Poor auld Murray Walker. He'd already had a trying time during the French Grand Prix, partly because he'd struggled to tell one Ferrari from the other for much of the race (even though there were usually six or seven cars between them, at least). ("Oh my Gawwwd! Loooook at Eddie Irvine! Caaarving his way through the field! He's right behind Barrichello nooow! Whaaaat a DRIVE!" "That's Schumacher, Murray - Irvine's back in 11th," whispered Martin Brundle. "Of course! My apologies!").

But then the race was over, Murray had made it to the chequered flag. Admittedly, he only had a dribble of fuel left in his tank and had needed the help of a safety car in the middle section of the race to get him to the end (it gave him time to have his gears checked out in the ITV pits). But he'd made it. The race was over. Now he was in a gaffe-free zone. Hmm.

Cue Murray. "And now the British national anthem will sound out for the winning constructor . . . JORDAN!"

Murray and Eddie Jordan cleared their throats. Cue tape. Drum roll. "God save our graaaaacious Queen . . .," Murray probably sang, tearfully, in the commentary box, but the tune didn't fit. "Sinn-ne Fianna Fail, ata fe geall ag Eireann. Buoin dar slua ...," sang Eddie on the podium, and the tune fitted snug as a bug.

"Eh?," Murray probably said to himself. If he'd been a contestant on Name that Tune he'd have been eliminated in the first round.

Meanwhile, over on RTE. "They finally got it right," said a chuffed Peter Collins, still hurting from the day, last August, when the Belgians failed to find a copy of Amhran na bhFiann in their record collection, after Damon Hill had won Jordan's first ever Grand Prix. So they played God Save the Queen instead. The 12-inch version too, just to rub salt in to the wounds of a livid Eddie and a gutted Peter.

So, no wonder Murray was confused. "Seo libh canaig aaaain amhraaaain na bhFiaaaaaAAANNNN," sang Eddie, before he bear-hugged Heinz-Harald Frentzen and snogged Michael Douglas (no, I don't know what he was doing there either).

"I grovel and apologise to everyone in the Republic of Ireland and the team of Jordan. My sincere apologies," grovelled Murray, apologetically.

"Eddie Jordan nearly in tears there as he sings the words he knows so well," he added, trying desperately to make amends for him single-handedly destroying Anglo-Irish relations in one fell Murray-esque swoop. Just when we thought 800 years of oppression was over Murray had to encourage God to save the Queen, graciously, to the tune of . . . The Soldier's Song. There's only so much a nation can take.

Eddie might know the words to Amhran na bhFiann well, but Murray certainly doesn't. "Who's Bween Den Slew when he's at home," he probably wondered. "Is he a Dutch driver, and is he replacing Damon "where's me throttle" Hill for the next Grand Prix?"

He could well be, and according to RTE's David Kennedy the British press won't exactly mourn Damo's passing from the world of Formula One. "I was talking to one English writer yesterday and he said Damon's first name should be changed to `Over the'," said David.

It seems they've never quite taken Damo seriously as a driver simply because he was his father's son, which begs the question: who else's son could he have been? And did his winning of the drivers' championship a couple of years ago not sway even his most cynical detractors? Apparently not. So, be warned Tim Henman: lose to Jim Courier today and the carving knives will be out for you too, amongst your own media. They're already out in some circles, though.

"Tim Henman talks like a prat, quite frankly," said Arthur Scargill on BBC1's Question Time last week. It seems that Arthur, who was commenting on Henman's claim that women tennis players were just being greedy looking for equal prize money at Wimbledon, loves England's number one almost as much as he loves New Labour. And that's about this much: tips of thumb and forefinger tightly squeezed together.

More surprisingly Nicolas Soames, a big, round Tory, not known for agreeing with former miners' strike leaders, echoed these sentiments: "I quite agree with Arthur - Tim Henman is a most accomplished tennis player . . . but I think he WAS a prat to say what he said, it was an asinine remark."

So, the asinine prat takes on Courier today, with most, but certainly not all, of his country behind him. Courier, though, has his own problems. "I'm VERY angry about it," he told the BBC's Sue Barker, after intravenous fluids were not available to him at Wimbledon, after he came off court dehydrated on Friday following his four-hour epic win over Dutchman Sjeng Schalken.

"Does he not realise there's a six-month waiting list for intravenous drips in this country," asked Howard Jacobsen, a panellist on Channel Four's The Sundays on Saturday night. "Anyway, the Wimbledon doctor probably wanted him still dehydrated by the time he plays our Timmy."

Jim probably suspected as much. Whatever, he wasn't happy about the Wimbledon doctor's apparent lack of interest in his post-match suffering. "Sitting down when you're cramping is the worst thing you can do, you need to be moving. If you stop moving all your muscles just lock up and it's like you're in labour if you're a woman," he said. "How do you know what it's like to be a woman in labour," we telly viewers asked, but he didn't answer.

But if Jim thought he had problems he should talk to the BBC's tennis commentator Julian Tutt, who, it would seem, learnt his trade at the Murray Walker School of Putting Your Foot In It. "She's staying in a cheap bordello down the road," he said, while commentating on Hingis-conqueror Jelena Dokic's second round match.

Bordello? Isn't the strict definition for that word "brothel"? Mmm. (BBC lawyers sweating heavily). Yoo, hoo, Julian? (Moments later).

"Let me make an apology for a comment I made earlier. It was intended as a light-hearted comment about Dokic's accommodation. She is staying in what I'm sure is a very nice place . . . it was not intended in any way to be a reflection, or a derogatory comment, on the establishment." Blush.

Poor Julian. But as Murray would probably tell him, it's not easy telling a brothel from a Ferrari, or Amhran na bhFiann from God Save the Queen. It's an easy mistake to make. Well, easy-ish.