A funny thing happened to me as I was sitting on the couch last Sunday afternoon. I found myself actually watching a Formula One race. The Spanish Grand Prix, to be exact.
For millions of people worldwide, this is a regular occurrence for the duration of the F1 season. Not to mention the 115,000 rabid Spaniards cheering on their Golden Boy Fernando Alonso in Barcelona.
But to me, it was a first. I regard F1 as a noisy, smelly overhyped waste of time. Bit like a U2 concert; I just fail to see the attraction.
The sport, to me, consists of little more than a load of overpaid midgets spending two days jockeying to be as close to the front of the grid on race day for the dubious honour of being able to watch the most overpaid midget of all disappearing off into the distance in his Ferrari.
Sometimes they get so flustered they ram each other. Sometimes they don't. Woo-hoo. I'd rather eat my own hair than watch this.
But I'm reliably informed it's more interesting this year - they've changed the rules to make it impossible for Ze German to win, with so many technical impediments to the Ferrari dominance it's like forcing Best Mate to wear rollerblades and a diver's suit in the Cheltenham Gold Cup. My curiosity was somewhat piqued.
So I opted to give it a chance. Initially, it was fascinating. With my extensive recent racing experience - 20 minutes tearing around the baby track in Mondello, no less - I felt possessed of a certain understanding of the skills needed to drive an F1 car. The in-car cameras allowed you to watch them change gears, brake, pick their noses, do their lipstick, the whole shebang. And the commentators were yelping and roaring like it was some life-or-death Gladiatorial combat.
I found myself - tragic, I know - mentally driving the cars, feeling the rush of being at the controls of a multi-million euro four-wheeled bullet and basking in the respect and adulation of millions. And all this from the safety of my rented couch. The cat was watching me with an almost-human sneer of contempt. As is her wont.
It was, I am loath to confess, engrossing.
For about three laps. Then it got boring. Really boring. Nothing happened. Nobody crashed. Nobody's car blew up. Hardly anyone overtook anyone. Raikkonen didn't get taken out by a Spanish sniper. No Irish priests did a jig on the home straight. There were no streakers. The only bit of excitement was when a pitcrew member got a lick of the flamethrowers attached to the back of Jarno Trulli's car.
Even the commentators sounded fed up. They were audibly resigned to the fact nobody was going to catch anybody, resorting instead to telling us of the great victory of the Irish F1 correspondents - including our very own Justin Hynes (Good work fella!) - in the press corps go-cart race.
Then their commentary turned to a lengthy discussion on how long Alonso's tyres were going to last. Sweet merciful Jesus, how I suffered.
And then Michael Schumacher got a puncture. The commentators reacted as if Godzilla herself had emerged from the Mediterranean and plucked him from his speeding car before ripping him to shreds and feeding him to a waiting group of Anchorite nuns.
I switched it off. I then started shaving my head whilst perusing my extensive collection of cookery books for a suitable recipe for my mane.
