We arrived in front of the television at 1.30 on Friday afternoon hoping to see fireworks in the Royal Albert Hall. John McEnroe and Jimmy Connors were back on court in Britain for the first time in 15 years. The last time the two bombastic greats met, in 1984, McEnroe was uncharacteristically smiling, blowing kisses to the crowd, the Wimbledon trophy under his arm and heading with it to New York for the second time in his petulant career.

Now with six children, his second wife (Patti Smith the rock star followed Tatum O'Neal the film star) and greying hair, McEnroe still exudes that air of menace and unpredictability. An earring is the only physical reminder of a personality that was almost self destructively anti-establishment. There were other reminders, of course, such as his pre-match comments about Connors.

"I hope he shows up. He's a bit anal," said McEnroe of his opponent. We were thinking skin and hair but not a boo was heard, not a profanity uttered not even a "Come on Jimmy" mid McEnroe serve. Nothing to fan the temper of the last ever great touch player.

The tennis? Well, it was fantastic if you like McEnroe and 50-minute one-way traffic.

That's not what we wanted. We wanted the line judge to be told to f**k off. We wanted McEnroe to glare at the young woman attending the back of the service line, a breath away from braining her, stabbing his racquet towards her head. We wanted violence, blood, mayhem, bad manners, nostalgia, warnings, referees, enthralment, entertainment, captivation, drama. We wanted everything men's tennis rarely provides anymore. We deserved a little more than a gentle game of tennis. Jeremy Bates and Tim Henman could provide that. But, then, they wouldn't fill the Albert Hall.

Connors, no angel either when it came to scorching the ears of line judges and referees, looked dazzling at 47. No belly. No receding or grey hair. An even tan. Still athletic. A facsimile of the Connors of 20 years ago. A millionaire too and just playing for kicks.

McEnroe won in straight sets and sidled up to Sue Barker afterwards as the crowd recovered from the shock of a match played in almost total silence. "John ?" she asked. "It has been said that in your contract you have to lose your temper at least twice in each tournament?" "Well," said McEnroe matter-of-factly. "I still got two days to go."

No anger in the Albert Hall. No bad feelings in the afternoon. For those sort of emotions you had to be in the Burlington Hotel later that evening for the Eircell GAA All Star annual awards. The question asked and once again not answered was how do you make an All Star awards ceremony interesting for television.

Outside of the Australian Rules series the All Star awards serves an important purpose for players who rarely get the opportunity to be recognised in a dimension bigger than that of the county. In a way it is like receiving an international cap, being told by those who watch the game professionally that if an All-Ireland team were to be picked tomorrow they would be part of it.

The footage of Colm O'Rourke's side out in Australia was as stirring as the images of Cork's hurling win and Meath's football triumphs. Here was an example of GAA creativity and a welcome fearlessness to experiment with new ideas and concepts. The players were alive to it, O'Rourke too. That was evident.

But serving up 32 counties into two teams of 15 players is not without hazard. Dishing it up to the public as a television dinner is not easy either.

When the camera staggered around the ballroom resting awkwardly on various GAA personalities, while everyone else behaved themselves impeccably, it was as if the crowd from the Albert Hall had been kitted out by Black Tie and transported to Dublin.

The wandering microphone then came to rest under the chin of Clare captain Anthony Daly. Daly held his counsel. His diplomacy was startling given the wave of ill feeling that had preceded the awards, Davy Fitzgerald, the Clare goalkeeper coming out publicly to canvas. Many would agree that Fitzgerald, who was overlooked this year, deserved an award but Daly bit his lip. "Mixed feelings" was as far as the Clare man was prepared to go about this year's selections. What would McEnroe have said?

As it was the programme was again formulaic and therefore unexciting aside from the surprise announcements on the night and the various footage of former winners and the summer's championship. The event was wholesome but dull, more the ballet than a rock concert.

We wanted to know that Kilkenny's outstanding forward DJ Carey was receiving a remarkable seventh award and that Meath's Trevor Giles was the outstanding footballer of the year. But was it tele-visual to watch them walking through the gallery to the podium to shake hands with the sponsor and the GAA president, pose momentarily for a photo opportunity and then sit down?

Should the players wear dress suits? Why? To deprive them of personality? To add grandeur to the event? Why not let them have more individuality. Let them dress themselves. Let us have a laugh.

What is the purpose of all the hand-shaking? Why is the sponsor interviewed? Why does the Minister of Sport make a speech? For viewer entertainment? Why do the guests behave so, so well? Why isn't there more noise? Why isn't there more life?

As compare Michael Lyster put it: "It is an annual celebration of GAA. The idea is to award the cream of the crop in both codes."

Indeed. But was that purpose imaginatively served last week?