D ON'T see much telly nowadays.

Blame the large aspidistra in the corner of my garret that covers half the screen. Would trim it but I fear it would reveal a new series entitled Fresh Faces with Stephen Fry, Clare Balding and Jeremy Clarkson as co-hosts of a comedy panel game.

The difficulty of viewing said TV can be confusing to a man of a certain age. Spent most of Tuesday watching particularly disturbing episodes of Embarrassing Bodies before realising that I had been standing in front of a mirror for four hours.

However, this weekend promises a bumper TV fitba' watch. First, there is the German Cup final today. Puzzled as to why it should be played at Wembley, I asked the sports editor for some illumination. Pausing only to apply a final crease to his lederhosen, he replied: "Because it is the Champions League final, you dummkopf." He then reverted to his traditional habit of searching for budget flights to the Sudetenland while I considered yet again the inexactitude of UEFA terminology.

Borussia Dartmouth and Bayern Chiswick are playing in London in the final of You Don't Have to be Champions to Be in The Champions League. It's not snappy, I conceded to the sportsfuehrerBlitzenasanewten, but it is accurate.

Still it will not stop me watching. Dortmund are as exciting as a date with Kylie though, frankly, at my age I would not know how to tackle either.

Then tomorrow I will leave my garret to attend the Scottish Cup final. It is live on the telly but the fuehrerDerwurstpersoninDergloben has ordered me to Hampden to take in the colour. It will be green and white, I predicted.

My duties for The Herald may therefore distract me from my part-time job as the chairman of the Hibernian Scottish Cup Final Celebrations Committee.

In truth, duties have not been onerous for some time. My clever idea is simply to brush the dust off the details of the celebrations when Hibs last won the cup and repeat them next week.

Thus the Hibs victory parade will adhere strictly to the format adopted on that day long ago. I quote from the protocol of that famous cup victory against Neanderthal Old Boys: "Fans will advance down Princes Street in a line of chariots before stopping in front of a large mound where supporters will construct a large building which we intend to call Edinburgh Castle.

"The Leith Supporters' Club will then be asked to come up with a special effect and they have a plan to invent something called "fire". The cup victory will mean European competition and we hope for a draw against the Gauls or Visigoths."

Monday, though, is the big match. Strangely, it is at Wembley too. Crystal Palace take on Watford for the right to play in the Barclays Premier League or, as UEFA do not call it, the The League That Shows Money is Not Everything And Is, Whisper It, Full of Crap Teams One of Whom is Shortly Going to Be Watford. Or Palace.

I love this match. Bayern and Borussia will be fighting for glory as money does not matter at this stage of the Champions League. Celtic and Hibs will be battling for glory as there is no money at any stage in Scottish football.

But Watford and Crystal Palace are battling it out for the dosh. Simple. There will be none of that rubbish about making history or lifting trophies or fulfilling a boyhood dream of playing in a play-off final. This is a match that comes with a price tag. The prize is entry to the Premier League which is an all-you-can-eat buffet of conspicuous consumption. There lie riches beyond the dreams of Archie Rice.

As the weekend progresses, the value placed on the play-off final increases as each newspaper tries to raise the ante. Let The Herald be the first to label it The One Trillion Pound Match.

The precise sums do not matter anyway. There are two certainties. The cash comes from supporters. And it goes to football players. It pauses as long in club coffers as a dodgy curry does in the lower intestine.

The play-off final serves as the perfect showpiece to end the season as it is all about the money. And if you don't see that you must have an aspidistra in front of your telly.