HAVE you been watching Dennis Potter's parting shots over the last few weeks, Karaoke and Cold Lazarus? Albert Finney plays Daniel Feeld, a television playwright who, in Karaoke, finds his most recent production being acted out in real life. He imagines people are speaking his lines, characters who he believes he has invented stalk the streets bent on murder.

He also discovers he's dying of cancer and arranges to have his head put into the cryogenic deep freeze. Fade 400 years into the future to Cold Lazarus, where scientists in your standard, dark, rain-filled police state have learned how to resurrect Feeld's memories, and 20th century murder leads to a 24th century replica. Memory becomes reality, and reality just doesn't know where to stop. Can memory be trusted? When is now?

Time is displaced. After a ridiculously heavy weekend of sport in the media, I know how Feeld felt. As Dame Edna would have it, it's all a bit spooky.

It started Saturday morning. On the Beeb, India were being skittled out for 36 for 4; on Five Live, Wales were being murdered by Australia; and on Ceefax the Irish challenge in the English Open was coming unstuck.

Queue the Angelus, and spooky time begins. I'm watching Network2 with the sound down, listening to Five Live. And there, on the screen, is the familiar memory of Geoff Hurst bearing down on the German goal; and from the stereo it comes, in utter synchronicity: Kenneth Wolstenholme says there are people on the pitch, Hurst pushes the ball forward, Ken says, "they think it's all over," Hurst rifles the ball into the roof of the net, "it is now," says Ken.

All over?. I'm afraid it's just beginning. Spooky.

Back on Sports Stadium, Tracey Piggott finds herself interviewing the Da. What's more, she makes out like she can understand what he's saying. I can't make head nor tails of him. But judging from Tracey's interpretation, I can only guess she's been engaged to marry a horse called Shaamit.

But all is revealed soon enough, for suddenly there is Lester, now in top hat and tails, being interviewed over on Channel 4. How does it feel to be down the Downs but not ridding?

"Mmbbl bblsse ppftt," Lester says.

"I'm sure you are. What do you think of the son-in-law's chances?" "Bbllrp ssmmtty hhhnserst."

"Do you? And if you could ride any horse in the field, who would you choose?"

"Brirpl."

"Shaamit, yeah?"

"Yes."

And John Francome summed it up perfectly: it was enough to make you reach for your wallet.

When is now? Peter Collins comes on screen to inform us that Darren Clarke and Paul McGinley, the only, Irishmen to make the cut, are nevertheless doing well in the third round of the German Open. But... Wasn't that . . . I check the paper: yes, they made the cut alright, but even as Peter speaks they're off playing golf in the Forest of Arden. In England. Spooky.

Another reason to rush to the bookies: a double on Shaamit and Frank Nobilo for the German Open.

Can memories be trusted?. At long last, over on the Beeb, Euro `96 arrives. Or is it 1966? Blissfully impoverished urchins play football on the wet, black-and-white cobbled lanes (b'side pit, no doubt). Or do they? Suddenly the images are colour, though the childers are no less blissful (but a lot less impoverished. You know what it costs to get into Old Trafford?). Wholesome nostalgia. Hooligans Need Not Apply.

On ITV, Bobby Moore says "I'm over the world." The world? That's not how I remember it, Brian.

More memories. England greats are introduced to do battle with their sepia images, including that Ireland great, Jack Charlton, who's popped down from the commentary box.

Red Devils descend trailing national flags, and the wholesome England supporters roundly boo the Scottish and French symbols. Croatia makes the best landing. An omen for the tournament?

Dissolve to RTE for the football and Bill O'Herlihy being his solid self in the middle of a set they've nicked from Deep Space Nice.

Let the games begin! But, but George Hamilton, he's speaking my lines. Ince pushes the ball forward, and I say, "he's shown too much of that to the keeper." And then George says, "he's shown too much..." The ball flashes past the post. "That wasn't very far away," I say.

And George? Spooky.

But Bill is real. And succinct: "One of the worse games ever imagined."

But things are quickly restored to the unreal. A man named Frank, wearing a log on his head, is talking to another man who is David O'Leary and Trevor Brooking. David is explaining that in the off season footballers are busy working for charities and other fine causes. The man with the log gives an example: The Alan Kernaghan Not As Bad As We Thought Awareness Campaign.

In cold Lazarus, there is a subversive group called the RON (Reality Or Nothing). I'll bet they've banned television.