Tonight I dunked chips in dip, swilled beer, oohed at the halftime show, groaned at the commercials and yelled at the players – just like a true American.

And you know what? I still don’t understand football.

But after writing various stories in the run up to the Super Bowl (and nearly publishing many in which I accidentally referred to it as the Super Bowel), I had really been looking forward to it.

I headed to Greenpoint to watch the game with some friends who have a projector and together we gawked at the country’s top athletes and their surprisingly round derrieres for nearly four hours.

Beyonce’s dazzling halftime performance left her redeemed after the inauguration lip-synching scandal – although it was a shame not to hear more from Kelly and Michelle after their surprise appearance. And then there was the unfortunate half-an-hour power cut, but while we waited for power and action to be restored, scathing tweets, terrible adverts and vats of bean dip kept us amused until we watched the Ravens snatch the title.

What a great evening. And even though I didn’t know exactly what was going on, I know I’ll watch it every other year I’m here.