Those who doubt the influence of the Premiership on European football culture have obviously ignored the glaring evidence of the European Beach Football Leagues. Sky Sports took the cameras beach side to Majorca to provide the damning pictures of this "new" phenomenon.

Jack Charlton, Graham Taylor and a posse of former Wimbledon managers would have allowed themselves a wry smile: the long ball game was there in all its glory. "Long ball" may be a tad inaccurate in that the playing area is about half the size of a soccer pitch, illustrated by the respective goalkeepers' ability to throw the ball from one area to another, but the intent was there. There was nothing pretty about this bastardisation of the beautiful game: there were no silken dribbling skills, no short interchanges of passing. Possession was a liability rather than nine tenths of the law.

It was all about a shoot-on-sight policy, clipping the ball long and keeping it in the air. The reason was simple. The surface resembled the Lansdowne Road pitch for soccer matches in the Charlton era, bumpy and unpredictable: picture the soft dune sand of Brittas Bay, 300 spectators, two-foot high hoarding around the playing area and two goals.

The rutted surface ensured that these contests provided four-touch football at its best. The combatants, five players on each team, contested the matches in bare feet. The only acknowledgement to the original game was the jerseys and shorts worn by the players and a day-glo orange football. The kick-off consisted of one player flicking the ball in the air while a team-mate volleyed it goalwards.

No wall could be formed for a free kick, allowing for several Roberto Carlos wannabes. The end-to-end thrills were splintered by players falling over untouched, the difficulty of controlling the ball and their limbs in tandem over the craterous surface proving beyond them at times.

Given Sky's propensity for televising just about anything to fill the schedules, it could reasonably be expected that the combatants would be nothing more than a collection of bronzed beach groupies plucked from the bars and restaurants of Majorca. Wrong. The commentator excitedly announced that the first match would be contested by Portugal and Spain.

The team sheets appeared on screen and included in the Spanish side was Emilio Butragueno and Julio Salinas: so beach soccer was a retirement home for thirty-something former international stars.

Not quite. When Italy faced Germany in the other semi-final, one Claudio Gentile was listed as playing. He was almost unrecognisable from those halcyon days when he used to be the scourge of international forwards. No moustache, a little thinner on the sky light, and now happily ensconced in his forties.

For an instant there was a horrible feeling that from somewhere in the German ranks, out would spring Franz Beckenbauer so that we could have somebody in their fifties. Still the post1 a.m. sleepiness vanished at the prospect of watching Gentile getting to grips with the opposition: maybe it was all that suntan lotion, but the highlights offered not one tackle of note.

The sunny climes of Majorca offered a startling contrast to the monsoon conditions that descended over Slieve Donard and engulfed the first round of the British Senior Open Golf Championship at Royal County Down. The only comparison with the soccer was that this tournament really was for the fifty-somethings. Ewan Murray and Bruce Critchley presided over the airwaves, describing the beauty of the location and the merits of the golf and golf course.

Having survived one torrential downpour that morning which essentially flooded the rock-hard course, Murray and Critchley chuckled from the haven of their commentary position when heavy rain descended for a second time. Colleague Phil Parkin proved to be the only muppet - he didn't bring an umbrella but was forced to trudge the fairways alongside a selected match.

Within seven minutes several parts of the course were flooded, with mini lakes appearing. Play was duly suspended and one could imagine Parkin swimming for the sanctuary of the clubhouse.

Sky had a dual golfing commitment and enjoyed the facility to switch to the Dutch Open, thereby avoiding the dreaded studio discussion or footage of some recent tournament.

When play did resume it was difficult not to feel a little disappointed with the coverage. Royal County Down is a beautiful setting but the camerawork was a little one-dimensional; perhaps the satellite network had overstretched themselves in broadcasting two golf tournaments.

This column could not let the week pass without acknowledging another pearl from Sid Waddell in his commentary at the World Darts. The winner of a particularly tense and exciting contest turned to the applause of the spectators, arms outstretched fully, legs splayed and a huge smile. Waddell offered: "He looks like Spartacus after winning the lottery."