You could call it misguided. Stupid even. Who else would organise their annual family sojourn in the foreign sun to coincide with the two finest sporting events of the year so far? Who else would be capable of starting a holiday on the day when Armagh found redemption on the killing fields of Croke Park and finish it just as Martin O'Neill glided effortlessly towards Messianic status in Glasgow? Forgive us for we have sinned. All we can do now is ask for mercy.

Coincidence, in fact, doesn't go far enough to describe the calamity of it all. It could not have been planned any worse if we had sat down with some pins and a map of Europe some time around March and plotted an itinerary with cold and calculating military precision.

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to be as far away as is humanly possible within the boundaries of this continent from the epicentres of everything that matters within your sporting universe for a period of one week.

What about France or Italy? Too close? Then try Portugal out for size, about as far away as you can get before you hit Africa. And what would you like to miss during your seven days there? A whole Saturday afternoon of Irish League fixtures? Not really important enough?

Well how about the best All-Ireland semi-final display by an Ulster side in almost a decade, followed, just seven days later, by Celtic's first win over Rangers in almost two years? That will do nicely.

Adversity like this does strange things to you and forces you to seek salvation in the most unlikely places. So it was that, 10 days ago, just after 3.30 p.m., we were scattered around the departures lounge of Belfast International Airport like the classic dysfunctional family.

Child number one, supervised expertly by one parent, was playing with carefree abandon while parent number two sat grumpily with his headphones on listening to crackly medium wave commentary of events as they unfolded in Croke Park.

News of the early penalty and then Armagh's tortuous clawing of their way back into the game was relayed excitedly to nobody in particular. It was obvious from some of the strange looks from other bemused passengers that the weird mumbling guy with the Walkman had been marked down as a potential air-rage candidate. Don't sit next to him, they whispered nervously to one another.

But one by one the GAA heads, all shamed by their same stunning lack of forward planning, emerged blinking from the nether regions of the lounge and we hungrily shared details of what was evidently turning out to be an excellent semi-final. After a while the whole experience even became strangely enjoyable as the communal deprivation brought us all closer together.

All the time, though, the clock was ticking towards take-off. Towards the middle of the second half we had to accept the inevitable, turn off the radio and shuffle reluctantly to the departure gate.

Two or three of us looked at each other ruefully in that same way Arctic explorers used to as the wind was beginning to howl and they had just one square of chocolate left to share between 13 of them. Maybe they would carry the result in the results sections of the Portuguese national papers. Fat chance.

Then, as we rounded the corner, salvation. There were four of five more like us and they had a television. So we settled down in all the fine luxury that modern technology can offer and fretted and worried with Armagh through that memorable denouement.

Of course, there were heretics in our midst trying to shepherd us on to the waiting plane, but we were going nowhere until we had a result. The added-on time ticked by painfully slowly and, on the final whistle, we looked at each other with relief and made a silent pact never to complain about flight delays ever again. We hadn't been there, but we had seen it and, in the circumstances, that was more than enough.

FAST forward a week. Unsurprisingly, the massed ranks of the Portuguese media and the English holiday-makers around the swimming pool had been eerily silent on such burning issues as whether Kildare would make any changes from the Leinster final and Martin O'Neill's tactics for his Old Firm baptism on Sunday.

To be honest it didn't really matter, but, by last Sunday morning, the old twitchiness had returned. After a few minutes of half-hearted sunbathing there was an undignified retreat to the bar and its satellite television. For a time it looked like the communication gap might be unbridgeable, but the international language of Sky Sports kicked in.

Outside, the southern European sun beat down and bronzed couples lounged around sipping cool white wine and nibbling on sumptuous tomato salads. But inside, one pasty-faced Irish boy was settling down alone to gorge himself on the gluttonous feast that is Celtic v Rangers.

Just before kick-off two young Portuguese boys, aged about seven and five, took up positions just beside me. Fifty seconds later the three of us were dancing around the room as an obviously offside Chris Sutton propelled Celtic into an unlikely lead.

By the 12th minute, having celebrated twice more, we were like old friends reminiscing about the Jock Stein glory days and swapping the English and Portuguese translations for "30", "humiliation" and "make O'Neill a saint now".

Every now and then an English tourist, driven inside by the heat, would slide over and ask how much Rangers were winning by. Good manners would tend to dictate that you should not be smug in situations like this, but this was not an occasion for etiquette and every twist of the knife was relayed with undisguised glee.

Uniquely for almost any Old Firm game in living memory, it was all over too soon. Usually you spend most of the second half praying for a whistle so that all the hurt and humiliation can end. The end, when it did come, brought an incredible sense of yearning and wondering. Just imagine being there and just savouring the taste of it all.

Then Martin O'Neill appeared for his post-match interview. As one banal question followed another he batted back intelligent, gently mocking answers in that all-knowing Derry way of his. For a few seconds it was just like being at home.