Sideline Cut: Niall Quinn, on a radio interview during Sunderland's whirlwind tour of Ireland last week, gave a deft response to the issue of the absurdly high wage packets earned by the heroes of the Premiership. The Dublinman has to be the most loquacious chief executive operating in English football.

Back when the terraces rippled to the chants of Niall Quinn's Disco Pants, the lanky striker earned enough bucks to keep him in steak dinners and the better brand of aftershaves. He was smart enough and fit enough to hang around for the first decade of the Premiership and was ultimately comfortable enough to donate the gate receipt from his testimonial game to charity.

But he earned nothing in comparison to the riches the Premiership boys command today. For all John Terry's athleticism and bravery, some people are somewhat uneasy that a man can earn over €200,000 a week for being able to head a football brilliantly.

With Sunderland in the market for new players all summer, Quinn knows the difficulties of trying to broker a deal in a volatile market flooded with new television money. He cited the example of Darren Bent, the (former) Charlton player whose value doubled to €24 million this year alone even though his team were heading toward relegation.

But football is his bread and butter and Big Niall was quick to point out that Hollywood actors earned millions and nobody complained. If Russell Crowe can earn megabucks for tooling around in a skirt and a sword, Big Niall implied, then why shouldn't Craig Bellamy be able to afford a driveway full of Porsches?

It was a bit dismissive to the stagecraft of Olivier or the back catalogue of Daniel Day-Lewis but he had a point. Joe Pesci may be a tough guy, but would you really want him marking Peter Crouch?

Where the hell is Bellamy this season anyway? At West Ham, is it? It was halfway disappointing to learn the daft hoor was getting the boot from Liverpool. In a way, his golf-club celebration was probably the highlight of the Scouser's season, the Pool being 2-0 up against a classy if disenchanted Barcelona in the Stadium of Light.

It must have been dismaying for the Barca fans, with their spiritual affection for the game and the club, to witness their season being unhinged by a muscle-bound and plainly daft Welshman who had attacked a team-mate, John Arne Riise, with a golf club during the preparation for the game and then turned that infamous episode into an unrepentant celebration.

Of course, plenty of savvy punters had placed bets predicting that if he scored a goal Bellamy would drive an imaginary three-iron into the Spanish sky. Chances are he probably had a few grand on himself. Why not? Ironically, the gesture may have been all that coach Rafael Benitez needed to confirm it was time to offload the troublesome Bellamy on some other suckers.

Even though the Premiership officially closes for the summer, there is really no getting away from it because of the constant radio bulletins speculating on who is going where on the transfer market. The boardroom deals have become half the fun of the Premiership, although this summer's action was utterly overshadowed by the Carlos Tevez saga.

There is not much to say about the machinations behind Manchester United's acquisition of the Argentine striker other than it was profoundly boring. The chances were United would always get their man because they wield disproportionate power and more or less everybody in English football is scared stiff of Alex Ferguson. And if they did not, they would simply spend 20 million on somebody else.

From the deluge of Premiership supplements published in all newspapers over the last couple of weeks, it seems plain that when it comes to winning the old league trophy, it ought to be the same old story.

Ferguson's competitive fury remains undiminished. Gabriel Heinze has become the latest player to feel the cold wrath of the Scotsman, and even if the Argentine defender does ultimately get his wish and joins Liverpool, the chances are his nerves will be shot from dealing with the tyrannical side of Ferguson.

The last time there was such a public denouement at Old Trafford, it resulted in the swift and dramatic departure of Roy Keane. The Irishman headed north to Glasgow to play out his career with the Bhoys but is back in the Premiership just two years later. Keane's return to the big league in the guise of a smart, young and ultra-cool manager adds some much-needed spice to the cast.

Whether Sunderland were thrifty or merely helpless while the Spend! Spend! Spend! mentality that characterised the summer took hold remains to be seen. Keane has already made a few black quips about the fact he could find himself walking the enigmatic Triggs on Saturdays if Sunderland have a nightmare beginning in the top flight.

The team hardly set the world alight during their Irish tour. Then again, did they want to? That was purely an exercise in attracting a new fan base. It ought to be remembered that last year Keane mentioned watching several Premiership teams and thinking, 'Yeah, we could take them.'

Avoiding relegation will hardly be the height of Keane's ambitions this year. He is returning to the top flight in a period of intense pressure on managers. Keane's barnstorming debut years with Nottingham Forest in the declining years of Brian Clough and his long, brilliant association with Ferguson have been interpreted as the beacons for his revelatory turn as a novice manager. Many commentators who dismissed the Corkman as a ranting, untamed Paddy a few years ago are now fawning over his new-found sensibility, his calm and his humour. But it was clear many years ago that intelligence, and a clear-as-starlight reading of the game, set Keane apart as much as the crunching tackles and glowering expression.

The brief, hellish period that Clough spent at Leeds United became the theme of a compelling novel, The Damned United, written by David Peace last year.

Clough, for all his faults, has become a romanticised figure now, a symbol of the old first division, when the terraces were male and tribal, the booze was rampant and the mood was darker. But the pressure was intense even then. Now, with a heritage club like Leeds teetering on the brink of oblivion, the pressure on managers to keep their teams in the fantasyland of the Premiership is savage. The players are the ones who earn the cheers and, in a sense, the easy money. They play and go home to try and figure out how to handle the six-figure sums placed in their bank accounts every Wednesday. The money goes in whether they play or not.

The manager carries the real weight and expectation of the club. Ferguson and Arsène Wenger and Jose Mourinho are very different people but in terms of sport they share one unifying trait: perfectionism. They are egomaniacal in their obsession with the game, in presenting their football teams in their own image. They are chess masters playing for abominably high stakes.

This is the world into which Keane now strides.

Quinn, a ferociously bright man, gamely tried his hand early last season when Sunderland were stuck without a manager. Quinn enjoys life too much to settle for the black art of football management. But he identified in Keane the kind of creature who would thrill at the intricacies and scheming and pressures, at the big idea of managing a northern club full of soul and ambition.

Back they come, Sunderland and the Irish odd couple, and for some reason their presence makes the Premiership seem that bit more meaningful. And you can be sure of one thing: if and when a Sunderland player scores a goal, he won't be celebrating by swiping a golf ball through the Sky.