I should have learned my lesson a few weeks back when I decided to be a clever clogs and do the column on the laptop at home.
On that occasion, I had written my usual quota of words, some of them even in the right place and order, when the damn computer suddenly emitted some weird, strangulated electronic belch and died – forcing me to leg into the office like some latter day Ferris Bueller.
But if that was bad, last Thursday was even worse. In fact, it was spectacularly, horrifyingly bad.
I was working online at home when the screen went blank, which is terrifying enough.
But what followed was even more bowel loosening.
The screen reappeared to show a picture of me that had just been taken on the laptop's web cam, and alongside that was the logo of the gardaí and a fine of a hundred quid because apparently it had caught me watching child porn – and the computer just froze, immune to my pleas and screams.
I was, to use the technical term, totally spazzing out by the time I got into the office, whereupon I learned that this is something called the 'police ransomware' virus and has been hitting people all over the world for the last few months.
Rather relieved – as you can imagine – that I was not actually a perv, I immediately phoned Mrs iSpy and joked down the line that: "I am now officially not a nonce who watches child porn."
Now that's a phrase no man ever wants to find himself saying to his wife.
Although I think the work experience lad sitting behind me got a bit of a fright when he heard that particular conversation . . .
So, now I'm unpatriotic?
I was talking to my brother, Dan, in the run-up to the match on Sunday and he was thinking about placing a bet on it.
He's fond of a flutter – as is my sister – and while I don't gamble because if I got into it I'd probably end up losing everything, he is happy to put a couple of quid on the odd flutter and doesn't panic if he doesn't win.
So, as he was trying to explain the different permutations of bets available – imagine someone trying to explain the rules of poker to a dog and you get the picture – I simply pointed out that if I were to bet I would follow the late, great Peter Cook's philosophy.
The comedian and scoundrel once said that he always bets against his favourite team – that way if they lost, he got a couple of quid, if they won . . . well then he had the simple pleasure of watching his team win.
So having dispatched this nugget of wisdom, I was expecting a response.
But not the one I got.
"You mean you'd actually put a bet against Ireland? Jesus, Iano, what's the matter with you?" he spluttered.
"That's one of the worst and most unpatriotic things I've ever heard. I'm really surprised. And a bit pissed off with you as well, to be honest. How could you do such a thing?"
Well, that was me put back in my box.
Now, maybe I'm naïve, but isn't the whole point of gambling simply to win money rather than express solidarity with a team?
People in collagen houses . . .
There will come a time when future generations will look back at our culture and despair.
And I'm thinking particularly about the baffling, continued fame of Jordan.
You see, here's the thing – I have never met anyone who has anything but bad to say about her.
She is coarse, vulgar, obnoxious and arrogant and has no talent that anyone can actually think of.
And she has had so much bad cosmetic surgery that when she dies they won't be able to cremate her because there's so much plastic in her body it would constitute a fire hazard.
In fact the phrase 'ugly on the outside and on the inside' springs to mind.
And now she had a pop at the delightful Kelly Brook, calling her "a heffer" (sic).
Brook has retorted by saying that she is "confused" by the comments, but really, ask yourself this – if you've had so much work done that you begin to look like a mannequin that's been left in a microwave too long, should you really start slagging off someone who is naturally beautiful?
And just to show how angry I am at the comments, here's a picture of the comely Kelly to prove my point.
Call it public service journalism.
Can they not read?
I have, I will freely admit, several pet hates.
These include people sitting close to me in a pub when there are plenty of other spaces available. Another one that drives me mad is junk mail.
I don't eat take out food (stopped a few years back and have felt the better for it ever since) so I don't need menus cluttering the hallway
And seeing as one of my dogs loves nothing more than chewing them to pieces, I tend to spend half my time on my hands and knees in the hallway, picking up shredded menus and muttering grumpily to myself.
So we got a 'No Junk Mail' sign on the door and it has worked a treat – until the other day that is, when a flyer for Labour TD Kevin Humphreys plopped through the door, prompting Sam the terrier into a frenzy of mess-making.
Well, the Government is ignoring the people's wishes on everything else, so I suppose I shouldn't be surprised they also ignore signs on doors.
I've heard it all now
We all love Sir David Attenborough, don't we?
Well, maybe not everyone.
Media studies lecturer (in other words, a job for someone who can't actually hack it in the actual media) Dr Brett Mills has denounced the veteran presenter for . . . not placing enough emphasis on gay animals, saying: "Heterosexuality is just one of many possible options."
Well, you know what?
I have never watched one of the great man's programmes and thought: "This is outrageous and discriminatory towards gay animals."
I guess I must be a homophobe after all . . .