The book depository, Stone House Books, is a particularly noble example of the species. It is staffed by a battalion of beautiful blondes, alphabetically Aine, Laura and Liz. They order books for me. They obtain them promptly. They notify me immediately. I’ll occasionally stick my nose in when I’m not ordering books and they’ll even go so far as to laugh at my jokes, which constitutes customer service of a high and splendid order.

I’m saying all these nice things about them because I now have a not nice thing to say. Last week I bought some books on Amazon.

I know, I know. I’m an appalling person.

But relax. I cleared it with Liz, the proprietor of Stone House, beforehand, and in any case these were books that were out of print and she’d been unable to order for me despite her best efforts. In other words, this was a sanctioned solo run.

Whether a responsible adult should have stepped in and prevented me acquiring more books is another matter. It’s not so much that I love books and race through them – as it happens I’m a desperately slow reader, with a disturbingly high proportion of the books I do embark on abandoned halfway through – as that I love buying books. I’m not so much as bibliophile as a bibliomania. I am Ray Liotta in Goodfellas with that endless rack of designer jackets and shirts in various shades. I am Imelda Marcos.

A glance at my office shelves reveals loads of GAA books I bought or was sent over the years and have barely dipped into. There’s Richard Ben Cramer’s acclaimed biography of Joe Di Maggio, unread. A biography, who knows how acclaimed or otherwise, of Danny Blanchflower, unread. A book on the Derby of 1844, which was won by a four-year-old, unread. And much, much more. Unread.

These are just the sports books in my office. Leave it alone to the cupboard of non-fiction in my bedroom, books I will literally die before I read. (“Oh God, don’t say that,” a horrified Liz warned me lately.) Anyway, with nobody there to stop me, a consignment of tomes was ordered from Amazon and arrived the other day. An opus on the suffragette Derby of 1913. Another on the mysterious death of Sonny Liston. A biography of Bert Trautmann. The story of German soccer since 1954. Stephen F Kelly’s biography of Bill Shankly.

The latter I’m particularly looking forward to. At this remove Shankly is as remote as he is mythical and I can’t wait to learn more about him. I do know that he was famously witty. Jurgen Klopp is witty too, but I suspect Shankly was rather less obviously pleased with his own sense of humour than Klopp is. I’m also pretty sure Shankly could organise his defence at corners rather better than Klopp does.

Ever wondered what GAA writers do when the championship season ends? You may now have a fair idea.

Be careful what you wish for

The World’s Finest Restaurant Near a GAA Ground received an eyecatching request last week.

Campagne, possessor of a Michelin star and a long puckout away from Nowlan Park, were emailed thus. “We will be in Kilkenny specifically on 10 October. In exchange for a vegan meal for two (we would ideally like to try several items on the menu), we would be happy to provide significant online exposure on both our blogs and social media accounts:

“Inclusion in our ‘Vegan Guide to Ireland and/or N Ireland’ posts (working title) with permanent embedded links and photographs;

“In many cases we will also write a full separate review for your establishment;

“Live tweeting, Facebook, Instagram as we visit your restaurant.”

For sheer brass neck the proposition — an offer that, oddly enough, the restaurant found they could refuse — deserves an award.

But Campagne did tweet it, albeit omitting the name of their brazen correspondent.

At last glance it had been retweeted 539 times and received 2,282 likes.

Trump should take a knee

The controversy over the refusal of some NFL players to stand for the US national anthem was an issue that was never going to be let slide by the main occupant of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, DC. Sure enough, at a rally for Republican senator Luther Strange in Alabama on Friday night – our friend duly waded in.

“Wouldn’t you love to see one of these NFL owners, when somebody disrespects our flag, to say, ‘Get that son of a bitch off the field right now. Out! He’s fired. He’s fired!’”

The response from Roger Goodell, the NFL’s grand high panjandrum, deserves to be repeated. “The NFL and our players are at our best when we help create a sense of unity in our country and our culture,” Goodell riposted. “Divisive comments like these demonstrate an unfortunate lack of respect for the NFL, our great game and all of our players, and a failure to understand the overwhelming force for good our clubs and players represent in our communities.”

In much the way that Michael Collins deemed a pen to be a more dangerous implement than a gun, Donald Trump’s mouth is infinitely more disquieting than his possession of the nuclear codes. If anyone from the US Secret Service is reading this, a request. Dude: should it come down to a choice between the two, could you please ensure that POTUS goes to bed equipped with the appliance with the red button rather than the appliance with Twitter on it? The world will be considerably safer that way. Thanks.

Jimmy Magee. Different class.

Yet another reason for admiring Jimmy Magee was that he wasn’t so conceited as to remember his own best lines. A few years back we were in the press room in Croke Park one championship Sunday evening and the television was showing Roger Federer wrapping up yet another Wimbledon title.

Jimmy: “He’s something else, isn’t he?”

Me, meaningfully: “Different class.”

The sentence trailed off. Jimmy paused and frowned. Eventually the penny dropped. He gave a slight smile and went about his business. Jimmy Magee. Different class. In every way.