LockerRoom: Christmas is indeed a sad time - not just for those poor turkeys who think wattle is becoming on a life-partner, but also for those of us who are forced to write sports columns when nothing's on. Oh, desist screaming girlies! We are talking about those of us in the salt mines of the newspaper business who are forced to write sports columns when there is nothing on. Just because we appear to be the priapic sex gods of the back pages doesn't give you the right to objectify us. Some sensitivity please.

As those more understanding and compassionate Band Aid people have sung on their two, not dissimilar, records about our plight, do they know it's Christmas time at all? Well, in one way, Bob, the answer has to be no, we don't know it's Christmas, we're too busy scratching our heads and doing tequila slammers. But in another way it has to be yes, we do notice there is nothing on worth writing about. There is a famine of topics. We suspect everyone is doing something else and that nobody is interested in us. So tonight, as Bono asks, thank God it's us instead of you.

Set 'em up there, barkeep, and keep them set up.

This week's topic was going to be Celtic football club. We were going to bravely go where so many sports hacks have bravely gone before and suggest that in the era after the Leeds United Apocalypse there's very little point in Celtic fans whining about Martin O'Neill not being given sufficient money to compete at the top level in Europe.

Are ye mad? The SPL is a dreary, two-horse town in a country not renowned for being flaithiúlacht with the florins. The days when Celtic could win a European Cup with a team all of whom had red hair and were born in a shortcake and sporran factory just around the corner has long gone. It would take all the fried Mars bars in the world to attract an adequate number of quality players to Parkhead for a genuine European tilt. And if it didn't work first time? Huge wage bills + Puny SPL income = Voluntary redundancies. Soon Celtic would be forced into the hell that is endless meetings with Sebastien Sainsbury.

That was going to be the column, but unfortunately the expression of all thoughts on the matter used up only two paragraphs, and my offer of a seasonal pencil sketch to fill up the rest of the space was turned down by the crusty sports editor, fearing perhaps a withering caricature of himself killing a turkey which vaguely bore my features.

Southern Comfort, please. No, a pint of it.

We had a brief look at other column ideas. The two old standbys of recent times have been drawing increasingly petulant responses from Dublin Four types who view the paper as some sort of old media juke box where they personally select the tunes.

So, not being in the mood to tolerate such petulance, we decided to leave the crisis in the Dublin hurling team and the worrying state of camogie for another day. That's how stuffed with cheer and goodwill we are. Alroighty, you goys?

A friend/colleague gave me an idea about a column criticising the whole idea of Lions tours in the modern era. I like it. A new thought added to an old prejudice. The friend/colleague generously pointed out that with Northern Hemisphere world champions (Really? Who?), and with them Southern Hemisphere types coming here and us Northern Hem types going there all the time, well, the old idea of the Lions is a little dated.

I would add, too, that their shameful canoodling with white South Africa during the bad days should be appended to the charge list, but until said colleague gets back to me with more detail on his Lions weariness I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to give you more of my own views.

Give us some absinthe in a half-pint glass, will ya? And a splash of lime.

It's too early for those other standbys of the festive season. The wistful and allegedly slightly humorous look back on the year that was. Oh God. The bright-eyed anticipation of the exciting year that will be. (Slams double Jameson on table. Be honest, it's just the same as any other damn year; we know no more or no less about it.)

Controversy? A this point we put the bottle of vodka down on the pavement beside us and in a state of some excitement fished out the old mobile. Phoned Pat Hickey. Phoned John Bailey. Anything cooking? Any wars? Vendettas? Legals? Scandals? Rows? Back stabbings?

Nope, all quiet in the precincts tonight. Not even a hangnail, after a catfight.

There are two good ideas which we've been holding in reserve, but one of them doesn't spring to mind just now. The other is plagiarism. A while back we discovered Bert Randolph Sugar's fine book on the history of sports promotions in the US. Even the title is worth stealing: Hit the Sign and Win a Free Suit of Clothes from Harry Finklestein. The book is crammed with colourfully liftable anecdotes, and we have long intended the wholesale theft of these pearls. To begin with, the story of Richard Kyle Fox from Dublin who went to America, invented the sports section of newspapers and then made the jump into boxing promotions.

It's just that this morning we are filled with nothing but resentment towards the sheer unfillable acreage of sports sections.

Give us a brandy and port to settle the stomach there, will ya? And a blast of your best crack cocaine.

Scan the death pages. No major stars to be eulogised now that the full-time whistle has been blown on their epic lives. Damn. Go through old stats books. Drat. No significant events which occurred on this weekend five, 10, 15, 20 years ago.

The stats books don't deal with anything more.

What else? The Rule 42 craziness is in the wind again. Same old same old. Cavan or somebody pass a motion on the matter and the media get the idea into their heads that there is a huge groundswell, people on the streets, popular revolution.

Then when the business is voted down by the diehards everyone gets to act surprised.

Until there is a plebiscite of all clubs on the matter the argument over The Field will always be lost. Some of us would like the rent money. Others like the solitude. 2001 was the big chance and the Government blew it. Since then attitudes have hardened quicker than they would in a bad afternoon at Stormont. Unless Frank Murphy appears at Congress wearing an Irish soccer jersey, Rule 42 seems headed for more ugliness.

But listen, who has the appetite anymore? Pass me that dirty needle.

Then there's BALCO and Cian O'Connor and the persistent presence of John O'Donoghue.

Christmas is a sad time, but the New Year won't be much better.

Another shot there please. Yeah, yeah, the meths is fine, whatever.