It was one of those weeks. Didn't start too well either. Irritating tune playing loudly, one that would have disturbed my thoughts if I'd been having any. "Oh, what a night, late December back in '63, what a very special time for me, as I remember what a night!" Doo be doo.

I say to barman, "Tell me again, which popsters had a monster mega chart-topping hit with that tune in the Seventies?". He pulls out his mobile phone and says, "Dunno love, but I'll ring my mother and ask her if you like". Lovely.

Leave, happy in the knowledge that his dry cleaning bill would be hefty 'cos they say pints of creme de menthe mixed with Red Bull and Baileys are a divil to get out of white polyester.

"Oooh I, I got a funny feeling when she walked in the room, and I, as I recall, it ended, much too soon." Hate this. Andy Gibb? The Real Thing? Demis Roussos? What part of frustration do you not understand?

Next day better. Much better. Actually, triffic. The International Hockey Federation (FIH) confirmed that I (oh yeah - and the Irish women's hockey team) would, indeed, be going to France next September because the Irish women's hockey team had qualified for the World Cup qualifier, if you know what I mean.

You may scoff, you may say, "You must lead a sheltered life, love", if I'm getting excited about a tournament that's nine months away, but there is nothing in life I love more (apart from remembering who sang the hits of my youth . . . "I felt a rush like a rolling bolt of thunder, spinnin' my head around and taking my body under" . . . Mmm, the Detroit Spinners?) than tournaments abroad. For example. In France I will be rubbing shoulders with the hockey elite from Kazakhstan, Kenya and Lithuania, to name just three. Where else, other than the United Nations, could you boast of that?

(Hang on . . . "You know I didn't even know her name, but I was never gonna be the same, what a lady, what a night!" Leo Sayer! No. Hot Chocolate? Brotherhood Of Man?)

Now, for a while there the FIH were playing hard to get. I confidently predicted - nay, announced - weeks ago that Ireland had qualified for France, but they were having none of it. "Listen here you presumptuous chancer," they snapped, in so many words. "You are not definitely going to France - you have to wait till March after the Americas Cup. It's really very simple and clearer than crystal: if Argentina win that tournament Ireland might get into the World Cup qualifier, if somebody else isn't let in instead, but if Argentina don't win that tournament then Ireland mightn't get in to the qualifier if somebody else gets in instead, but if that somebody else doesn't get in Ireland might get in instead of them unless somebody entirely different gets in, in which case Ireland won't. See? It's hardly rocket science, is it?" So, while I was still trying to work out the 14,763 permutations of that formula (I had reached number two) the fax arrived. Party time. I breathlessly rushed to my email to inform any hockey people I know, saw an email coming in (unintentionally) from another hockey player with a fun attachment attached. Opened it and . . . well, we're talking Armageddon here. We're talking computer viruses. A bottle of brandy, many tears and even more hours later my computer was semi-functioning again. In a towering humanitarian gesture I emailed everyone and warned them not to be as stupid as I was. Former Irish international hockey goalkeeper replied. "Uh oh - bet you were like a bear with an itchy arse and short arms," she said, in that sensitive, compassionate, kindly manner I associate with all goalkeepers.

Then phone rings. Leeds fan. "What's that you said about Alan Smith at the start of the season?"

"Yes, yes: `Are we alone in believing he is not a budding Jimmy Greavesie?'."

"And what is he?"

"A budding Greavesie."

"Who flowered a little more when he scored the winner against Lazio?"

"Yes (spit)."

"Thank you, I'll be off," he says. "Hang on," I say, "who sang Oh What A Night?"

"Late December back in '63?"

"Yes!"

"What a lady, what a night?"

"Yes! Who sang it?"

"Haven't a clue, see ya." You know, he made me so damn angry I wished relegation on David O'Leary's merry men for, oooh, Four Seasons' running. I did. Now, back to that song. Who the flip sang it?