Well it all came to pass terribly well. The technology did not fail. I knew my Popov's from my Rangelov's. I left with life unscathed.
I did my best to blend with the regulars, failed utterly when I couldn't find the door marked exit, scurried to my watching post and kept my head down, red-faced but happy not to be squirrelling details offathetelly, or from the tabloids, or out of my own arse.
And it is an impressive arena, is Croker.
I bookended my flirtation with journalism by drinking deep (Friday) and drinking dry (Saturday) the last of Johnny's Stella crate. Just one or two, mind, otherwise it's called drowning.
This is not a dramatic time in the life of Radge, not in the slightest, but sometimes the min must outweigh the max.