Money can't buy happiness but it could get you a defence

TV View: It's probably inevitable that that Euro lottery-winning Limerick woman is going to be inundated now with begging letters, seeing as she has €115 million going spare. Letters like: "Dear Mrs McNamara, my name's Gordon, I have a wee problem. Actually, I have four wee problems and I need to replace them very quickly with a new defence. Would there be any chance . . ."

It struck us on Saturday that when Setanta opened for business in Ireland they were probably inundated themselves with calls from euphoric Celtic fans asking how they could tune in to the channel and its extensive coverage of Scottish football.

You'd have to suppose, after the week that was in it, the channel's technical helpline was besieged again with calls from the same fans, this time asking how they could un-tune Setanta from their tellies in such a way that it would never darken their screens again.

Not that it's Setanta's fault that Celtic conceded nine goals in the two games they showed live last week, nor indeed that Rangers supporters have taken to calling it The Comedy Channel. It's just that Celtic fans probably don't want to see it all happening live in their sitting-rooms any more. It's bad enough on Teletext.

After conceding five to Artmedia Bratislava on Wednesday, it couldn't get worse, could it? Well . . .

Mother Well, to be precise. 3-1 up, 4-3 down, like you do, if you're Celtic. But they equalised, the game finished 4-4 and commentator Jock Brown hardly lifted spirits by declaring: "What a start to the SPL season, it won't get much better than this, I can assure you."

It's precisely that fear that has them un-tuning Setanta from their tellies, Jock.

What Celtic could really do with is a boy wonder coming through the ranks, a baby genius who would raise flagging spirits. Someone like Reece Campbell-Murphy. Except he plays golf.

"What made you want to take up the game?" asked the Sky News reporter in Dunfermline on Saturday.

"Tiger," said Reece.

"Do you think you'll be as good as Tiger?"

"No - I'm gonna beat him."

"What do you like best about golf?"

"Eh, chippin' and getting hole-in-ones and getting in the bunker and stuff."

Reece's father, Steven, seems - how do we put this delicately? - rather eager for his son to develop in to a golfing legend, and, so, a bulky chunk of his life is spent on the golf course.

"The future's going to be immense, not just for Reece but for the world to see Reece," he said.

Reece, you really should know, is five years old. His Dad even has him decked out in one of those diamondy golfy jumper things, so it's likely that no one will sit beside him in school.

Reporter: "I hear you even dream about golf?"

Reece: "Hmm, hmm. I play golf EV-ER-Y day."

Dad: "And how often do we practise?"

Reece: "EV-ER-Y day."

Dad beamed. "I've never pushed him, he's pulling me," he said, "just to be in his presence is a gift for me."

Indeed. We'll give it six months before Dad has to have Reece's sandwedge surgically removed from his nether regions, his young son bounding to freedom, swapping his diamondy golfy jumper for a Bob the Builder T-shirt, joining his pals to kick footballs through the panes of the neighbours' glasshouses. Normal stuff. Run Reece, run.

We aren't, of course, alleging that Reece is being forced to play golf, but we're very definitely claiming that the runners in Saturday night's Champion Stakes at Shelbourne Park were not willing participants: all of them, we noted, had their back legs lifted so that they could be slid into the traps.

We mention this only because it came to mind during yesterday's hurling quarter-final between Kilkenny and Limerick. Half-time. "It's like being at a tragic funeral where you don't know what to say to the bereaved," said Michael Lyster of Limerick's first-half non-performance, while Tomás Mulcahy, admiring The Bridies' half-time jigging and bopping on the halfway line, noted that they were providing "more movement in the centre of the field than there was in all of the first half".

But at half-time Limerick evidently had their back legs lifted so they could be slid into the traps, and off they went. Like greyhounds pursuing Kilkenny's lead. They came close, but never quite caught up.

The only blip in Limerick woman Mrs McNamara's otherwise rather agreeable weekend. Although she probably missed the game, busy off shopping to replace Gordon's four wee problems.