Lovely to see that a sensible, positive, rational, constructive debate on the shape of Irish sport, after events at Sydney, has erupted and that (even as we speak) all concerned are coming together in peaceful harmony, side by side on the piano keyboard, as one, resolute in their gritty determination that this mess will be sorted once and for all, that sport will be granted semi-serious status in this country and that Athens will be a roaring Ole Ole Ole success. The old ones are the best, eh?

"Nothing to do with me sunshine - it's all your fault." "Listen here, you over-paid prima donna - the Irish in Sydney were your responsibility so this is all down to you." "I think you should both resign, ye're as useless as each other." "Shut up, no one's talking to you or your shower." "Ooooh, sorry I spoke." "You should be - what have you ever done for Irish sport?" "More than you'll ever do, ya chancer - you'd win gold for wafflin', you jumped up toe rag." Punch. Splat. Gadunk. And that's just the sound of libel suits being slapped around the sporting place. The last refuge of they who know they could have done better. And should have.

Meanwhile. In a blankety blank sporting venue near you (one doesn't want to identify the sport largely because blankety blank says if she complains "they" will abandon her altogether), there's a young player getting on with her training, one who's still hardly able to contain her glee upon receiving a mammoth grant of £500 not all that long ago, a sum that was intended to finance her all-out assault on the world circuit, paying for her coaching, air fares (to Asia and South America, to name but two of the continents she needed to visit to play), hostel and cream cracker bills and purchase-of-equipment costs.

In the end the grant just about covered her annual bill for bus fares to Dublin Airport, so she had no option but to abandon her Olympic dream as an unaffordable bad job . . . even though those who know her sport said she had endless potential. But: those who know her sport also say those who don't know her sport, but have their paws on the purse strings of Irish sport, are a whole lot more interested in immediate a-sliver-of-chance medal prospects than Athens-and-beyond potential.

Back to that constructive debate. "Ya even brought your milkman with ya to Sydney, ye free-loadin' waster ya." "Tell you something, my milkman's left index finger knows more about Irish sport than your entire brain." "Well at least I have a brain, ya moron." "Repeat that in the open air and I'll sue ya for all ye're worth, ya low-life rat-bag ya." "Go on then, dare ya."

Meanwhile. A member of the Irish blankety blank team sends me an email and says: "D'you know what: I reckon Sydney will prove to be the greatest ever Olympics for Irish sport because it was so awful they'll have no choice now but to do something about it."

Like what, I ask? "Well, they can start putting a few bob into a few half decent facilities and start investing in kids with some promise, rather than blokes in their mid-30s who'll never rise above the B grade, no matter how hard they try."

But wait: isn't it the . . . cough . . . competing that . . . what's it they say . . . that matters? "B******t," she replies. "Everyone we sent to Sydney competed their hearts out and they came home to be told they were second raters. Trust me, if I had made it to Sydney - and I would have killed my Granny to get there - I would have run myself into the ground for my country, but that still wouldn't have been enough to get me within an asses' roar of the medals' rostrum. Fact, not defeatism. But would the lads who are now ripping each other to shreds have been waiting at Dublin Airport to thank me for my efforts?"

Mmm, no? "A big N.O. If they'd even set eyes on me they would have dismissed me as a loser. There'd have been no open-top bus rides for me and my team-mates, only our families would have given us a hug on our return because only our families would have known how much we'd have given up to even get there."

Back to that constructive debate. "Listen here you good-for-nothing nothing: I am Mr Irish Sport and I deserve respect, right? I am Mr Big and you are Mr Absolutely Nothin' - so show some deference or I'll see to it that you never get a junket again." "Mmm, seeing as you put it that way . . . how high would you like me to jump, oh Master?" "That's more like it . . . if you leap over two metres I'll see to it that you jump for Ireland in Athens." "Excuse me?"

"Yes?"

"Sorry for interrupting but I'm just a humble Irish athlete."

"A wha?"

"Yes, I know, you're not altogether familiar with my species. Just one question, though."

"Go on, loser."

"Thank you - who's the second rater 'round here?"

"I'll sue you for that."

"I was hoping you'd say that - see you in court, sunshine - and get yerself a good lawyer. Remember the charge: who gave up more of themselves, sacrificed the bulk of their lives for Irish sport - you or me?"

"Mmm, any chance of settling?"

"None whatsoever - second rater."