Pat Spillane was beginning to panic. Here was Gay about to send the Irish nation off to bed without so much as a mention of the evening's main business. Nothing like a bit of Kerry neck to save day. With a slight cough and an easy shift, he halted Gaybo's farewell and smoothly reminded everybody that he had a new book out, Shooting from the Hip.
Pat is one of the few TV analysts who can manage to combine the blunt and the barbed in one sentence and, as Gay cheerfully pointed out, his post-match comments have been known to provoke bloodthirsty, impassioned orations from otherwise stoic, deep-drinking men in obscure watering holes across Ireland.
Pat is nothing if not forthright and not content with airing his no-nonsense views on the airwaves, he has now committed his theories to print. Now, the thing about Pat is regardless of how many times he has carelessly dismissed your county's claims to footballing decency, no matter how vehemently he rubbishes the midfield pairing you have been nurturing from the stands for the past five years, he is a bit of a gas.
Gets things going. So it was on the Late Late when he and Gay, donning his sporting cap, expounded on all class of subject, provided (sadly) it was related to Gaelic.
Professionalism was tossed into the arena at one stage. Using the Galway team as a case study, Pat noted that once they had got their medals and the bite of chicken the day after, there was nothing more tangible to look forward to than yet "another piss-up". (Sounds like most folks' stories, except for the medal part).
He argued that the players needed more substantial rewards and that today's icons needed to be surrounded with the accoutrements and trappings similar to those enjoyed by more global sporting icons. He even went so far as to paint the picture, envisaging entire inter-county half-back lines tango-ing around "Lillies bor-dillo, with liggy blondes and Ferrari's" in tow.
All very well, but it might have led to fierce dance floor scraps between ourselves and the Aussie lads last week. Pat felt that the sight of the trusty free-taker or the long-serving utility man arriving for Sunday Mass in the Ferrari, striding up the aisle with (presumably just one) liggy blonde beside him, would make Irish youngsters aspire to emulate such a figure.
It was a concept which will undoubtedly strike fear into the hearts of most county board men, who are reluctant enough to sanction the purchase of new nets and flags without agreeing to get into the sports car business. And should the women footballers of this country adopt a similar style in order to encourage the game's growth?
It's a damnably tricky can of worms, but one suspects that if todays Gaelic stars want to buy into youth appeal, they might as well start wearing shades and somehow conspire to appear on Jools Holland. Or to simply continue playing football. But Spillane did stress that the demands on inter-county players were becoming untenable and that they needed financial recompense. It is a view that should be aired more often.
He also recounted his own playing days, recalling that after they won All-Irelands, they often went off on holidays, paid for through fundraising efforts. The year they went for the five in a row, Bali was the planned destination (they seem to have pretty exotic piss-ups down in Kerry). Offaly duly sunk them and as the team made their way home, someone observed that "the only Bali they'd be seeing was Ballyfeckin'-bunion".
Across the water, the Martin O'Neill and Leeds saga gained further momentum. Leicester cropped up on Sky Sports on Monday night and duly silenced Spurs with a typically gutsy performance. Afterwards, Martin, edgier than ever, offered terse salutes to the crowd. Then he reminisced on his early days at the club, when the crowd were baying for his blood after yet another defeat.
"I don't remember it too clearly but it was March 13th, 1996. I've still got the calls on tape," he said. By Saturday, his recollection was no more rose-tinted. "The crowd were hostile," he recalled glumly before brightening up at the thought of his new contract, which, not surprisingly, was "very attractive."
On the field, the exploits of England's latest great white hope, Michael Owen, were greeted by every possible salute save a live televised message from the Queen. "And Michael Owen proves his fitness by scoring four," rang the headline on the ITN news. On both the domestic and satellite channels, they spent Saturday evening debating the wisdom of resting Owen for fear of burnout, as Liverpool have been doing.
"It's at our cost, he doesn't sit out England games," reasoned joint manager Roy Evans. "It's debatable," offered the man himself when asked abut the policy.
Meanwhile, the pundits gave their view of his play on evening Premiership review shows. "'Triffic lad," nodded Eamon Dunphy. "The only thing he guarantees you is a P45," quipped Mark Lawrenson. "He'll be one of the all-time greats," predicted Liam Brady. Talk about shooting from the hip.
