TV View: To be honest, if it wasn't for the psychologist employed by the BBC last Monday night, it's unlikely that any of us who tuned in to the world snooker final, and stayed 'til the bitter (and we mean bitter) end, would have retained the will to live, never mind the will to be fit for Casement Park yesterday, for the first Sunday Game of the Championship season.

"Just hang on in there, trust me, it'll soon be over and you'll be able to put this behind you, get on with your life," was the gist of the psychologist's advice.

Hazel Irvine thought he was addressing his comments to Graeme Dott, who was teetering on the brink of becoming snooker's Devon Loch, but we knew he was talking to us.

The final began in April 1984, and by June 1992 Peter Ebdon had stopped cueing and was ready to take on his first shot, completing his second at the turn of the millennium. According to our watches, anyway.

"It's like watching paint dry," one spectator had shouted at Ebdon when he was playing Marco Fu in the semi-finals, a match that made us pine for the days when Cliff "Tornado" Thorburn and Terry "Greased Lightning" Griffiths squared up.

Ebdon, of course, was reportedly rewarded for that display by an advertising contract from Dulux. If their paint takes as long to dry as Ebdon takes to make a break of six then you're in for a long and sticky haul.

It was, of course, a perfectly legitimate question from those who had to listen to us whinge all Tuesday: "Um, why didn't you just go to bed?" But as Magnus Magnusson used to put it, "I've started so I'll bloody finish".

And so we did. Knighthoods, incidentally, should go to Steve Davis and John Parrott for insisting all night that the final was exhilarating, while wearing expressions that suggested they'd rather be having wisdom teeth extracted with rusty pliers.

Meanwhile, the sport's governing body is wondering why only three million tuned in on Monday night, compared to the 18 million that watched Dennis Taylor beat Davis in the early hours all those years ago. As Homer oft puts it: "Doh".

Anyway, we made it to Casement Park, although, like Cavan, our morale was a bit low and we weren't in the best of shape. We had Peter Ebdon to blame, Cavan had Waterford.

"How, how can you be beaten by Waterford? I mean, how? It doesn't seem possible," said Joe Brolly of Cavan's league defeat last month by Waterford.

"And how could you come in for training after that with your head up," asked Colm O'Rourke. "If they pull this off (beat Down) Martin McElkennon can be canonised, Harry Houdini couldn't pull a trick like this."

So, five minutes in to RTÉ's five-month coverage of the championship, Brolly and O'Rourke had offended 1/32 of Ireland. Mind you, Waterford's footballers are well used to being offended.

"There was an article in the programme and I showed it to the lads before the game," Waterford manager John Kiely had said after the Cavan game, "it went along the lines that if Cavan lost then it would be the biggest disaster since the sinking of the Titanic."

Well, in their match preview Brolly and O'Rourke predicted that Benny Coulter would be the, eh, iceberg upon which the good ship Cavan would perish.

Ultimately they were sort of right, but so woeful did they believe the match to be they could have done with a psychologist telling them: "Just hang on in there, trust me, it'll soon be over and you'll be able to put this behind you, get on with your life."

"Down are a one-trick pony - kick it in to Coulter - and both teams are like riderless horses in the Grand National, there's no discernable pattern of play," said Brolly at half-time, while O'Rourke wore an expression that suggested he'd rather be having wisdom teeth extracted with rusty pliers.

By now we were having an overwhelming déjà vu-ish experience. Alas, RTÉ failed to share with us the highlight of the afternoon. "We've had a couple of semi-streakers here, it's not quite the full Monty," Ger Canning told us at half-time. We wondered why Ger, the crowd and the officials were so nonchalant about the sight before them, bored even, until he informed us they were "a couple of boys running around the field rather stupidly".

Tell you something, if it was a couple of shes they'd have had Joe and Colm analysing slow-motion replays back in the studio.

For Ger, Joe and Colm, though, watching semi-naked lads tip-toe through the Casement Park meadow was as thrilling as watching Peter Ebdon ponder which shot he should take on next.