It could be a pub quiz question of the future: what do the DUP and the founding fathers of the European Super League have in common?
Answer: they both trusted Boris Johnson to deliver for them, and were subsequently thrown under the proverbial bus.
These guys must have thought they were on the pig's back.
This is, after all, the bluest of true-blue Conservative governments, renowned for championing untrammelled capitalism, free marketeering and rampant profiteering at the expense of the great unwashed.
These are the people who knighted the odious Philip Green, handed venture capitalists the keys to the UK's staggeringly lucrative vaccine roll-out and happily jumped into bed with Uber to the detriment of thousands of 'ordinary' cabbies.
Surely the shafting of football fans will be a similar doddle, a preamble to the triumphant wetting of JP Morgan Chase's new £4.5bn baby's head?
Oops. You see, the boul' BoJo forgot to tell them about the Red Wall, the bricks of which built his landslide 80-seat majority, and the foundations of which are folk who rejected the red flag of Labour but still proudly wear the red and white scarves of Liverpool and United.
Their communal, naked fury brought Boris a golden opportunity to boost his popularity rating without having to lift a finger, and even a flat-footed, rugger-loving Old Etonian PM wasn't going to miss that open goal.
This sudden concern for ordinary fans' traditional values will surprise not only the three million self-employed left floundering during the pandemic, but also the Saudi billionaires whose bid to buy Newcastle United was reportedly cheered by our mercurial PM last year.
But Johnson's sudden all-consuming love for 'O Jogo Bonito', allied with his party's aberration of its own ideology, was crucial to the 'ESL' being swamped by a tsunami of resistance from fans, governments and governing bodies within 50 hours of its chaotic, cack-handed launch.
But if you think Johnson's opposition to the club owners' aspirations is permanent and unshakeable, think again.
Forget the crocodile tears of the past week because, like a relentlessly mutating virus, John W Henry, Joel Glazer, Ivan Gazidis et al will be back, more virulent than ever.
The 'Dirty Dozen' clubs may, on paper, be among the richest in the world but their collective current debt is reported to stand at around £2bn - half of which has been accumulated by Barcelona, who were left standing forlornly on the jetty with a ticket for a gravy boat that had long sailed away. Meanwhile in Madrid, exposed emperor Florentino Perez was still trying to convince the masses he was wearing fancy new threads.
They desperately needed that Super League lucre (a guaranteed £300m a year, even before a ball was kicked) and - after this lot have analysed the myriad of mistakes from this initial, humiliating foray - they will return with an infinitely improved PR strategy and renewed vigour.
The enemy is still at the gates, make no mistake about that.
They may have issued grovelling apologies to the raging fans who gathered en masse outside various stadiums, but they don't care about them and never will.
The vast majority of their income now comes from outside the countries that spawned the would-be insurgent clubs.
Offer these fat-cats the choice between 50,000 season ticket holders and 50,000 wide-eyed tourists arriving on football travel packages every other week, paying for a stadium tour the previous day and filling their proverbial boots with merchandising ... there's no contest.
The Premier League is one of the leading UK exports, but the vast majority of its supporters have never darkened the stadiums' doors. They will, however, cobble together enough baht, yen or renminbi to watch their heroes on satellite telly in the middle of the night.
They don't care about the 'tradition' and 'loyalty' with the same vigour as the Bovril-slurpers from Oldham and Toxteth.
For the common-or-garden supporter, what really makes the 'brand' is the shared experience, the comforting belief that, rather than being defined by itself, a football club co-exists with the others it has forged a unique history with.
It was ex-United captain Roy Keane who coined the phrase 'prawn sandwich brigade' 21 years ago and the volatile Corkman, along with Newcastle legend Alan Shearer, were among the most vocal critics of the English Big Six's gormandising last week.
But Keane and Shearer were also the highest-paid (as well as, ability-wide, the most deserving) players of the early Premier League era - where did they think all that eye-watering wonga came from?
Unlike the vast majority of supporters, the leading professionals benefited significantly from the cynical financial carve-up of English football's new pay-per-view-inspired wealth in the early 1990s.
And, as the breakaway club's fortunes increased, so too did their appeal to the big money men who now own them.
It was a similar story with Uefa's Champions League, created around the same time to stop the 'big' clubs being knocked out too early, as happened in 1987 when Italian champions Napoli were drawn against Spanish kingpins Real Madrid in the first round.
For a while last week, it felt like the pioneers of two established closed shops were hypocritically attacking the proponents of the latest one.
But the nascent 'Premiership' didn't suffer the same castigation three decades ago, largely because its sugar-daddy-in-chief was the then Sky owner Rupert Murdoch, who has no 'skin in the game' this time.
If he had, you could have expected a much different 'slant' from the likes of The Sun and The Times - who broke the sensational story of the clandestine treachery two Sundays ago. Note to self: in future, court the media barons first, like Boris did. After that, you can do no wrong, no matter what your ex-bestie 'Dom' is claiming.
(Speaking of media 'slants', it was hilarious to see Chelsea's Roman Abramovich and Manchester City's Sheikh Mansour being hailed as "saviours" for instigating the climbdown - three days after happily endorsing a mega-deal they've now been shamelessly recast as "reluctant signatories" to).
Stunned by the leak, the exposed rebels were slow to react, and the 'official announcement' later that day was the first of many disastrous PR calls which scalded the toe in the water.
Lost in the fog of negative publicity were genuine feelgood nuggets: that there would be a much-improved policing of Financial fair play, and that the excluded clubs would actually end up something like three times better off over the course of the ESL's first 23 years.
Even with that, it was always going to difficult to sell a so-called 'Super' League minus last season's CL finalists Bayern Munich and PSG. (And, based on 'real' fanbases, Rangers and Celtic are bigger than Spurs, so why weren't they invited?)
The Times' exclusive also showed that even the managers and players had been left in the dark about what their big bosses were cooking up, while the resulting toxic atmosphere even managed to spook - at least on this occasion - potential broadcasters such as Amazon, Sky, Comcast and BT.
It will be a few years before another coup is attempted. In the meantime, you can expect the race for the world's most coveted striker to morph into a mad summer scramble for a peace offering; "look lads, we bought you Erling Haaland… erm, can we be friends again?"
I doubt, however, if the rebels will use the same hastily-recruited PR firm as last time.
Ironically, iNHouse Communications came highly recommended by one B Johnson, who described them as the "Fortnum and Mason of communications" when they assisted his London mayoral campaign.
After initial bluster, those guys have fallen eerily silent.
Perhaps you'll find them under the same bus as their chastened clients.