Kenny Live once more exposed the darker side of sport this week. Introducing the topic, Pat spoke of "venal tolerant bimbos just in it for the loot" and you found yourself shuddering at the prospect of yet another feature on Manchester United.

Our host, though, was referring to the common perception of footballers' wives and there to defend that much maligned group was Shelley Webb, wife of Neil. Most people can probably summon a hazy recollection of Neil in his athletic days, an earnest, bushy-eyed lad who ran the show for Forest and, briefly, for the national side back when Cool Britannia was just a glimmer in Tony Blair's eyes.

It was a bit disconcerting, though, to learn of the finer points of his romancing almost a decade after we last watched him play. Neil meet Shelley through Reading FC and, in true Georgie Best style, he eventually took her out to a roller disco. Reading were busy earning promotion from the lower echelons then and, the local roller disco obviously yielding precious few kicks, the soccer stars found themselves the centre of attention with local lasses.

"Groupies," Shelley and Pat described them as. It was a dizzy time for young Neil. "He was 19, he thought he was George Michael," confided Shelley.

Suddenly, you found yourself sympathising with the long forgotten Neil, a lad who by day kicked ball in Reading and at night time trawled its roller discos, unleashing a string of new moves to the sound of Club Tropicana.

Shelley, meanwhile, confessed that she used to dress up to the nines, growing increasingly concerned about the attentions being lavished on Neil, who had now moved on to Forest and Luther VanDross.

The turning point for her came when she arrived at a club party in a very colourful and dressy affair. Roy Keane, newly arrived and testing the quality of the Guinness, took one look and said: "Shelley, it's not a bloody fancy-dress party." A life of slacks and warm sweaters quickly followed. If you want to read about it, Shelley has a new book out on the lives of footballers wives.

It may be a riveting read but not one, you sense, that will occupy the idle hours of one Joe Kinnear. It is hard to imagine which pop star the youthful Joe modelled himself on, if any.

Turning up on the Premier- ship (with an incredibly duff sketch of London Bridge in the background), he spoke once more of his relocation plans for Wimbledon.

"I put my heart in a dream of bringing Wimbledon to Dublin about four years ago," he reminded Bill O'Herlihy as they pondered over a 2-1 defeat at the hands of Everton.

"The difference in who we are playing is purely financial," he said, before confessing that he was disappointed the Dons weren't lying in second place in the League.

Bill understandably ventured to suggest that even if Wimbledon did take the ferry across, Joe might not be there with them, given the interest being shown in his talents by bigger clubs.

The Wimbledon manager declared that he was "in the dark" about all of that, that his name was constantly bandied about. Would he move?, pressed Bill. "You neva know in this game."

You neva know in tennis either, not when Martina Hingis is playing. The world number one was competing in the semi-final of the sleepy Compaq Grand Slam and the fare went to a final set, prompting the Sky lads on the mid-afternoon graveyard shift to roll up their sleeves and declare the quality of tennis both "fun" and "intelligent".

Hingis, though, hauled back from a comfortable four-game lead to five games apiece, suddenly quit. Just strolled out of there, worried about a twinge in her leg. The Sky host was shocked to the point of tears. "Why did she pull out?" he asked Peter Fleming.

"She was just being cautious, decided it would be the best thing," replied Peter, looking as though he wanted to head somewhere else also.

The FAI, though, are wondering about the wisdom of going anywhere just now. In fairness, teams do have to be prepared for a lot of things when travelling to away games but the threat of Nato air strikes generally doesn't come into the equation.

"We need to deal with this calmly and diplomatically," said an ashen Bernard O'Byrne on the Six One news. "You are caught between a rock and a hard place," suggested Colm Murray, somewhat heartlessly.

Bernard, though, proved himself comfortable with the jargon of political affairs. "A week is a long time," he pointed out. But regardless of the Irish soccer team's plans, the Australians are definitely coming. Highlights of the AFC Grand Final between North Melbourne and the Adelaide Crows were shown on the domestic channels over the week, as interest in the game mounts with the renewal of the International Rules matches.

Things haven't changed too much since last time. The Aussies are still athletic, brawny, accurate and hard-hitting. Adelaide won the final and afterwards, the whole gang of them gathered to bawdily remind the world that they were the "pride of South Australia."

We will probably come to know a number of them in the coming weeks. Initial impressions, though, suggested that none of them ever thought they were George Michael, that they would never quit a game for the sake of caution and that they would, given the chance, laugh in the face of NATO air strikes.