'Hookie's heart skipped a beat at the sight of Gilesie's . . .'

TV View: Is it just us, or are you too still recuperating from George Hook's revelation on the Late Late Show that his ambition in life is to write chick-lit? Was your mind, like ours, boggled by the mere thought of it?

"Brent gently stroked my cheek, caressing it tenderly yet manfully, in a burly, Kiwi kind of way. He took me by the hand and softly whispered in my ear: 'Forget Eddie O'Sullivan, he could never love you like I do - I worship you, baby, come away with me'."

Although, come to think of it, that's probably more Mills and Boon than chick-lit.

"'Back off big boy or I'll roast you with my parsnips,' I said to Clive, 'you might be a knight, but I'll be spending no night with you'," would probably be more the gist of Hookie's chick-lit efforts.

"Rosie McDaid," he said he'd call himself when he pens his chick-lit, but Georgina Hookinella would do for us. Think about it. If you saw A Steamy, Sizzling, Sensual Scrum by Georgina Hookinella on sale at the airport, not only would you buy it, you'd be so busy thumbing the pages you'd miss your flight.

Sinead O'Connor, sitting beside George, certainly seemed dazed and confused upon hearing of his literary aspirations, but it didn't stop her giving him a Nothing compares 2u Hookie hug.

"Hookie's heart skipped a beat as he looked into those impossibly large eyes, his thoughts drowning in those pools of perfection, framed by those wondrous eyelashes that fluttered more majestically than even Drico's hips as he weaves his way towards the try-line. The roar from those eyes was of Lansdownian proportions, nay, Thomond Park on a European Cup evening (although how Munster beat feckin' Leicester I'll never know)."

To be honest, the only chick-lit book we'd buy ahead of Hookie's would be Gilesie's.

"Didier wrapped his arms around me, burying me in his ample chest, so I said: 'Drogba, I'll give you 10 seconds to release me before I disembowel you, you useless, overpaid, diving fecker."

"There's Drogba, injured again, rolling around like a big baby," said an increasingly irritated Gilesie on Wednesday when he sat in the commentary box at Anfield for the Champions League meeting between . . . zzzzzz . . . sorry, between Liverpool and Chelsea.

"You're either injured or you're not bloomin' well injured," he said, as Drogba made a miraculous recovery from the life-threatening injury inflicted on him by Sami Hyypia when he gently caressed his midriff.

Back in the studio, Eamon Dunphy was kinder to Drogba, describing him as "a big donkey - a troublesome donkey, but a big donkey", being kinder still on Arjen Robben. "He's a birdbrain," he said.

"Everyone's worked out Robben this season," said Liam Brady.

"Except Robben, he hasn't worked himself out," said Dunphy.

Back in the commentary box, Gilesie was still savouring every moment of the Anfield encounter. "I must say, he does irritate me, (Djibril) Cisse. If he could only play half as well as he talks he'd be one of the best players in the world."

Luis Garcia? "He'd have to score a goal a game to justify his place because his general play is really awful."

Djimi Traore? "A Champions League winner? Give me a break!"

Lampard and Gerrard? "The best midfielders in Europe? They haven't strung two passes together all night."

Jose Mourinho? "I think, at times, he goes out of his way to irritate people - and he's making a good job of it tonight, I must say." Full-time, 0-0.

"When I was playing for Millwall there were teams playing like this in the second division," said Dunphy of Chelsea, to which, you'd kind of guess, Mourinho would say, "Shucks - thanks!"

So, Jose'll be inconsolable after yesterday. Four goals at Anfield? The shame.

But at least Real Madrid were almost entertaining in last week's Champions League, prompting Dunphy to contemplate removing his cap and doffing it in the direction of their man-of-the-match, David Beckham (who was interviewed post-match with what was probably a very fashionable hat-type-thing, but looked to us like a dressing for a head injury). In the end Dunphy decided to leave his cap where it was.

"All it's proved is that there's life after death. He hasn't played well in two years," he said, "he's become a clown with a hat on his head."

Or, as Georgina Hookinella would put it, "a testosterone- fuelled leviathan with a woolly bonnet caressing his luscious, succulent, tender lobes".