TV View: As the Vodafone All Stars Awards show began, it was briefly possible to wonder if the GAA had found its bling.

Okay, opening with a Podge & Rodge routine is hardly the most innovative piece of programming ever, since it's hardly possible these days to open a shoe box without the ubiquitous puppet peasants leering back. Still, we're not talking the Siege of Ennisand wall-to-wall cod-Celtic here.

Cut to some swiftly edited action shots with Bowie's Sound and Vision thumping in the background. A snatch of the Pulp Fiction soundtrack on top of that and we were into some serious virgin territory.

But then came the reassuring tuxed-up form of Michael Lyster. Rather like during the opening minutes of Saving Private Ryan, when the sight of Tom Hanks is a welcome reminder in the midst of the horror that it is just a film.

Lyster represents apple pie and the GAA dream. Behind the shiny production values, this was going to remain a "presenting the medals" gig.

Lyster did his best to set it up too, as the first All-Star team of 1971 were steered and wheeled centre stage.

"I must say they're looking very fit and well," he cooed, as the camera panned over the bald pates. It was no surprise the fluent Babs Keating was picked out by Lyster to gush at the wonder of the All-Star awards. Sure enough, Keating dutifully praised the sponsors down through the years. But his heart wasn't really in it.

"An All Star is special for those counties who can't win an All-Ireland," he sniffed. "I'll name a team that won an All-Ireland from 40 years ago but I'd struggle to name the All Stars from just a few years ago."

"Thanks, Babs."

The mood seemed to infect the room like a marketing man's virus-spreading nightmare. The more Lyster, Marty Morrissey & Co tried to talk the thing up, the more everyone emphasised other stuff. Even Ger Canning got in on the act.

"Barry Owens of Fermanagh," he gushed. "No doubt Barry would swap these individual awards to get his hands on the Anglo-Celt Cup."

Probably true, and no doubt the Vodafone executives were thrilled at Ger's relentless pursuit of the journalistic truth. But that was only a sideshow to the real trouble with presenting pictures of young men accepting awards for a full hour on national television.

One by one, the flowers of County Board Gaeldom marched up, heads down, hair shorn, faces glistening with Palmolive, and stood briefly for the camera before shambling gratefully off to the relative anonymity of the pack. Such unease at playing

the TV game is to their eternal credit, but for many of us

looking in, it was tedium in its purest form. There is little doubt that if faced with a cold trench, one might choose a microwaved Moynihan from Glenflesk to share said hole in the ground. But would anyone expect to have to watch? And only in such a show could Conor Mortimer's car crash of a haircut get such attention.

Mayo footballers have a habit of shovelling on the bottle blond until it looks like Spongebob Squarepants has perched on their heads. But things were so desperate that this was very shiny bling indeed for those needing to fill air-time.

"His long, blond hair is a commentator's dream," twittered Canning. "Long may it grow, Conor!"

In reality, though, the only mild shiver of excitement came when Marty Morrissey invited Brian Cody to speculate on his sleeping patterns.

"How are you sleeping now that Ger Loughnane is manager of Galway?" queried Marty.

There was a pause while Cody digested this. Possessed of a haughty glare at the best of times, the Kilkenny manager peered down his beak at Marty long enough to have the audience in genuine anticipation.

"No problems," Cody eventually conceded.

Freed of George Hook for Saturday's Wales-New Zealand rugby international, Brent Pope was in fine form. The Kiwi pundit usually plays second fiddle, but without the harrumphing presence beside him, "Popey" cut quite a dash.

"England and France are the supposed leaders in this part of the world. But Ireland are now the leaders," he said, encouragingly for all those rugger-lovers already getting excited at the thought of the World Cup and unable to see those "Lens" signs springing up all over the shop.

But the most bizarre sports story of the week was undoubtedly the news that Motorhead are sponsoring an under-10 football team in England. One brave youngster was shown by Grandstand approaching the band's lead-singer, Lemmy, for advice.

"Shout vile war cries as you tackle 'em," seethed the ugliest man in music.

The Beautiful Game indeed.