I have the misfortune of sharing an all-too-tiny office space with two Gooners. One wears his jeans much too far north of his bellybutton for anyone’s liking, and the other has all that smug false modesty that all Kerrymen seem to inherit somewhere along the way.

What they have in common is an unerring ability to reflect the characteristics of their team; both are full of arrogance, verve, intelligence and big words, but humility, rationality and the ability to GET TO THE FUCKING POINT are not among their strengths.

Byrne's Swansea Haka wasn't as impressive as he'd hoped

Which is a bit like life imitating art, really; these insufferable mugs crank up the telly to the max whenever Arsene Wenger’s ridiculous pointy face appears on Sky Sports, as if God himself has come to deliver a personal diktat.

This week has therefore been particularly bad, mainly due to Nicklas Bendtner deciding sometime at the start of the week that he can, indeed, locate both the cow’s arse and the banjo.

Against Burnley last weekend, he was about as useful in front of goal as a burly Saint Bernard; by midweek, he was stroking in a hat-trick to down Porto, and the headlines screamed Saint Nick.

Of course, our two heroes were climbing all over themselves on Monday morning to dig the grave of “that pink-booted Danish ponce”, only to be struggling to remove their tongues from his proverbial arsehole 48 hours later.

This is all after we’ve had to have the endure the “is football a contact sport” debate after Aaron Ramsey was practically cut in half by Ryan “Don’t Cry For Me, Martin Taylor” Shawcross.

Horrified and all as we were for young Ramsey, the pointless diatribe that followed – even the likely lads on Off The Ball got shirty with each other over it – just made us yearn for a game where everyone isn’t a massive pussy.

Which is where, stereotypically, we’d like to turn to rugby. However, another bunch of fancy dans who don’t like it up ‘em (a homosexually-tinged paradox if ever I heard one) were in town this weekend, with Wales taking on Ireland, so there was no escape.

Even without Gavin Henson – who, we presume, is still sulking because Charlotte’s arse isn’t quite as firm as it once was – the Welsh are still more Sweet Valley High than Valley Boys. Note to Lee Byrne and James Hook: New York called, and it wants its metro back.

Missing is their one bastion of something resembling masculinity (well, before he decided to chop those caveman locks), Andy Powell, who has paid the ultimate price for being a player of the wrong sport at the wrong time, as the rugger alickadoos cried foul at his boozy antics.

Bendtner failed to grasp the Tramp Stamp phenomenon

Had a footballer taken a golf buggy for an ill-advised munchies run down the motorway while 17-or-so sheets to the wind at stupid o’clock, the tabs wouldn’t have batted an eyelid.

We’re not joking – Everton’s Steven Pienaar is off the road for a year after being nabbed driving while double the limit, yet the yarn barely merited more than a couple of pars in red-top land. But of course! Sticking your mickey in your mate’s missus when he’s not looking is definitely more in the public interest.

But we digress. The weekend was notable personally for the once-a-year excursion from Corkonia to Dublin (“Feckin hell beys, isn’t everything fierce dirty/expensive/crowded up here”, is the obligatory refrain) to take in the events at Croker.

Powell wasn’t there, neither was Ryan Jones, the Welsh back row looked bit lightweight, the backs looked like they’d been tango’d. So far, so Wales.

Idiotic petulance from Byrne? Check. Hook throwing pretty passes but going nowhere fast? Check. Shane Williams stepping off his left, straight into Tommy Bowe, who sees him pull that one every week at Ospreys training? You fucking know it, check.

“Wurst Welsh pehrfawrmaance in yee-ars,” mumbled one red-clad fan to another in the pisser afterwards. You had to feel sorry for the bastard – he’s tied to that bunch of preening twats by accident of birth. Arsenal fans choose to align themselves with their side, which makes them the biggest nonces of the lot.

Rivalled only by the Dutch in the internal combustion stakes, highlights include Glenn Hoddle claiming he could see dead people, and Sven Goran Eriksson trying to get the jump on about everything in sight.

But despite the current baffling trend of the England back four doing as little to endear themselves to each other as possible, we can’t quite be as smug about the Wayne Bridge affair.

Matt Le Tiss: even Vanessa Perroncel wouldn't tap that

We Corkonians have long been noted for the unusual anomaly of simultaneously harbouring inferiority and superiority complexes – witness the belief and swagger based on their self-administered status as God’s chosen people, and the pissy, childish defensiveness that emerges when you dare suggest Dublin might have any redeeming qualities whatsoever.

Two such twats who could really do with a funt in the Shandons are Roy Keane and Stephen Ireland, responsible for Saipan and Grannygate respectively. They are the primary reasons we can’t point and laugh at the Poms over Wayne Bridge’s walkout.

Instead, in the spirit of offering the hand of friendship across the Irish Sea (only if you give me a job, you cunts), Sports Bitch wishes to proffer a viable solution to England’s footballing ills – bring back Matt Le Tissier.

The ultimate one-club man (Ryan Giggs doesn’t figure, on account of being more ape than man), Le God is a favourite of ours as he was one of the last players to look like he’d cleaned out every pie stand at The Dell before each match but still had enough gifts to produce the spectacular, seemingly at will – see the video below for proof.

His moral compass is also more well adjusted than the current crop, albeit in relative terms – who else could fail to hoof the ball out of play to win an illegal bet?.

Having never “done it” in an England shirt during his playing career, we’re assuming Le Tissier harbours some sense of resentment and would relish another crack at it (but then again, maybe he just wants a Snickers).

He also only missed one penalty out of 49 is his professional career – and we all know how England could do with at least one man who doesn’t suffer brain farts during shootouts.

But the best argument of all? He definitely won’t ride anyone’s missus. Are you listening Fabio?

The tournament hosts, UCD Dodgeball Club, had encouraged participants to pick a ‘cool’ team name and dress in costumes accordingly. Like any good heist movie outfit, we were incognito (read: disorganised and lazy) so we were given t-shirts like the poor kids who turned up for sports day in their corduroys and Clarkes.

The rest, however, were loudly chasing each other around in eye liner and banana hammocks. Think The Rocky Horror Show meets The Breakfast Club.

We take the court after some time sitting on the sidelines working ourselves into frenzy, sharing one asthma inhaler and quickly reading a copy of the rulebook which is passed around like currency.

Giant Smarties take their revenge on Sports Bitch Adrian Russell

We line up against a team representing Leeside’s firemen. In the course of their workday they put an axe through a front door before the difficult part. The most dangerous moments in my job are filing an expenses claim. It’s best of three games but there’s no need for a third game, let’s say. Which is good news for kittens stuck in nearby trees, at least.

After some encouraging words and a recovery medley as Paul O’Connell would recommend, we’re ready to put the fear of God into the Wellie Warriors – our next opponents. Though vastly improved, we miss out. Morale is low.

If this was a Coen Brothers movie, our final opponents would stride through the swinging double doors in tight, black uniforms, slicked-back hair, and toothpicks hanging from sneering mouths. Ladies and gentlemen, meet the bad guys.

The initial run at the dodgeballs is usually exciting stuff – but our new enemies start running way before the whistle from the lacklustre official. She is twirling a plait of flaxen hair and idly scraping lint from her t-shirt as she nonchalantly offers a peep of the whistle.

We protest, loudly, until the now spittle-covered student who sacrificed her weekend so I could try a new sport agrees reluctantly to a restart. Grace being over-rated, I instruct my team not to contest the next dead ball, compelling the cheaters to run half the length of the court for nothing. A moral victory, for a very, very small man indeed.

At 1-1 the final game is a battle of wills. Once more I am on the sidelines because I stepped outside them again (doctors have since told me this reveals a lot about my boundary issues).

When it comes down to two against our one and they hit her in the head – a taboo in this sport – and the ref neglects to dismiss the offender, I offer a John McEnroe-with-violent-Tourette’s impression from the tramline.

When the offence is repeated immediately, we rush the court, I volley a dodgeball in our shocked opponents’ direction – missing, aptly – then threaten violence before we’re awarded yet another restart.

Waiting, I’m reminded of the story of a referee squeezing a football to test it before he throws it in for the start of a replay following a particularly dirty drawn derby. “Lob it in ref,” one player whispers, “we won’t be using it much anyway.”

We ultimately lose, and leave a hall that we’ve stunned into silence, the initial air of bonhomie now shattered. This was dodgeball’s Ben Johnson moment. My press pass and poetic licence are eventually revoked by the NUJ.

“Some people do take it very, very seriously,” explains founder of the UCD club Suzanne O’Reilly, when I ring her afterwards, not revealing I’m the one who behaved like Kim Jong Il losing a game of Connect Four. “The point is, it’s not for the hyper-competitive. Will you play again?” I certainly will. Just as soon as the six-month suspension is served.

PB: Well Bill…can I call you B…
WB: I wouldn’t…
PB: WB?
WB: It matters not what you call me, but how you refer to me…

Prison Bitch stares blankly at Mr Yeats, takes a giant swig of his lukewarm pint, inhales a perpetual smog of cigarette smoke and speaks again…

WB: Nope, we don't know how they stayed on either

PB: Listen Yeatsy, I’m no Paul Kimmage, I’ll admit that, but I’m not putting up with your pretentious shite today alright?
WB: As you wish, sunny boy.
PB: Paul Warwick has been a great signing for Munster hasn’t he?
WB: I know little of the Antipodean general you speak of, but one beautiful afternoon I strode hand in hand with Maud towards the pantheon of outer significance, and we watched a spectacle of horrible inevitability as a blood dimmed tide cast a shoal of weary souls towards Hades gulf.
PB: Was that the Sale game a few years ago?
WB: Eh, when are we going to the Abbey?
PB: We’re here to talk sport, that was my understanding… Hang on, was that before or after herself gave ya the elbow?

Yeats makes facial gesture towards yours truly, which suggests he is not best pleased with previous statement…Face bothered??

PB: Too soon?
WB: It’s my round is it?

7.51: Hit snooze button, note presence of big breasted woman snoring in the bed, second sleep.

8.01: Wake. Prepare for intercourse. Wake bedding partner. It’s the wife, fully naked but ‘wearing’ her birthday present. New tits. Must tells lads. Have sex.

8.03: Finish sex. Yawn. Morning ablutions and shower using double cocoa mocha-skin super shaving exfoliating man goo. Recommended by Dwight Yorke. In Icon Magazine.

Capello's punishment methods left something to be desired

8.15: My breakfast: Fruit. Cereal. Tea. Orange Juice. Wife’s breakfast: Coffee. Cigarette. Cigarette. Slice of tomato.

8.30: Leave for work. “Bentley or Merc?” Choose Bentley.

8.45: Note remnants of bird shit on windscreen of Bentley. “Must buy new Bentley.” Hope Sky Sports News reporters don’t cop it for their five-minutes-before-the-hour gag reel.

9.05: Arrive at training ground. Note presence of young, up and coming striker from non-league club, on trial, drives a Ford, offer encouragement, secretly sneer.

9.15: Start training. Do the starfish, jumps, zig-zags – break for isotonic sports muck – more zig-zags, something with traffic cones (stolen on night out), game of heads and volleys, last man back, boss cops it and blasts defending from set pieces, practice zonal marking (still don’t get it but can’t tell gaffer) – more isotonic sports muck – fuck around with team-mates in front of Sky Sports News cameras (camaraderie, innit!), five-a-side, tweak hamstring, ice.

10.00: Rest of day to kill. Snooker with best mate, innit.

12.00: Scan The Sun, Football 365, The Mirror, Icon Magazine, Four Four Two, Closer and Heat for mentions of me and/or the wife.

12.40: Spot chairman hiding from cameras/players seeking new contracts.

13.00: Leave training ground, head for Children’s Hospital. Inform press.

14.14: Leave Children’s Hospital. Have mostly spent time in nurses’ station passing on phone number for group sex session with new signings from Portugal (show them the English way of life, innit).

15.00: Home. Sky Sports News. Breaking news ticker – FUCK! Caught with pants down. Injunction overturned. Turn around, missus is crying.

15.16: Missus is still crying.

15.46: Missus is still crying. Watch Countdown. Note to self: Fuck Rachel.

16.00: Missus is going to her mum’s.

16.16: Compose statement to the press expressing remorse. “Trying to work things through with the wife – pressures of captaining one of the biggest teams in the country – deeply sorry for what I’ve caused – possible sex addict…” Note to self: Pass on to solicitor to iron out typos.

17.16: Adidas sponsorship deal gone. Tag Heuer sponsorship deal gone. McDonalds deal gone. Must cut down on Bentleys.

18.10: Take dog for walk. Perfect Roy Keane stare. Press just laugh.

19.00: Dinner: Beans. Sausages. Eggs. Bacon. Mushrooms. Mushy peas. Gravy. Yorkshire pudding. Leftover cold pizza. Dessert: Rice pudding. Liquid: Can of Budweiser.

19.30: Purge.

19.45: Wife calls. “How could you (sniffle, couple, splut) to US??? (something else) and your FUCKING SLAAAAGS!” Wife hangs up. Relief.

20.00: Pick up mobile. 87 messages. None from nurses. Fuck.

20.10: Wank.

20.25: Put bins out. Note waiting press. Give them the finger. “In for a penny…”

21.00: Another can of Budweiser. Playstation. Bored. Porn. Bored. Sky Sports News. Not losing captaincy, club’s being supportive, News Of The Screws to REVEAL ALL. Bored.

21.45: Go to ’secret drawer,’ dress up as Margaret Thatcher in leopard skin thong, fail to cheer self up, sleep.

Whether a paper has backed or condemned Terry, one thing remains constant; the pun.

In an unprecedented effort to come up with the greatest pun, journalists are literally killing their peers and even close friends. The Daily Mail broke perhaps the most heart wrenching story of betrayal.

Will John Terry lose his England shirt?

A young but rising Times correspondent came up with the greatest pun yet. He then passed it on to his older, higher ranking editor, to hopefully garner praise and attention.

In a thoroughly underhanded move, the editor stole the headline, claiming it as his own. When the writer found out he was swiftly transferred to the Guardian (although there was no obvious cover for the position he was vacating).

After the Daily Mail broke the story, other journalists were quick to speak out. Some staunchly defended the young writer, berating the older editor as exploitive and selfish.

Sports Editor for the The Howling Fan remarked: “If he is supposed to be a role model for other journalists then god help us. What’s next? Journalists taking drugs and fabricating sources?”

Others, however, stated that what goes on inside the news factory is nobody’s business but their own. The pun quest has quietened down, but seven are dead and four remain missing.

However, this temporary loss of sanity by hurling and football trainers the length and breadth of the country does have its upsides. For example, young lads are kept off village corners, where they might indulge in an illicit game or two of pitch-and-toss or a quick pull of a jazz Woodbine, and organised in groups to have the shit run out of them.

"That's my pitchfork. It'll be getting overly familiar with your hole if you're not careful, sunshine."

Another fantastic upside to the re-commencing of training is the emergence of the GAA parent from a winter of mutterings of discontent at having to watch soccer. The GAA parent takes many forms but most will be recognised by their constant screaming and berating of their own child that causes their eyes to appear as if they are on stalks and the wearing of an anorak of some kind.

The most fascinating behaviour pattern of the GAA parent is that utter disbelief that their child may just simply not be interested in the sport they are taking part in. Now, one may think that this is simply an embittered hack carrying out an exorcism of childhood demons, however, my long history of quitting all sports at the drop of a hat should put paid to this theory.

Where the GAA parent really comes into his/her own is upon involvement in the coaching of an underage team. All fans of hurling and football throughout the country get great amusement out of these clearly clueless people trying to manage a team of young people who are only there in the first place because of their GAA parents. Ya have to love January.

Nice one, Cormac! LOLZ xxxx

“People were always getting ready for tomorrow.
I didnt believe in that.
Tomorrow wasnt getting ready for them.
It didnt even know they were there.”
— The Road

Essentially, what the Pulitzer Prize winner is saying here was actually best paraphrased by one Roy M Keane: Fail to prepare; prepare to fail.

"Where the fuck is that Robert Frost cunt when we need him, eh?"

“Deep in each man is the knowledge that something knows of his existence. Something knows, and cannot be fled nor hid from.”
— The Crossing

This one is clear: we need goal-line technology and/or a video referee.

“Listen to me, he said, when your dreams are of some world that never was or some world that never will be, and you’re happy again, then you’ll have given up. Do you understand? And you can’t give up, I won’t let you.”
— The Road

A note of optimism. Trap has a good squad with some lovely young players coming through – James McCarthy, Seamus Coleman et al. The skies grow greyer by the day. But come July, some sunshine may crease the sky again and Euro 2012 will tilt into the horizon.

“If trouble comes when you least expect it then maybe the thing to do is to always expect it.”
— The Road

Translation: why didn’t the Duffer just stick away that one-on-one with Lloris? Henry could’ve thrown the ball into the net afterwards and we wouldn’t have cared.

“The rain falls upon the just
And also on the unjust fellas
But mostly it falls upon the just
Cause the unjust have the just’s umbrellas”
— The Stonemason

Sepp Blatter and Michel Platini protect the bigger nations, according to McCarthy (no relation to Mick, incidentally). The seeding system is endemic of a flawed process. We have no umbrella and John Delaney, we now know, needs an umbrella.

“You never know what worse luck your bad luck has saved you from.”
— No Country for Old Men

This book was written during the Staunton era and so the sentiment is understandable: we could’ve been mullered in South Africa.

This column originally appeared on Adrian Russell’s superb blog, The Deadline, and is re-published here with the author’s permission.

Tip 1: As Harry Enfield said: women, know your limits. I’m sorry, but regardless how he looks (usually as inbred as sin) you’re not going to score the midfielder unless you’re Grainne Seoige, but even if you look like Síle Seoige you can score the corner back. Midfielders, centre backs and corner forwards (and in some cultures the goalie) are the most sought after of shifts, so focus your attention elsewhere (the subs bench is a great place to start, if you can bear the shame) and you’ll soon be a WAG! But the exception to the rule, as always, regardless of how you look – no knickers mean a definite fingering from the half forward.

Watch your mouth and be the scoring queen down the local Gahh, says Langerford Bitch

Tip 2: Be lady-like at all times. Go to their matches, but don’t make a fool of yourself; know when to shout at the ref that he’s a dirty cunt, and when to yell at the opposing trainer that his daughter gives shite head.

Tip 3: On nights out, if you’re not wasted, the night is! The drunker you are, the more likely you are one of the lads will score you – remember, there’s no shame in getting picked up during the Ten To Two Rush.

Tip 4: Be flexible. You basically have to act like his mother, his psychiatrist and sex object in one – you’ll have to foot the turf so he won’t miss any trainings, wash and stuff his boots for him, listen to how that dirty bastard selector won’t play him because “that cunt O’Connor’s scoring his daughter and sure she’s fuckin in love with him, and sure the fucker can’t play for shite”, all while lying back and acting like a man’s never pleasured you so thoroughly before.

And the Golden Rule? Holy Christ, remember his mother’s a fucking saint and NEVER bad mouth her. She pisses parafin oil and spent 78 hours in labour with him. You have been warned.