As befits any ace tipster, you have chosen the wettest August bank holiday since the big bang to take some time off. You can't, however, get away from it completely and so there you are, at 2.30 in the afternoon, seeking out the local knowledge, finding some guy who has ears and knows what's what.

Where might one view the "entertainment", in an "emporium of libation" with "a slow clock"? Countering the informant's sly show of bafflement by slipping him a few "crisp scores", you follow the directions across the road, through the curtains of a biblical downpour to the local saloon bar.

You'd never have guessed it was a licensed premises because, 30 minutes after the law requires its closure, aside from there being enough vehicles to fill a multi-storey carpark all piled up on surrounding ditches, there is what looks like some kind of Ellis Island pageant going on around the front door.

Huddled masses congregate at the entrance, men, women and children yearning to be dry (albeit not in every sense). One part of the premises is a big barn, shovelling out sausages, chips and beans and the other is a steaming, smoke-filled bar dominated by a large television screen.

Never mind for a moment the activity of the Kildare and Meath teams (or their steadily decreasing numbers) and its appeal to the football follower. Here is rich territory for the sociologist and anthropologist.

Amongst the tightly packed clientele, there are some standing up, or with useful barstool vantage points, but rapt with attention.

Others are less moved and inhabit the peripheral tables, indifferent to how much, if any, of the match they see.

The jersey count favours, as it usually does, the soccer fraternity. Liverpool and Manchester United (including derivatives such as ["]10 Beckham" and "There's only one Keano") proliferate but with the GAA catching up in these matters, a few dazzling white Kildare shirts can be seen.

There is also a variety of humanity. Northern accents are to be heard in profusion with good competition from Dubliners'. This is excellent news for the authenticity-seeking reporter because it means that there will be many examples of "oul' Dub wit" to pad out the article.

Whether it's "oul' Dub wits" or "oul' witless Dubs", few supporters get as carried away by the enthusiasms of the hour as the ODW.

(Not just in sport, of course. A conversation back in the early 1980s with one of Mr Haughey's ODW devotees dwelt - mercifully briefly - on whether some item of public expenditure was part of the capital estimates or current spending.

This was the heyday of the acclaimed fiscal policy of photocopying fivers and the ODW killed off the conversation by pointing out that it wouldn't matter "once the oil comes in" and adding belligerently under the pressure of several quizzical looks: "Sure it has to come in".)

In sporting terms, Dublin sides that are the "best since the seventies" after thrashing some hapless collective become "the worst ever" when they lose on first exposure to decent opposition.

During the 1987 NFL final, one ODW on the Canal End (obviously released by the Hill on missionary work) became so carried away by Dublin's brisk start that he was emboldened to analyse the inevitability of it all. "The young lions," he cawed exultantly.

"Them Kerry fellas are too old for the young lions. Come on ye young lions."

By the second half, the young lions were within Kerry's sights.

"The cold hand of experience. It's the cold hand of experience that's going to win this." Inevitably, the young lions shook off the cold hand of experience and the drained ODW spared everyone further analysis.

ANYWAY, back in the pub: as a reporter, you feel an irrational urge to keep track of the scores. "Hee, hee. Never trust a fella taking notes. Hee, hee" says the first ODW to surface. Endowed with sub-Wildean responses, you reply "Oh, now" or scowl as if you're taking note of the number on the premises.

As the tempo of the match rises, the crowd becomes more animated. The first half had been low-key, with groans of resignation greeting Davy Dalton's dismissal but, interestingly, few complaints.

Ditto the double sending-off of Brian Murphy and Meath's Mark O'Reilly (previously captioned Martin Ryan by RTE). Kildare's brief revival and Meath's emphatic response leave the second half verging on the status of a formality.

This pessimistic view is quickly mitigated with the penalty award and the first cries of "Come on the Lilywhites" ring out. It is quickly followed by agitated analysis of Eddie McCormick's attempt: "Worst ever" is the most representative.

Great harooing follows the disallowed goal by Martin Lynch until the realisation dawns that the scoreboard at the top of the screen hasn't changed. Spirits are quickly restored by the dismissal of Darren Fay but jubilation is again short-lived as Ollie Murphy stabs in what is ultimately the decisive goal.

Already, post-mortems are beginning - an ideal stage for ODWs. "Ah, the referee ruined that game with all the sending-offs. Ruined it," according to one ODW. "Jaysus, take your points. No use. They're not taking their points," he explains wearily. Within a couple of minutes, Declan Kerrigan scores a goal for Kildare.

You decide to buy more drink. It looks like extra-time (yes it did - for a while anyway). Instead it all fizzles away from Kildare to the great despondency of nearly all present.

There follows a cultural change. An outcry goes up that the station be changed so that all present can see the second half of the Manchester United-Chelsea Charity Shield match at Wembley. This seems to rule out the Connacht final and before nipping back to the house where terrestrial television ensures the supremacy of the Gael, the recently bought drink must be finished.

Moving over to a recently vacated table, you can view the new shift of spectators because although some remain in position for both, there is quite a turnover. You don't have to be an anti-soccer zealot to prefer a Connacht final to the Charity Shield: imagine suggesting that an FA Cup sixth-round be switched over to an O'Byrne Cup final.

Maybe you do have to be an anti-soccer zealot to make unfavourable comparisons between the spectators watching the respective games. But then again, maybe not. Harmless it may be but it's also highly irritating to watch fingers being jabbed in the air, arms aloft and oafish chants breaking out.

Ahh. All this rain makes you cranky. The sooner the holidays end, the better - the sooner to get back to the elegant repartee of the press box.