Filthy lucre informed much of the debate on Irish television this week. On The Premiership, Messrs Dunphy and Giles were advocating the immediate elevation of David Beckham's basic rate to the weekly £100,000 plus that the player, with true L'Oreal conviction, reckons he is worth.

"I think he should ask for £200,000 a week if he can get it," said Gilesy in a breezy tone designed, it seemed, to prick Bill O'Herlihy's more puritan soul. The amicable presenter weighed in with the eminently sensible proposition that the inflated wages cross-sea players can demand is little short of sinful.

"What about this notion of anarchy in the game?" he demanded.

The idea that there is still enough life left in the air-conditioned and anodyne environment of the English Premiership to encourage anarchy is, frankly, delicious, but Eamon Dunphy, who has made such Bolshie rhetoric the preserve of his radio show, balked at the question.

Over-wrought and emotional after yet another week of crusading against Ireland's blackguards and crooks and chancers, of chasing and head-hunting them over the airwaves, he switched into trenchant The Last Word mode.

"Why is it indecent that Roy Keane gets that sort of money instead of Arnie Schwarzeneger?" he demanded, immediately alienating himself from the large minority who can quote liberally from Arnie classics such as Terminator.

"Or a baseball player," pitched in Gilesy.

The floodgates opened and Bill all but cowered for cover as rezoning, Irish banking irregularities and scheming politicians were hurled at him as more appropriate examples of what represents the morally indecent. At this point, there was only one logical thing to do. Abandon the rest of the football highlights and let the three of them go at it. Eamo had either a glass of Merlot or Ribena in front of him. As a nation, we hoped that they'd haul out the rest of the booze and have a good old Clare McKeon-style chin-wag.

The Manchester United match had already been shown, hence 95 per cent of this country's footie fans would have been sated. The first rule of television: never abandon a good debate to show highlights of Leicester FC. Or if it's not, then it ought to be.

For a brief instant, the infinite potential of The Premiership was illuminated. It ought to be given a roving brief, with the match highlights included only as fillers between the various topics of discourse. Gilesy on the Bush inauguration, Ray Houghton on Dublin's cafe society, Dunphy on 20th century poetry . . . anything. Just let them yarn on and watch them blow Questions and Answers out of the water. But Billo, a true pro' to the last, steered the orators back to the always disappointing confines of English soccer and The Premier- ship became a sports show again.

However, it was a week when the lines between sport and current affairs were blurred anyway. The good people at Prime Time deemed it appropriate to focus their energies on the national stadium debacle that has been bubbling merrily for well over a year. The stand-off between the FAI's Bernard O'Byrne and the FF's Bertie Ahern was presented, in worryingly salacious terms, as a clash between "two extraordinarily driven men".

"Has ego replaced logic in this one billion pound battle of wills?" was the central question, delivered with so much testosterone that one half-expected Arnie himself to burst onto the screen, gun-toting and promising blood.

But given the programme had to examine the viewpoints of the GAA, the IRFU and the FAI, it was inevitable there would be a surplus of testosterone. Boys, at the end of the day, will be multimillion pound stadium developers.

The facts were presented in no uncertain terms. To Nessun Dorma, we were shown slow-motion highlights of Packie Bonner saving Daneil Timofte's penalty in the 1990 World Cup. "Some of the happiest memories of the late 80s and early 90s were of the Irish soccer team," we were told.

This was a frankly depressing revelation, not least because it was probably true. Those glory days formed the basis for the FAI's ambition, spearheaded by the burly Bernard O'Byrne, to deliver a £65 million shrine, a home for Irish soccer.

There were two snags. Brendan Menton, the FAI's honorary treasurer, discovered that £65 million was, in fact, £90 million, and that much of the projected finance was little more than pie in the sky. An independent expert employed by Prime Time reckoned the Eircom Park plan was "driven by the heart and not the head".

But isn't that the very principle upon which the Ole Ole days were founded? Weren't all the Big Jack glory days driven utterly and blindly by the heart? It's worth considering.

The second problem was that, like all great visionaries, Bertie Ahern also had a dream. He too saw a stadium, but one conceived, to a large extent, in his likeness. The projected expenditure on the national stadium was £230 million. This, however, soon leaped to £281 million. This rise was, explained An Taoiseach, due to "udder elements".

These included the construction of a "centre of sports excellence", which would be ideal for those off days when Ireland wasn't hosting European Cup finals and the World athletics championships and the like. Anyway, Prime Time concluded that the Government project could cost anything up to £750 million.

It was all too much, particularly in a week when the incoming leader of the western world raised his trouser-leg to reveal a cowboy boot branded with the US seal of office. We live in truly bewildering times. We should all be getting £100,000 a week, just in compensation.