I read the news today, oh Roy

HANKIES at the ready, everybody.

“Where were you when you heard the news?” reporter Graeme Anderson asked in yesterday’s edition of the Sunderland Echo. “Me? I was on a week’s holiday. The phone had not stopped ringing all week, even before yesterday’s announcement, and all hopes of getting away for at least a couple of days with our lass were dashed once Roy Keane resigned. I’ll try not to hold that against him. Our lass might.”

You might think I jest about those hankies but no, deep down, I feel Graeme’s pain. Not to mention our lass’s. We’ve all been there, us unsung footsoldiers of the inky trade, tortured, emaciated poor creatures desperately trying to fit a little R&R into our hectic schedule of matches, press conferences, think-pieces, injury updates, one-to-ones, training sessions and, if you’re an Irish football scribe, those always dependable examinership proceedings in the courts.

But no sooner have you fixed yourself a nice thimble of wild turkey and settled down to watch The Antiques Road Show than the phone starts ringing and, with a tightening around your heart, you hear the sombre voice of the Commander-in-Chief on the other end, saying: “Well, whaddya think of Roy Boy?”

Yes, we’ve all been there.

There was the day when, with just hours to go before Cork City hosted Derry City in the league decider at Turner’s Cross, the city’s most famous son chose that exact moment to reveal to the world that he was leaving Manchester United.

And there was the day during the 2006 World Cup finals in Germany when, with a rare hour to spare before catching a train, I was enjoying a coffee and a slice of cake in the summer sun hard by the Brandenburg Gate, when the hotline buzzed again, this time with the word that Keane was retiring from football altogether.

And then, barely two months later, and just when I was on the brink of achieving a lifetime’s ambition by summiting Mount Kilimanjaro, the satellite phone went into overdrive with the sensational news that Keano had fetched up with Quinny on Wearside and, with the top tantalisingly in sight, I was forced to about-turn, charge back down the mountain and catch the next available flight to Sunderland.

Well, okay, I made up the bit about Kilimanjaro, but you get the picture: Keano The Unpredictable has made our lives so hellishly complicated that, frankly, we’re glad to see the back of him. At long last, we might finally get a little bit of peace and quiet. Good riddance Roy!

(Five minutes later).

Come back Roy! I mean, bloody hell, what are we going to write about now?

Used to be that when – sorry, I mean, if — you found yourself bereft of inspiration on a Friday, all you had to do was check out Keane’s latest weekly press conference and – hey presto! — you had all the raw material you needed for a considered ‘think piece’ on subjects as entertainingly diverse as shopping, time-keeping or the limited footballing potential of the fish in the North Sea.

WHAT’S not to like? Unless, of course, you’re the Dunph, in which case you somehow maintain a poker face while accusing Keano of being too willing to shoot his mouth off on any subject under the sun. But no problem there, either. Just lash out a 900 word essay entitled Mr Pot meets Mr Kettle and you could still be back at home in time for Countdown.

And now? I fish around for some juicy material from Thursday’s round of Premiership pressers and, for all the success I’m having, I might as well be trying to turn a haddock into Ronaldo. Let’s see, there’s Fergie, Incey, Brucey, Hughesy, um, Southgatey and they’re all saying, well, that it’s shock/surprise/pity that Keano has gone but they have no doubt that he’ll be back soon/soonish/whenever. And then it’s on to so and so is suffering from a tender groin and, yes, we’re expecting a tough game on Saturday but it’s still far too early in the season to call it a six-pointer and, no, I’m not feeling under any pressure, I’ve always had this twitch.

So who do we turn to now? Never mind Tommie Gorman and the poor little children. It’s alright for them, they still have a red and white man with a beard to write to for assistance. He’ll fill their stockings but who’s going to fill our white space? They can go to Lapland but our laptops are going to hell. Feed the world? Grand. But, rather more urgently, who’ll feed the word to us?

So at time of year when we’re all supposed to think of those less well-off than ourselves, I’m forced to ask on behalf of all the hard-pressed hacks: does Roy know it’s Christmas time at all?