TV VIEW:AS WE MOVED in to added time in Coventry yesterday we switched over to RTÉ2 to watch a bit of Mars Attacks!, a film about a Martian invasion of earth and the US president's attempts to persuade the space invaders that obliterating his people with death-ray guns is a less than friendly way of greeting their earthly hosts.

His efforts are unsuccessful, although playing Slim Whitman's Indian Love Call does the trick in the end: the Martians scarper. Wouldn't you?

What might also have been effective, though, would have been a quiet word from Paul O'Connell.

"Lads? Go home," he'd have whispered, and before you could say, "Munster are not of this earth" the little green men would have started up their spaceships' engines and taken off. Never to return.

We only switched over to Mars Attacks! because those closing seconds in Coventry were, frankly, way, way, way too much to bear.

It was yet another occasion when we envied those who think sport-watching is for couch-bound layabouts who need to get out more. Which, of course, it is.

But most of the past couch-bound sport-watching week was like that: torturous.

For example, John Arne Riise's injury-time own goal last Tuesday. Even George Hamilton struggled to find the words, in the end opting for something along the lines of, "Aaaaaaaaaaaaah."

How many of you were left utterly distraught - nay, devastated - by the calamity? Stop that, you lousers.

When Rangers conceded that penalty to Celtic 20 minutes from time yesterday? Shattered? Us neither. Mind you, the same couldn't be said for Terry Butcher back in the Setanta studio. If his despair had caused him to slump any further in his chair he'd have been horizontal.

And what about Fulham's at-the-death potentially-relegation-avoiding winner, having trailed 2-0, against Manchester City?

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaah," said Paul Merson in the Sky Sports' Soccer Saturday studio. "Aaaaaaaaaaaaah," he said again. "Aaaaaaaaaaaaah," he said one more time. "Gooooooooooal," he added. "UNBELIEVABLE," he said. "This is UNBELIEVABLE - I can't BELIEVE it! Aaaaaaaaaaaaah." At this point Jeff Stelling felt the time had come to ask the question: "Paul? Who scored - City or Fulham?" "Oh. Eh, Fulham," he said.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaah," said Jeff, at the same time vowing to have a chat with Merse once they were off air, just to explain one more time that Sky Sports' Soccer Saturday's viewers can't actually see the game, only he can on his monitor, so it's often quite useful to inform said viewers after you say "Aaaaaaaaaaaaah" who actually scored said goal.

It's especially useful if you're a Fulham fan relying on Merse for information, the "Aaaaaaaaaaaaah" simply informing them that either (a) their club has been relegated or (b) their club hasn't been relegated and lives to fight another day. To a non-Fulham fan the difference is negligible; to a Fulham fan - eg Mohamed Al-Fayed - it's quite significant.

Merse, we fear, is barred from Harrods from here on in.

If Merse had been commentating on the Asian Open yesterday he'd have said "Aaaaaaaaaaaaah" when Darren Clarke took on that 25-foot putt on the final green. "This is UNBELIEVABLE - I can't BELIEVE it! Aaaaaaaaaaaaah," he'd have added, before Jeff, on our behalf, would have established that Darren had holed the effort, thus winning his first European Tour title for five years.

If you want to know why the Asian Open in Shanghai is part of the European Tour - well, anyway, where were we? Ah yes, Coventry. So, we moved in to added time. It's at times like this that you almost wish Munster's Heineken Cup challenge would fizzle out in the early stages of the competition, despite all the hope, buoyancy, belief and optimism that preceded kick-off. But Munster, as they'll tell you, aren't Leinster.

Sky had started the proceedings by telling us that when Doug Howlett "kissed the Blarney Stone it kissed him back", his arrival in Munster "a bit like giving a shark a torpedo". Then they played You Raise Me Up over a slow-motion montage of Munster images, everything from that 'BELIEVE' banner to Paul O'Connell standing on mountains and walking on stormy seas, and, when he had the time, sending the Martians (eg, Gloucester in the quarter-finals) back to where they came from. Snivelling wrecks, we were, by the time it got under way.

Munster 18-16 up, 80 minutes and a bundle of seconds on the clock, Saracens on the attack, desperately pressing for a penalty or a drop goal or anything at all. That's when we switched to Mars Attacks!

When we returned Paul O'Connell was whispering to his Saracens opponents: "Lads? Go home." Cardiff it is.

How could we doubt Munster? Not even Slim Whitman's Indian Love Call could vanquish them.