"Baton twirling," he hyperventilates down the phone in a three-fifths enraged and two-fifths "as a minority sport administrator I'm fast losing the will to live" kinda way. "Baton twirling! What in the name of all that's holy has Baton Twirling got to do with sport." So I say, "Calm down, calm down - why are you suddenly being emotional about Baton Twirling".

And he tells me. "The Baton Twirling Sport Association of Ireland got £3,500 from the Irish Sports Council in their annual grants giveaway and you know and I know that Baton Twirling is as closely related to sport as . . . as . . . as . . . synchronised bloody swimming."

"Well, look," I say, "my little Oxford Dictionary defines sport as a `game or competitive activity usually involving physical exercise' and you can't deny that Baton Twirling is, at the very least, a competitive activity that might possibly involve running around, if only to retrieve batons that twirled hopelessly out of control."

"Trying to get a parking spot on Stephen's Green is a bloody game and a competitive activity that usually involves physical exercise (eg when you leap out of the car to chase the bloke who's just stolen the spot you'd been waiting on for an hour and a half), but you don't get a bloody grant for it from the Irish Sports Council," he replies.

"And do you know how much the Horseshoe Pitchers Association of Ireland got," he asks.

"How much?" "£2,200."

"That's not a lot - what with inflation and all, it'd barely buy you 100,000 horseshoes," I say in so conciliatory a manner Boutros Boutros-Ghali would have swooned.

"It gets better," he says. "The National Rifle and Pistol Association of Ireland got almost £20,000!"

"Mmm, are they the crowd who can't decide who they love more, George Dubya or Charlton Heston?"

"The very ones, I assume."

"Could you tell me," he says, "what is the Speleological Union of Ireland?" "Spooky," I say. "That was a question on my nephew's Playstation Who Wants To Be A Millionaire game and I used my 50-50, asked the audience and rang that fictitious and entirely useless Welsh woman who never answers in time and they all got it wrong."

"Hold on - I'll look it up in my Little Oxford Dictionary. Okay: speleology is `the study of caves'."

"So, you're telling me that the Irish Sports Council handed over £9,216 of taxpayers' money to a bunch of fruitcakes who want to study caves?"

"So it seems - but they probably do it in a competitive manner." "Best of all, though," he says. "The Golfing Union of Ireland got £155,000!" "And how do you feel about that," I ask, a touch tentatively. He replies. I say: "I can't quote you on that."

He says: "Why not?"

"Because (a) golfy types can afford better lawyers than me and (b) I get nervous in front of judges. By the way - can I mention what sport you represent?" "God no, we'll only get £4.22 next year, marginally less than we got this year, if they hear I'm complaining."

"Incidentally, how much did the Badminton Union of Ireland get," I ask. "£138,991," he says. "Well, they can give me the £991 to pay for Pavel's upkeep." "Who's Pavel?"

"It's a long story," I say. He hangs up. Well, it is a very long story but let's just say I had to ring the Czech Republic for badminton results. Now, before I made the phone call, I said to myself, "if somebody rang you from the Czech Republic and asked you in Czech for badminton results, what would you think?"

"Well, I'd probably mistake them for someone from Gweedore first, but then I'd say, `you're having a laugh, aren't you'." Exactly.

So, naturally, I looked up the Czech-English dictionary on the internet so I could converse smoothly on the phone in Czech. But if you have a look at this site you'll notice how dangerously close in proximity the phrase "can you tell me" (i.e. the latest badminton results) is to "can you stay over Wednesday?" (muzete se zdrzet pres stredu?) in the dictionary. Consequently . . . let's just say . . . I'm expecting Pavel from Prague to arrive at my front door any minute now with his sleeping bag under his arm and a guide to James Joyce's Dublin tucked in his back pocket. The very least the BUI can do for me is hand over that £991. If they don't I'll have no option but to entertain Pavel by taking him Baton Twirling. Or Horseshoe Pitching. Or worse: Golfing. At which point he'll say Failte guff'.

"so much for all yer Cead Mile Failte guff".

Sbohem - muzete mi dat jednu penci? (Goodbye - can you spare me a penny?).