Armchair reporter

Magic is a commodity that’s in pretty sort supply these days – there’s less of it about around Christmas time we’re told and the levels of magic of the FA Cup are at their lowest level ever.

In my book, skinny jeans are a big no-no, white ones even more so, especially when they finish halfway down the shin, giving an ample view of the sock-less feet quite literally shoe-horned into a pair of shoes you used to use for PE in primary one.

AT the risk of over-egging a flat pudding, it’s fair to say that a double root canal via meat cleaver, secateurs and kango-hammer would be far more appealing than watching live international football of your own volition these days.

IT was perhaps fitting that a show about collecting football stickers was tucked away on ITV4 after 10 on a Tuesday night, but if you were the sort of person who got excited by getting a shiny sticker of the Watford crest back in the 80, it was well worth seeking out.

SOMETHING strange happens to non-English European golf fans every two years when they find themselves in the unusual position of actually liking Ian Poulter.

IT was a big day, and there was no way BBC Northern Ireland were going to let the viewing public forget it.

DEPENDING on which way you look at it, the 1990s was a period of supreme sporting excellence by a handful of amazing individuals and teams, or it was a boring, unexciting era of the same old faces lifting the same trophies time and time again.

THE first time I ever ducked into a bookies was Grand National day, 1984.

WHEN you think of romance you think of Paris, moonlit walks by the Seine or a gondola ride in Venice.