TV View: The premise of The Heineken European Cup Roadshow with Hook and Pope is that Irish rugby's Eric and Ernie tether their one-trick pony to a rugby club somewhere near you, bringing that well-honed blokey shtick to the people. This week, they got all the way to Blackrock on Dublin's south side. The result was - how shall we put this? - predictable.

George and Brent were joined by the former England coach Dick Best on a small platform, looking out at a small room into which were crammed a great many cauliflower ears and 21-inch necks. If the intention was to create an atmosphere of informal relaxation, it didn't work. Instead, the necks stared back at the visitors with a rapt fascination that suggested a small dog watching a large snake.

But at least one person gave the impression of being at home. In fact George was so relaxed he might have been sitting in the bath. Only a shameless absence of self-consciousness can allow a man lean into a table with the ease Mr Hook evinced in front of last week's cameras. But then, I suppose, he was at home.

The referee Alain Rolland was in the audience and George trained a beady eye on him. The whole effect was disconcertingly like that of the Bismarck's guns getting a fix on the Hood.

"I know Rollers since he was running around as an under-12 in Elm Park," harrumphed our hero.

"Rollers" looked around for a lifeboat but there was nothing for it except to dive into the frothy sea. After all, in rugby clubs, no one is allowed to not join in.

But if Hook was chilled, Pope was showing understandable unease at being perched on display like a large parakeet. Wearing jeans with a crease that could draw blood, "Popey" spoke some commendable good sense.

Since he is a New Zealander, there is also a tendency to treat what he says with due deference. Pope might have been a bin-man back in Waikato but he has the accent to get Dublin rugger types nodding sagely.

Yet "Popey" will always be the straight man. No punch-lines for him. For when it comes to televisual charisma, the full dosage has instead gone to an old guy whose face resembles a large potato that's just been run over by a bicycle. It's hardly fair, but then it's not exactly fair to foist a glorified radio programme on prime-time TV either.

Research and development obviously decided the format for this show should be the audience throwing questions at the three boys upon high. Clearly, a lot of thought went into it. So, we were treated to a collection of rugger cliches holding forth under the pretence they were thirsting for knowledge. One young man, complete with Leinster shirt (collar up), displayed the sort of hirsute decolletage that would have had Carmen Miranda reaching for fruity camouflage. Since he was sitting in Blackrock rugby club, one could only assume he was winning a bet.

Mercifully, toward the end, someone remembered it was a visual gig and ran a collection of tackles under the title "Big Hits". As we said back in the 1980s, fnarr, fnarr. And what we also did back in the '80s was tolerate a lot of Dire Straits. So, no surprise that the musical accompaniment to this montage of sweaty fervour was The Walk of Life.

There was one brief sighting of a female, but the whole atmosphere suggested she was merely an adornment.

George's sign-off included a reminder that the weekend European Cup matches could be heard on RTÉ radio. Which is where this programme could have happily settled.

But Blackrock rugby club during the week was backstage at the Rolling Stones compared to the irredeemable tedium of what went on in Galway on Saturday night. For most of the International Rules game, Ireland and Australia appeared intent on boring everyone to death. The final few minutes were close enough to generate some excitement but not enough to make up for what the night was really lacking: good old rampant thuggery.

Apparently the reaction to last year's fireworks, when, let us not forget, our big brave sons of the GAA soil looked scared out of their wits, put everyone on their best behaviour. And the result was soporific. By half-time, all the pious utterings about the spirit of the game and the importance of maintaining control had been forgotten.

"The crowd are really enjoying the lights and the spectacle," said Ger Canning. "But they would probably like a bit more cut and thrust."

Colm O'Rourke eyed proceedings with barely concealed disgust - "It's like a doll's house out there" - while Kevin McStay muttered gloomily about the series being hurt. Oh, to be a fly on the wall in the dressing-rooms at Croke Park for Round Two.

Finally, the winners of the "We're able to do this, so let's do it" award are the BBC racing team, who on Saturday attached a microphone to jockey Barry Fenton in a steeplechase. The results were astounding.

"G'wan," panted Fenton. "Hit a soft patch of ground there," he gasped. "Whoa!"

"And after half-way, all we heard was him pushing and shoving," said Claire Balding.

Yes, that would have been boring.