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Talking Balls has had a traumatic and busy week of it. It started with one of the feral youngsters we have runnin about the house bustin’ the brand new 37 inch LCD Toshiba television. It was a small one with corn blond hair and a sweet smile. Lethal shot with a Hotwheels car she is for all her cuteness whatever her name.

In the house of the blind the small portable from upstairs is king. While we waited, and waited, and waited that is, on the good people from Legal and General to decide whether we were insured or not, before confirming that we were but liberally bogging the arm in with an excessive excess claim. F**k them the hoors, the TV’s still not fixed or replaced.

It was followed in rapid succession by a broken car door, broken car window and, in perhaps the final indication that the feral children are winning the war, the door fell off the tumble drier. The metal sorta groaned, buckled and the door fell off on the ground. Gave up the ghost or what. (Dried knicker fatigue I’d say. I read somewhere that thongs are more environmentally friendly as they use less water to wash and less electricity to dry, not like the big drawers ye see about our house.) I digress.

At this point, severe marital discord was in the air. Did we need a new Flatscreen TV or a new tumble dryer. A no-brainer for Talking Balls but Mrs Balls was torn between the Hobsons choice of no Desperate Housewives and Grey’s Anatomy in glorious HD, or no tumble dried smalls. Sure what would ye do? Get away te f**k offside is the only answer.

Well, TB headed for Croker to watch the All Ireland club finals. After a week of tossing and turning, insomnia and the likes, Portumna, De La Salle, Cross and Crokes would be the perfect antidote. Liberally helped of course by a decent charge of stout to wash away the iniquity of the previous week and the austerity of Lent.

I must have dozed off before the Portumna match, for I dreamt that De La Salle were bate by near twenty; I dreamt that there was a fella walking about Croke Park with a washing machine or tumble dryer on his back looking for me. Another lad had a flat screen telly on his back, I could have it for £150 excess there and then. Must be from Legal and General, I thought to meself in my sleep. Next some hoor comes walking by with an upside down cow – the udders must have been silicon on her as they stuck straight up and out like Pamela Anderson’s do (or so I’m told). Some other bollix had a bookshelf and another lad what looked like a tractor. The next thing I dreamt, in the football match Kilmacud Crokes beat Cross by five.

I woke up with a start. . . Croker was dark and empty. Everyone was gone home. I hastily looked back to see if there were any more fellas with cows on their backs and then reminded meself ‘Sure it’s only a bad dream.’

In the taxi back to Connolly I asked the Lithuanian taximan if he knew the score: Sez he: ‘Portuman, bate ze deezies by nineteen and Croke beat the Rangers of Cross by five.’

‘Feck me,’ sez I to meself, ‘it wasn’t a dream. Well at least the bit about the fellas with cows and TV’s on their backs musta been.’