There was a creepy air of deja view on the screens this past week. Almost 12 months to the day, there was Michelle back smashing records in the pool and re-affixing her crown as the queen of Irish sport, and there was poor old Sonia, distraught yet again after another seemingly unfathomable collapse on the track.

The ecstasy and the agony, why sport is the true opium of the masses. And none of it would have even a 10th of the emotional impact if it weren't on television. It's all so much more real simply because the tube allows us to persuade ourselves that we're somehow involved.

An example. I am a huge fan of radio, and these days BBC Radio 5 Live is top of the list. Two years ago the station won an award for its coverage of the Ryder Cup (Golf on the radio? Apparently), but I didn't hear a word it. Instead, I watched the whole thing on the telly in Malahide GC, was there when the place erupted when Philip (we were all on first name basis at that stage) lagged his final putt. I don't care how good the radio coverage was, it simply could not have done justice to the pictures.

Would there be anything like the interest in the Ryder Cup if it weren't on television? Of course not.

Michelle Smith's performance was remarkable; I'd have bet the house she couldn't do it out of competition. And now she's nearly as accomplished with a microphone as with a pair of goggles. (I just hope Tom McGurk doesn't ask her a "How do you feel" question tonight.)

But listen, a word from the wise to Erik de Brun: keep a close eye on that Jim Sherwin chappie, he's absolutely besotted with your wife. Every time he gets near her he starts babbling earnestly like some pubescent schoolboy introduced to Claudia Schiffer.

Uncle Bill O'Herlihy is much too together to carry on like that. Yet some cracks are beginning to appear, and I suspect that if Bill never again had to pick the bones of some godawful heat in the men's/ women's/ orangutan's 800m steeplechase-marathon that it would be too soon.

Listen, he finally blurted as John and Eamonn struggled to fill 60 minutes of air time speculating about Sonia's latest heartbreak, why can't somebody just tell Sonia to cop herself on? Good man yourself, Billy boy, as they say in Ballyphehane.

Eamonn Coghlan was reasonably sure-footed this week as well. Although he was finally persuaded - reluctantly - to predict gold for Sonia in the 1,500 metres, he added a prescient rider: "`Do I want it?' is the question she is going to ask herself half-way through this race." An emphatic "No" rang through the Athens night. Then, during the latest grizzly post mortem, and despite pointing out that the longer race was the one Sonia had been training for, he confidently predicted "she won't do well in the 5,000". Foresight that nevertheless didn't make it any easier to watch her struggle.

Mick O'Dwyer dropped in for a chat with Tom McGurk in Monday's Sporting Press Gang (SPG) after Sunday's disappointment. "You must be devastated," Tom began, rather heavy-handedly. Micko laughed slightly. "I wouldn't say `devastated'." (The week before, Tom had begun an interview with Barney Eastwood with a question which came from the same, rather tabloidese side of the field. "You're a collector of things," he began, "you have a knowledge of fine wines. Yet you still maintain this remarkable gra for boxing. How is that?" The implication being that a taste for fine wines is still some sort of mark of sophistication, and equally that the brutality of boxing couldn't possibly hold some feral appeal to someone with a brain.)

Anyway, Tom and Mick moved on to the standards of refereeing and football's famous missing "tackle". "I think our game is governed by too many rules," O'Dwyer said, "and I think there will certainly have to be changes. Referees will have to be more . . . I'm just trying to figure out what would be the best thing.

"I have been advocating two referees at senior inter-county level today, because the game has become so fast over the past 20 years. One referee on the pitch today, he just can't keep up with the game."

Mick also advocated the sort of points system for bookings used in, um, football. He suggested two points for each booking, and suspension, for a specific number of games, after 10 points.

Speaking of football. I suppose you noticed the English league kicked-off this weekend. Match of the Day returned with a flash new logo and the less-than-flash Gary Lineker in Des Lynam's chair. I hope Dessie's just away on holiday. Gary is getting better, but it's an excruciatingly long process.

On the plus side, our own Lawro joined Gary earlier for Football Focus, and it was a fine debut. (I was going to say he was an improvement on Trevor Brooking, but Mark might take that as an insult.) Mark and Alan and Ruud will make a good threesome. Then again, I could see Alan getting a bit jealous if Ruud and Mark hit it off too well. I feel an Eastenders storyline coming on.

Finally, to a bit of sporting comedy. Back at SPG, the lads writing the sketches are beginning to hit real form. In one, the boss of the IAAF, Primo Nebiolo, appeared as Brando's Don Nebiolo, receiving a suitably grovelling supplicant seeking favours. It was a quick, sharp script with an enjoyably juvenile mind set. As our supplicant prepared to leave, Don Nebiolo handed him a gift: a urine sample.

"A token of my esteem," Don Nebiolo said, "some pee-pee for your wife and family."

"Thank you, Don Nebiolo. And if anyone says you didn't give them the esteem off your pee-pee, I swear they will die of a sudden case of cranial ventilation."

"Shoot 'em in the head," says Don quietly, "it's quicker."

Later, we dropped in on a meeting of Man Utd Supporters Anonymous. One victim of the disease - known as "John" - described his experience of sampling some of the other narcotics available: "I did Newcastle for awhile; they get you high real fast, but then they let you down with a bang."

If you were looking for some inadvertent sporting comedy over the weekend, you shouldn't have missed Devon Malcolm batting for England. His short spell at the crease on Saturday was hugely entertaining, and the lads in the commentary box couldn't stop giggling. "One of the great things about cricket," chortled Geoffrey Boycott, "is watching tail-enders bat."

Devon astonished everyone by swatting two quick fours (with his eyes closed), but he was finally clean-bowled by, as Tony Lewis put it: "A slower ball, over which Devon Malcolm hopped."