fashion but young Thomas already seemed a little to savvy to fully imbibe his father's vague and mostly irrelevant little gems.
Towards the end, he and the likeable Milky Bar Kid spoke careers with the usual kiddish guff about astronauts and the Navy before Thomas concluded with a laugh that he'd "work in McDonalds".
"Help the homeless, Big Issue," laughed his buddy.
And there was something unbearably sad about witnessing young Thomas, in a moment of idle contemplation, tell the cameras, "I haven't had a dream for ages, not since I was 10."
Instead, he lived his dreams vicariously through the likes of Bergkamp, Ronaldo and Michael Owen, just seven years his senior.
It made riveting, poignant watching, because the World Cup was not about Mick Jagger standing clapping with the fans or Des Lynam quoting Kipling, it was about Thomas watching in his pokey living-room, crying when England lost and taking a toe up the arse from his mother for refusing to go to bed.
Handball was the focus of Sportris, which reported on that sport's attempt to raise funds for the Omagh fund with a tournament in Croke Park. DJ Carey took part and we were reminded that he had achieved more in handball than he ever had at hurling. It was a shuddering thought.
Bertie Ahern wandered in to watch, sitting in the mostly empty bleachers. Now we know what he'd look like at a Democratic Left Ardfheis.
Afterwards, RTE's Mick Dunne presented him with some crystal to mark his visit, suggesting that he might pass it on to David Trimble to "soften him up a bit".
It was a nice thought, but if the bould Red Gills wasn't placated by the medal he received in Oslo, he is unlikely to swoon at the gesture of the Free State handball fraternity.
No, if Bertie was duty bound to soften anyone up this week, it had to be Alex Ferguson. This is a Scot who looks like he is sucking on sherbert at the best of times but on Saturday, his expressions of misery bordered on the admirable.
Manchester United had, of course, just gifted Spurs with a late equalising goal and Alex was unhappy both at that and with the attitude of the referee towards his players. While it is difficult in principle to fault a man who hits the United boys with six cards, it has to be said that a few were a bit harsh.
On the Premiership, both Eamo and Johnny felt that the main problem for Alex is that Japp Stam, as Thomas might put it, is chrap.
And at one stage, we did see the ponderous Dutch man scuttling back down the field at a painfully slow rate, looking for all the world like the bad guy in James Bond who realises - too late - that he ought to be somewhere else. Alex might well be reaching similar conclusions.
