Although his acting career is still in its infancy, chances are that Vinny Jones will some day bag an Oscar. Vinny is currently making the natural progression from English football's 'Ard Man to intense young thespian and was keen to explain the similarities between both arts to Garth Crooks of Football Focus.

While Vinny is a serious devotee of method acting, he admitted that preparation for his new role was hindered somewhat by unfortunate "complications with me neighbour" which left him in the cells of his local slammer.

So he was forced to ad lib for the first few days of filming, allowing that he "got, eh, bet-ta as the filmin' went on".

Garth, a real footballer's former footballer at the best of times, indulged big Vinny with a grin and a wink and asked how he coped with the lighter aspects of the film industry. Vinnie quickly scotched such stereotyping.

"There's no luvvie or darling in it," he growled, and you sensed that, if there had been, Vinnie would have unceremoniously stamped it out. "The director is one of the lads, he `effs' and blinds as much as Joe Kinnear," he explained (didn't know John Huston still made movies).

Football Focus even had a clip of Vincent ("Vinnie is just so . . . terribly East Enders, dahling") standing menacingly in front of a bar counter and threatening the hapless barhand. Damnably alien territory for the man.

But his dramatic flourishes set the tone for a fairly incident-filled soccer affair, with Doug Ellis predicting doom as the escalating power of players threatens anarchy in the Premiership.

"I think if I'd had a gun I would have shot him," was Villa manager John Gregory's indifferent reaction to Dwight Yorke's declaration of his wish to head to Manchester United. More than £12 mil lion seems like a serious amount of money for a lad by the name of Dwight, whatever his goal tally.

Manchester United now have an attacking force with the names of Andy, Teddy and Dwight. Somehow you sense they won't change the annals of club history too much.

A number of years ago, big Ron Atkinson placed his faith in Yorke before a Cup game by sighing, "It's up to you Dwight Yorke, Dwight Yorke".

It was a classy, poignant gesture (which tragically unnerved young Dwight, if memory serves) and one which established a tradition in English football. Neil "Razor" Ruddock cropped up as West `Am's new man, prompting manager 'Arry Redknapp to quip that his presence would "thicken out the defence".

And cheer up the dressing room. The Razor admitted that he was given to a bit of sing-song before matches. "Rock, blues, hiphop?" wondered the TV man. "Well, a bit o' the ol' London knees-up mostly, but I can break into Neil Diamond or Frank Sinatra at any time."

And you knew he was serious. That's the frightening thing about English football - so much money and so many mind-boggling people. Wonder what would have happened in Croke Park before yesterday's All-Ireland semi-final if Brian Mullins had stood on the dressing-room bench and said, "Right lads, in D minor, for the jersey" before launching into Forever in Blue Jeans while, down the corridor, the Galway half-back line sang a harmony version of By the Time I Get to Phoenix?

While there are probably unseen merits to such diversions, it just wouldn't wash with the county boards. Mind you, a good Red Hurley number could have the desired effect.

There were extraordinary scenes at the, mmm, end of Saturday's All-Ireland hurling semi-final replay.

Just when Offaly looked poised to mount yet another last surge, referee Jimmy Cooney decided to blow time early and was escorted off the pitch. It all looked like the schoolyard scenario when the lad who owns the ball takes the huff and heads home early.

It is endearingly typical of the GAA to allow a particularly fine example of the best field game in the world to be ruined by such bungling. Ironically, referee Jimmy Cooney was doing a fine job of smoothing over a potentially combustive match.

Why should he have to keep time as well? Can Ireland's biggest sports organisation not rise to the implementation of timekeepers, electronic clocks or, as Cyril Farrell suggested, "a big hooter like in other games"?

Clare manager Ger Loughnane instantly and eloquently agreed that the referee had made a mistake after the match as Offaly supporters traipsed on to the field for a sit-in.

As their captain Brian Whelahan put it, everyone associated with the team was "totally dejected. We feel like we've been robbed again".

Offaly fans looked ready to protest for the evening. It was a surreal mix of GAA meets Woodstock and you half-hoped Razor Ruddock might show up to sing The Times Are a-Changing.

In Budapest, by the end of Sonia O'Sullivan's exhilarating 10,000 metres win last Wednesday evening, the lads in the studio gently reprimanded themselves for their fickle faith.

"I found it hugely emotional," declared a teary Bill O'Herlihy before getting down to brass tacks. "Let's be honest. We lost faith in her," he said, in a confessional tone.

"We were afraid to believe," assented John Treacy. Even the mercurial athlete herself was having difficulty taking it in.

"I can't believe it. I just went in to have a good time," she said at track side, recalling that she only considered running the distance while reading about it in a magazine shop in Nice.

Unforgettable brilliance often hinges on those seemingly inconsequential moments.