On this island, sporting images remain fairly constant. Two of this decade's most recognisable surfaced over the past week. On Wednesday, Sonia O'Sullivan ran in the Weltklasse meeting in Zurich and we tuned in, eager for a preview of what may await in Budapest.

Hardly caught a glimpse of her. Early on, she seemed to settle at the back, occasionally offering a grimace that has become uncomfortably familiar. David Coleman said that she had told him she simply "wasn't in the mood" during her race in Sheffield.

"I wonder if she's in the mood now," he croaked as they finished the first lap. Evidently not. Her road towards rediscovery follows an uncertain vein but continues to fascinate. We still share her belief that beneath the fallibility lies the brilliance which illuminated Ireland's international profile before Atlanta.

The Georgian capital represents something of a crossing for Irish sport. Since the games, allegations, denials and legal drama have played across our screens. On Thursday night, Michelle de Bruin appeared on Prime Time. Sometimes, it is easy to forget that she is an athlete. Brian Farrell administered a light grilling, adopting the sort of air usually reserved for the Independent TD no one really wants to see shafted. Michelle easily and articulately deflected the interrogation from every angle.

It was difficult to know what the exercise achieved. Perhaps RTE wanted to display a degree of impartiality and investigative initiative on an issue which has polarised public opinion. Michelle de Bruin's Olympic medals meant, in truth, little more than a few nights of pride and bonhomie down at the local for most people. Certainly, swimming means everything to some but the sport's importance to the mainstream is reflected in the laughable lack of facilities.

For some, the issue has gone way beyond swimming; it is about perceptions of national integrity. Michelle de Bruin comes across as a natural on television, plausible and definite in her arguments, sincere and defiant, if not entirely warm. Regardless of whether you believe her interpretation of events, she often comes across as likeable, which will matter much more than cold analytical evidence to many in this country.

But mostly what you get from watching her battle on with that unwavering fluency of tone and that steady blue gaze is a feeling of sadness and wonder, not so much over her guilt or innocence, but over how in the hell it ever came to be like this.

It would seem that only Gazza has charisma enough to buck the international sporting trend, consuming as he does bucket loads of performance-deflating substances. Kebabs, booze, the thoughts of Chris Evans, old Gaz tosses back the lot in an admirable bid to give hope to England's local league masses. Accusations may be rampant now in all sports but Gazza, bless him, will be the last to come under suspicion.

Even Formula One personalities - well, cars - are under scrutiny.

"It is absolute nonsense to say there is something not real in our car," chided Michael Schumacher in Budapest, the picture of wounded innocence.

Still, an undeniable presence of testosterone hung in the air and minutes later the camera flashed towards the muscular Sly Stallone heading towards the Jordan camp. Irish hearts must have fairly lurched at the thought of Sly taking Mika Hakkinen out on the first bend and going 10 rounds with the Ferrari team before emerging all bloody to declare that he "did it for Eddie".

Although the cameras failed to solicit any customary grunts or mumbles from Sly, Newcastle's Kenny Dalglish was on hand to supply the same after the first day of the Premiership. It is generally accepted that Kenny is the father figure of the growing band of Scottish soccer managers who believe that English should be spoken with thrift and disdain, that the words are best lost in a tangle of dialect.

Newcastle, as is the team's wont, failed to win. Against 10 men. The man from the BBC tentatively wondered whether Charlton Athletic's losing a man had been a good or bad thing for Newcastle. Kenny began rolling his tongue and widened his eyes in such astonishment that you felt he'd seen Sly Stallone arrive in a Newcastle strip. But Kenny was just searching for words.

"Whoocantea?" he explained.

You hoped the man from the Beeb would say something like: "Well, you should be able to tell Kenny, you are the bloody manager."

Instead, the interviewer just smiled and thought of the season ahead. Perhaps he adopted Glenn Hoddle's philosophy on problems, deciding that " 'ow we deal wif 'em is the tapestry of life in many ways".

"I'm not 'urt", Hoddle went on to tell Ray Stubbs on Football Focus as they discussed his critically lauded soccer diary of the 1998 World Cup. Hoddle felt that the serialisation of his book in the Sun had for some reason failed to set the high class tone he intended.

"My thoughts is, eh, that it's tasteful . . . `Gazza trashed my room' is not in the book," he elaborated.

Having had the matter clarified, BBC's analysts viewed the work in a more forgiving light.

"It was ill-advised," declared Dave Bassett.

"The players will be worried about what they say to him now. It was daft," said Mark Lawrenson.

Meanwhile, Gary Lineker was concerned with the quality of foreign lads peddling their wares in England. He felt the really great players were still staying away.

"Kluivert and the De Boer brothers, they've not really come, have they?" he asked rhetorically.

It was a blindingly astute observation, coated in understatement.

He could probably have got away with saying they hadn't come at all.