Sport on TV: Rocca on a roll as rigorous training in tearfulness pays off in opening ceremony

Before a ball had been struck, the Ryder Cup had a hero: Costantino Rocca, the man who makes Paul Gascoigne look like someone who has no tear ducts.

He has blubbed for Italy for a while now - few who saw it will ever forget his Lear-on-the-blasted-heath performance on the last green of the Open at St Andrews a few years ago when he holed a monster putt to make the play-off. And he knew what was expected of him at the Ryder Cup Opening Ceremony (Sky Sports 1, Thursday).

He has, apparently, been in training with a rigorous regime of quiet sobbing and open weeping, supplemented by a few bouts of hysterical bawling, and it has obviously paid off. As Seve Ballesteros announced his name, there he was, eyes watery, lower lip aquiver (as one who used to come on all PC when Saint 'n' Greavsie would chortle merrily over some Far Eastern moniker, I feel unable to comment on Manuel's - sorry, Seve's - performance in reading out the names, incidentally).

Having warmed up nicely, then, Rocca was on a roll during his country's national anthem, his face creasing up with what may well have been pride and a sense of honour. On the other hand, he may have been remembering how he blew it for an entire continent four years ago and wishing that the European team's Man at C&A regulation suit came with brown trousers.

It may also have been the excruciating tedium of the occasion. Things had started off unpromisingly with the Malaga Symphony Orchestra and Choir, while representatives of the Royal Andalusian School of Equestrian Art displaying the strange things they make their animals do, like walking on their hind legs and leaping up in the air. The constant interruption of ads, usually so irritating on Sky, came as a welcome relief - it was a surprise, given the owner's religious convictions, to see they took a break during the blessing. Then again, one of the priests was un hombre del pie izquierdo (that's cod-Spanish for left-footer).

George Bush was there with Barbara, who since her husband retired has ballooned somewhat, though her girth was easily exceeded by that of Andrew, the porky Prince. The parts of King Juan Carlos and Queen Sofia of Spain were played by David Niven and Felicity Kendal. It was nice to see them do a lap of honour as they left the party fashionably early.

Vinnie Jones once met royalty - footballing royalty, anyway. It was in Florida in 1988, when George Best walked past. Though Jones had just won an FA Cup winner's medal, he was shy: "I wasn't in a position to say hello. He was a legend."

That sweet little tale, and the revelation that the hard man can be a shrinking violet, came during his slot as a guest correspondent on Holiday Memories (BBC1, Monday), in which he revisited his former holiday stamping ground ("I wasn't courting at the time," he said). Though he's not exactly Michael Palin, he didn't do too badly, comfortably interviewing a boatman about the rich and famous who hang out in Fort Lauderdale, for example. The boat took him to Shooters, their favoured joint. "It's the place to be seen, I think," he said, donning his shades. "That's why I'm here." He was also happy to take a rise out of himself after he'd been in a gallery of modern art: "That was good." Nicely measured pause. "Where's the beach?" I won't mention his pronunciation of "art deco". That would be too easy.

Presenter Carol Smillie introduced him as the "self-confessed creator of havoc" who's "now in his 30s with respectability on the cards". Perhaps it was a feeling that he should be maturing that led him to pronounce Olympian judgement on Dennis Wise's penchant for two-footed tackles (Chelsea v Arsenal, Sky Sports 1, Sunday) - which was rather like one Kray twin counselling the other in anger management. He was outshone with considerable ease in the pots and kettle department, however, by the undisputed master, Alex Ferguson (Match of the Day, BBC1, Wednesday).

It had been a match in which, admittedly, Chelsea had played their part in stoking the fires of frenzy with their appeals for offside following Paul Scholes' strike. But following Henning Berg's hilarious own goal, Manchester United, led by that louche lounge lizard, Roy Keane, had put themselves about like Jones clones. The Irishman in particular seemed to think he was taking in part in several other contests as well as the football, most of them something to do with the martial arts.

It was a tiny bit rich, then, even for Fergie, to ascribe most of the responsibility to Chelsea, saying that their "intimidation of the referee" had soured the game. I mean to say. I'm convinced that there was a chorus of off-camera cackles. And if there weren't, there should have been.