Everyone's talking about Saturday's amazing final. I'm referring, of course, to the drama of that evening's Britain's Got Talent programme, not that afternoon's Wembley showcase, which was played mostly at walking pace on a sweltering summer's afternoon. By the way, Hibbert, the Everton right-back, received the Simon Cowell treatment from David Moyes, who put him out of his misery at half-time after Malouda had tortured him remorselessly.

I saw two Evertonians at Finchley Road tube that lunchtime. I could not resist an encouraging, friendly: "Good luck, ladies. I hope you win." The first thanked me "very much, the second could do no better than ask: "Are you a Tottenham fan?". "No I am not! Wash your mouth out with soap. I (emphasised) am an Arsenal fan." "Oh, I just love (also emphasised) Arsene Wenger", returned the first, who evidently appreciated what many of our own do not: that we are lucky to have him. And with that my new friend and her companion were gone, lost in to an already packed Metropolitan Line train, doubtless sandwiched between sweaty, drunk, overweight, bare-torsoed, tattooed (mostly male) Chavs. I'll stop there, lest you think me judgemental, opinionated and partisan.

I read somewhere that certain experiences make us stronger, if they do not kill us. But there's a corollary. Such was the standard of competition that BGT the entity may have peaked, never again to scale the dizzy heights of Cup Final day. To adapt Rolf Harris' catchphrase, can you see where I'm going, yet?

Our "unbeaten" season may have been Arsene's peak. One of the judges would definitely concur; but he's been wrong before, remember. The winning act, ironically, had eleven great movers. All were young, some ridiculously so. Several lacked height but their talisman was an amazing choreographer, able to make light of such apparent deficiencies through his orchestrations. Can you see where I'm going, yet?