This started off as a preview of the hurling championships. Then, two paragraphs away from the shore, I discovered that I am in a state of such unimpeachable ignorance as to the state of the various hurling tribes that to continue would be a flagrant provocation of all those gurus, sciolists and chancers who have nothing better to do than write in and take issue with their betters. Bad cess to the feckers, they'll not have the satisfaction.

Had I continued to write about hurling I would have explained sweetly that I spent last weekend talking to a variety of people, some, sadly, from Wexford, and many who have the good fortune to be from Kilkenny. I've always felt that if you are to be handicapped by virtue of not being from Dublin, well then, being a Kilkenny person is one of the milder, more socially acceptable afflictions. Anyway many of these Kilkenny people were of the GAA persuasion and as such were wont to get their questions in first. "Have you your cards marked for the championship?" they'd say before introducing themselves.

Affecting the suave, tanned insouciance which - I gather from brief exposure to the live performances of Mr George Redmond - is all the rage these days, I generally ventured that I felt it would be Meath's year. Then I would pause, regard the puzzled face of my interlocutor and remark that perhaps his look of bafflement was due to the fact that he was referring to the hurling championship. Oh ho, the laughs we had.

After that, when pressed for an answer I would generally say that I fancied Kilkenny. This was a difficult argument to stand up, especially in the face of Kilkenny people who would have none of it, indeed they viewed the very suggestion as some sort of voodoo hex which would only cause trouble down the line.

Ostensibly my case was further weakened by my auxiliary conversation piece to the effect that Leinster hurling is banjaxed beyond imminent repair, but most found the gloom of this prognosis inherently appealing.

Sociologists have neglected to identify the roots of this, the innate downbeat pessimism of the GAA supporter. I note in America, for instance, that what passes for sporting conversation always begins with the merry woofing of one of the parties - "How 'bout them Cowboys, Vern?" - and there follows general acclamation of said Cowboys. In England, conversations tend to have a little more barking, a little more braggadocio, along the "you're not singing anymore" lines. In the GAA we only sing at funerals or at half time. The typical tail-sniffing encounter follows strict rules.

"What county man are ya?" A county name is offered up. The first party must then make a joke at the expense of the good name of this county. "Still locking referees in boots are ye/ stonethrowers!/ ye pissed in the powder" etc, etc.

If successfully negotiated, this exchange of county tags and demeaning jokes establishes both parties on an equal footing.

Next comes the business of establishing who is more GAA. This begins by establishing specifics. The question might archly be framed as follows: "What clubman are ya?"

The challenge then is to be able to make a demeaning joke about this club, its locale, its history, etc. "Bubba Conroy still drinking like a hoor, is he? Ye'd have had three county championships if it weren't for him, heh heh."

This detailed slagging determines who shall be the dominant pessimist in ensuing conversations. The task of the GAA lightweight is to lob up fluffy thoughts which the yoda shall shred with a series of well-practised moves.

"Jaysus not if you'd seen him play junior last Tuesday evening/ sure the family are shhtone mad/ but he's destroyed with the drink don't ya know/ transsexuals never make good midfielders" etc, etc.

The key for both parties is never to let a crumb of optimism fall from the lips. You can be jumped down from club secretary to village idiot for less. Play the odds. Only one county can win an All-Ireland, so you have an excellent 31 in 32 chance of being justified when you say that if your crowd were playing in the back garden you'd shut the blinds and call the police.

There was strong feeling among my Kilkenny friends that the widespread view that their team can't lose three All-Irelands on the trot is premised on the wrong-headed notion that their team were somehow unlucky to lose two on the trot. By viewing Kilkenny as having been jammily fortunate to have stumbled into two losing final appearances, Kilkenny people find it easy to support their pessimism about even reaching a third final let alone losing it. Such is the thinking of hurling aristocrats.

Reluctantly the Kilkenny people would concede that winning a Leinster title is probably unavoidable this year, which would bring me to the next carefully planned phase of the conversation. When will winning a Leinster title next be avoidable for Kilkenny?

This seems an odd argument given that Offaly so recently pocketed an All-Ireland and Kilkenny are sniffing for one. Yet it appeals to the pessimist in everyone. Kilkenny, with every minor Leinster title of the Nineties under their belts and this year's schools All-Ireland already pocketed, can scarcely avoid enjoying a period of unrivalled success in the next decade.

Offaly and Wexford are old and musty: in two years Dublin and Laois won't be afraid of them. It's that bad.

Chuffed by the conversational success of the Leinster-as-post-nuclear-wasteland scenario, I later took to saying that I also had a feeling for Galway hurlers this year. This goes down well everywhere. I notice two things in sport: people who like to think that they know their stuff always have a quiet fancy for Spain coming up to a major soccer championship and always have a feeling about Galway hurlers every spring.

So there you have it. Spain are dark horses. Galway are better than anything Leinster has. Feel free to use these gambits in your own conversations.

That's all. No previews but plenty of sensible advice on GAA etiquette and conversation from Miss Manners (who never actually played midfield).