PLEASE mind your toes, reader; there’s quite a big name about to be dropped in a second or two.

IF YOU were shaken from your slumber early last Friday morning by the walls rattling and the sound of a distant crash, it was probably just a giant falling to earth in a land far, far away.

The hurley snaps. (It reminds me of tent poles I’ve seen halved by falling fat guys, late at night, after the music has long ended at a festival). But the special spine holds it together safely.

WAYNE GRETZKY, I’m sure, could well swing a hurley if you pressed one into his hand. But I don’t know if ice hockey’s Ringy has any interest in Gaelic Games.

“‘CHAPTER ONE. He adored New York City. He idolised it all out of proportion... no, make that: he – he romanticised it all out of proportion. Yes. To him, no matter what the season was, this was still a town that existed in black and white and pulsated to the great tunes of George Gershwin.’ No, no, corny, too corny for a man of my taste. Can we... can we try and make it more profound?” – Woody Allen, Manhattan.

YOU climb out of bed in the morning to survey the trail of destruction already zig-zagging to the half-open front door. You summon the courage to slowly peel open another credit card bill.

GO TO your local bookstore. Beat the familiar path past the graphic novels, travel guides and cooking manuals to the sports section. Trace your finger along the shelf’s edge until you alight at the Js. There, with a bit of luck, you’ll find BS Johnson’s The Unfortunates.

ISN’T it funny how often, a seemingly innocuous trigger like the distinctive scent of drying paint will, without warning, jerk you back to a certain time and place.

IN my three weeks travelling throughout Germany for this newspaper during the World Cup almost four years ago, I met a kaleidoscope of interesting characters.

PETE SAMPRAS. Andre Agassi. Andre Agassi. Pete Sampras.