A former colleague of mine once subjected me to a great rant about PR companies, and the free gifts they periodically send to journalists.

His problem with the PR world was not that they never sent him anything. Quite the opposite: he merely resented them sending him the kind of rubbish that suggested they had merely had a quick root through their kitchen drawers before sending out the mailshots.
To his eternal dismay, it was never a case of opening up your post and finding a package embossed with the words, Dear X, we are Irish Distillers. You may have heard of us. Here s a bottle of whiskey. Good luck.
Indeed, one PR woman of my acquaintance recently admitted to me that she has overseen the despatching of the following objets d art and bric-a-brac to unsuspecting targets on her company s mailing list: a computer mouse mat, a ball of wool, a silver bullet (to plug some brand of lager, the name of which mysteriously escapes me at the minute), a brown bandana, a tin of cat food, and a potato peeler.
The reason Foul Play is giving you all this seemingly non-sequiturial verbiage about free gifts is because, last weekend, for the first time ever, a PR company offered him a decent junket: two tickets for a corporate box at the hurling semi-final between Galway and Kilkenny at Croke Park. Of course, I practically bit their hand off.
The man who made the phone call, incidentally, leads a double life as both a PR operative representing a globally famous sportswear company, and as a corner-back for the Kerry football XV. Sadly for him, my principles prevent me from naming the company in question, impervious as I am to the blandishments and inducements of sportswear behemoths of every stripe. Or even three stripes. (Ahem.)
Though a corporate box is obviously never going to compare with a sweaty afternoon in the Jungle at Celtic Park in terms of atmosphere, it does offer a tremendous view of the pitch, all the chicken wings you can chomp, and a free programme in order for you to consult the team sheets and work out which godforsaken wretch has been handed the task of chasing after DJ Carey.
By their overall demeanour and actions, several of the suite s inhabitants clearly regarded the fixture as less than crucial, with one waistcoat-wearing individual busily typing out a text message on his mobile phone, at the precise moment that Eugene Cloonan was lining up a crucial free for Galway. I m no expert on GAA matters, but even I know that there are some things you just don t do in this kind of situation. Or has hurling become even more hip than we imagined?
From Foul Play s vantage point up in the rafters of the Cusack Stand, peering down at the ant-like thousands scurrying hither and thither many feet below, the scene was irresistibly reminiscent of the baseball game depicted so evocatively at the beginning of Don DeLillo s Underworld.
The still-unfinished Canal End, with its mesh of metallic scaffolding reaching up and up into the northside skyline, was a more arresting sight than anything which ensued down on the green sward below. Mind you, that may have been the fault of Galway, who, much like Dublin s footballers the previous afternoon, squandered a healthy advantage and proceeded to die roaring at the hands of more committed opponents.
And so Kilkenny march on towards a meeting with Offaly next month, though not the same Offaly they subjected to a thorough monstering some six weeks ago.
Foul Play happened to be loitering around the sports department of a national newspaper on the day of Offaly s subsequent surprise win over Cork, and much fun was had watching the hacks attempt to conjure up a suitably boisterous headline that would convey the majesty of the Biffoes latest escape act.
Numerous variations on the theme of BACKDOOR BANDITS RIDE AGAIN , BACKDOOR HEAVEN FOR BIFFO BUCCANEERS and suchlike were all toyed with and then rejected, on the grounds that the paper s readers wouldn t want to be confronted with sodomy metaphors over their breakfasts.
Offaly are past masters at doing a West Germany on it. I always think of the Jerries 1974 World Cup side whenever I see Offaly taking a pounding from more up-for-it opponents and then living to puck another day because of the vagaries of the backdoor system.
It was Beckenbauer and friends who went out and played like dogs against their East German neighbours in a preliminary game in that tournament, losing 1-0, coming second in their group and thus avoiding Holland, then the best side in the world, until the final in Munich. Which they subsequently won.
Charlie Carter of Kilkenny, one of the best players on the park last Sunday, put it like this in an interview recently. The fun goes out of it a small bit when teams aren t putting in the effort. I don t know what Offaly are up to at all. Don t think anyone else does at this stage.
And as I write, news has just filtered through that the irrepressible John Troy has returned to the Biffoes camp in time for the final, after storming out following their slaughter at the hands of Kilkenny.
There s a moral in there somewhere, but I m damned if I can unearth it. Now, if you ll excuse me, there s only half an hour until the free bar shuts in here