Praise the Lord and pass the zapper

Smiley happy people everywhere. Ah yes, life has meaning again, we're no longer drifting aimlessly, tearful nomads in the desert they call summer sport. Yes, our light has been switched on again, there's more to telly than Big Brother.

Hallelujah! Praise the Lord! Football's back! No disrespect to tennis, golf, cricket and the rest of the lesser, insignificant sports that merely fill a telly gap when the lads are on holidays, but when God gave us spherical lumps she intended them to be booted around a grassy pitch, not volleyed, putted or bowled (John 8:36). Some argue it's appalling that the football season lasts close on 11 months these days. Couldn't agree more; it should, of course, be 12 months, but these prima donna players insist on time to tan themselves all over so they can look Portuguese on the opening day of the season. Which they generally do. Even Martin Keown.

The problem with this one-month wilderness they call "summer" is that your average football fan has not a thing to talk about with their average football fan pals. Or anyone else, for that matter. Until last weekend, for example, I hadn't had a conversation of any note with my Da since the end of Euro 2000. All we had were feeble attempts at gap-filling.

"Sampras' serve is ridiculous, isn't it?"

"Yeah, mad." Silence.

"Tiger's something else, isn't he?"

"Yeah, unbelievable." Pin drops. "What's happened the West Indies at all?"

"Dunno." Dum de dum de dum. "Soft day, thank God."

"Yeah, soft." Lengthy gap.

"I'll be off so."

"Bye now."

See? We had nothing to say. Then the season started and voila, we're a pair of motor mouths, so much to talk about.

"That Vera would want to sort himself out. ("Vieira Da, Vieira.") The temper on him. It's all very well Arsenal Avenger complaining about the referees ("Arsene Wenger Da, Arsene Wenger.") but he was only asking for trouble tackling Deety Manham like that. ("Dietmar Hamann Da, Dietmar Hamann.")

"And imagine Real Madrid paying £37 million for Liga ("Figo Da, Figo.") when they're £100 million in debt? And I can't believe Fergie sold Roy to AC Milan. ("He didn't, Da - Coventry sold Robbie to Inter.") Oooh good, there's live football tonight."

"Yeah? What game?"

"Gillingham against Portsmouth."

"Rock on. We'll tape Coronation Street and watch it later, okay?"

"Fine by me - paaarty." See? So much to talk about. So much to watch. Monday? Arsenal v Liverpool. Tuesday? Northampton v Fulham. Wednesday? 1860 Munich v Leeds. Thursday? Bohemians v Aberdeen and Barry Town v Boavista. Friday? Real Madrid v Galatasaray and Gillingham v Portsmouth. Sunday? Celtic v Rangers and Aston Villa v Chelsea. We're talking "died and went to heaven" here. True, there is a sinister, blackish cloud on the horizon, one they call "The Olympics". A running, jumping, beach volleyballing fest founded by a bloke named Barron Pierre de Courbertin who wouldn't have known his flat back four from his hop, skip and jump.

Pierre couldn't see the beauty in a Gillingham v Portsmouth first division clash, televised live and exclusively (largely because no one else would want it) by Sky Sports and, so, came up with the idea of the Olympics so that wallto-wall telly coverage of football could be interrupted for one month in every four years. May his remote control stick up in the grave.

Sky Sports, bless 'em, will pretend the Olympics aren't happening because they don't have telly rights to them, but the BBC and RTE will attempt to whip us into a frenzy with as-it-happens coverage of synchronised swimming (the summer Olympics' answer to winter's curling) in the wee hours. It won't work, though. We'll just watch our videotapes of the Gillingham v Portsmouth game. Many times.

Yes, there's football in the Olympics, but its only significance is that it might deprive Arsenal of Kanu for a few weeks and thus ensure they won't score a goal in that period. The notion that sportsmen who earn up to £50,000 a week should have the right to compete alongside athletes who fit in training sessions before and after their 12-hours-a-day jobs seems peculiar in the extreme, but then it's in the ha'penny place next to that US basketball Dream Team crowd who polluted the Games not so long ago. So yes, the Olympics will get in the way for a bit, but at least they're in Australia so the time difference will ensure there's minimal disruption of daily live football coverage. It was close though: Athens could have been the hosts.

So, here we go - "higher, faster, stronger", as they urge the goalie when he's taking his kickouts at Gillingham. It'll be a long season, but not long enough.