Okay. I've looked at it, and it is a mainly US list. My friend and colleague Chris Clarey, from the New York Times, has weighed in to express his view that Pete Sampras does not deserve to be in there, not really, and nor does Switzerland's five-times Grand Slam winner of the late 1990s, Martina Hingis.

I am not going to argue about the other names - or even those two.

And actually I'm not going to put together my own list of the 19 boringest athletes of all time. But, because I am a "glass half full" kind of a guy - ask anyone who doesn't know me - I'm going to respond to this tweeted tantalisation with a list of some of my least "boringest" athletes of all time.

Which means the least predictable - whether that means rising to unsuspected heights, or sinking to sudden lows, or both.

While we are on the subject of tennis, John McEnroe has to be the archetype of the least boringest. 

Of course it was unforgettable when he exploded, but I l found it even more fascinating to watch the upstart American as he brooded on the injustices of life, the enormities of error being brought to bear upon him by officials, and perhaps also spectators, and to see whether it would turn out to be gunpowder or whether he would find a way to transmute his fury into yet another sublime dab or sweep of a shot.

Almost a decade earlier, Ilie Nastase was as volatile. But while that seemed all too often to be a calculating, even cynical performance, McEnroe's outrage never seemed synthetic, and often served to disadvantage himself more than anyone else.

While we're in that era - Alex Higgins. It is odd, when I think of the expression he often had on his face as he played snooker, with injustice boiling in him, it seemed similar to the one borne by McEnroe. Perhaps it is an Irish thing.

"Hurricane" Higgins was one of the most exhilarating sights in sport as he dashed around the table, ever eager for the white to come to a halt so he could crack it away for another velvet pot. It was a show, but it was also compulsion.

In the end, sadly, the compulsions snookered the show. I was present at Goff's sales ring in County Kildare in 1990 when Higgins met compatriot Dennis Taylor, the affable world champion of 1985, in an Irish Masters first round match that was drenched with angst following an earlier publicised row between the two men following Northern Ireland's defeat in the Snooker World Cup final. 

Higgins had threatened to have Taylor shot. Given the troubled times, and the fact that the two men belonged either side of the sectarian divide - Taylor is Catholic - the words reverberated to chilling effect.

Higgins, drinking steadily, went 3-1 down by the intermission. Taylor returned to his room. His opponent remained at the table, drinking steadily. Later in the interval, as I stood a few yards outside the hall with its live TV paraphernalia, I was alerted to a figure unsteadily relieving himself in a drain in the horses' yard before returning to the centre of things, where he ended up, inexorably, beaten.

George Best. The epitome of un-boring - unless perhaps he was in his cups. On the field, often, no doubt to the muffled cursing of his Manchester United team-mate Bobby Charlton, he was gloriously ad-hoc, thrilling, inventive, selfish, courageous, outrageous. But the day I saw him, United lost 4-1 at home to Southampton and he was hardly to be seen.

Eric Cantona. First saw him playing for France Under-21s against England, when he was insolently better than anyone else on the field. Leeds seemed to see the point of him but then - unaccountably, unbelievably - let him go to re-energise their trans-Pennine rivals Manchester United. 

There was the karate kick, to be sure, against the dismal, mouthing Crystal Palace fan. There was the hint of violence in him at all times. That was part of the fascination - as was his masterful command of play at the most vital of times. No seagull he - more a swooping bird of prey.

Curtis Robb. Bit left-field, this, but by God, this Liverpudlian had the right stuff when he burst onto the British athletics scene in 1992, winning the 800 metres trials and having a right old go in the Olympic final before blowing out and finishing sixth. 

A more prudent run might have seen him finish a little higher. Not interested.  

A year later Robb, who like a certain Roger Bannister was running on parallel lines with a medical career, chucked the lot at it in the World Championship final in Stuttgart and finished an agonising fourth. Nine years later I bumped into him training at Trafford Park for what proved to be a swansong appearance at the 2002 Manchester Commonwealth Games. Cutting to the chase - he is now a surgeon. But he was a thrilling sight on the track.

And while we're still on the track, I've got to say, there is something special about Dina Asher-Smith. Yes indeed, she is not exactly an unknown or under-celebrated figure, especially after her European 100 and 200m wins in Berlin this summer. 

But beneath the abundant laughter there is a super-smart, watchful operator who always seems to deliver quality under pressure. It is a trait that could take her a lot further, and it will be exciting to watch.

Bit random, these Non-Borings. Plenty more out there of course. But these come from the heart…