“‘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.

I nurse a clandestine habit that has driven me to the coldest and darkest corners of society.

Tonight the Airtricity League kicks off after a 12-round close-season that left even Roddy ‘Queensbury Rules’ Collins punch-drunk. After all the off-field attrition – though the battle scars are yet to heal – a football match will break out.

God knows our little-stitious rugby stars may need every bit of luck we can rub together, deep behind enemy lines

WHAT do you ask the man who has won everything? Phil Taylor, a middle-aged darts player from the middle of England might not look it — and he doesn’t — but after 13 world titles, he walks with sporting giants.