I CUT a pathetic figure on Boxing Day. Stranded in rural Ireland with nary an internet connection nor Radio Scotland reception in reach, I had only one way of keeping up with the Aberdeen score. While others supped hot port in front the Cary Grant matinee, I spent the best part of the afternoon glued to Ceefax, page 321.

There's a minimalist pleasure in watching the changing football scores on teletext. You turn the TV onto mute and settle down with a paper, glancing up now and again to see how things are going. It means you don't to put up with prattling pundits, instead enjoying a purer type of commentary. All you are told is when goals are scored, who scored them, and whether anyone has missed a penalty or been sent off. It's a surprisingly efficient way of conveying the excitement of a game: its twists and turns pop up on screen without warning, lending a sense of chaotic excitement to an afternoon lounging on the settee.

That's unless your team is turning in the latest of a series of embarassingly inept displays. Then, your chosen way of passing the afternoon is thrown into stark and unsympathetic relief, no less arcane an activity than shivering on a remote railway platform for hours in hope of glimpsing rare serial numbers on passing freight trains. On Boxing Day I spent the afternoon learning that Aberdeen were to be thumped 3-1 by Motherwell. The news of each goal hit me like a pixellated gob of disdain.