It was lovely to hear Thierry Henry’s every touch of the ball being venomously booed last week by his own people in the Stade de France, as Les Bleus were taken to the cleaners by an utterly wonderful Spanish side, which is beginning to bear comparison with the finest teams of all time.

I have long harboured a deep affection for the Spanish national team and the Spanish game in general, but the identity of their victims made this one even sweeter. Regular readers will be aware that I took the ‘Hand of Frog’ incident in my stride and got over it very quickly, that I have stoically managed to rebuild my life with remarkable resilience, that I only wake up in a cold sweat thinking about it two or three times a week, that I bear the French team no ill will at all, hope that referee Martin Hansson lives a long and fulfilling life which ends quickly and painlessly, and that the whole wretched saga has in no way shape or form ruined my willingness to enjoy the poxy fucking World Cup.
Well, perhaps I exaggerate slightly. You can overcome a lot in this life. With enough dedication, the human spirit can break free from the stranglehold of alcoholism and/or drug addiction, recover from a toxic marriage that more closely resembled a stint in prison, work your way up from sleeping in a snakepit hostel full of heroin addicts to a beautiful apartment overlooking the blue sea. But you will never, ever truly get over being robbed of a World Cup place by a blatant handball. This one will haunt me to the deathbed, and I know I’m not the only one.
Still, I must admit that, with the global extravaganza only three months away, I am genuinely beginning to look forward to the prospect at last. There are very few things in creation more wonderful than the World Cup. I can still recall the joys of Spain ‘82 (quite dimly) and Mexico ‘86 (very vividly). I know that the electro-chemical mind-fuck I derived from watching these exotic events felt utterly sensational, a month-long paradise of limitless colour, intrigue and drama, infinitely more special than Christmas (and I loved Christmas) and, most of all, un-tarnished by the fact that Ireland were nowhere to be seen on either occasion. Even thinking about it now, more than 20 years on, gives off a lovely warm glow. I hope this one is every bit as special.
The night before Spain filleted France, another friendly of enormous international significance took place, as Ireland got battered by Brazil. On one level, the result was reassuring, in so far as it reminds us that amidst the post-traumatic agony of Paris, it’s quite possible we may not have won the World Cup after all. If we’d beaten Brazil 5-0, the spectre of our absence from South Africa may have stung that bit more intensely.
The Brazilians seem to be one of only two teams (our immediate easterly neighbours England being the other) who look capable of living with and/or beating the Spanish in their present pomp. While their innate flair hasn’t disappeared, manager Dunga (the winning captain in ‘94) has instilled a hard-nosed mentality and impressive organisational soundness into a team which historically has always been seen as somewhat flaky on the defensive side of things.
Indeed, the phrase ‘Brazilian defender’ used to be an oxymoron, perhaps singularly personified in the lumbering figure of Rafael Scheidt, a man who possessed something that persuaded then-Celtic manager John Barnes to shell out five million quid for his services, back when it was five million quid. Scheidt lived up to his surname in spectacular style, and was eventually offloaded after being run ragged by the might of the Bray Wanderers strike force in a pre-season friendly. Now, Brazil has an abundance of defensive talent, and Inter Milan’s Lucio is probably the best centre-back on the planet. They have been winning consistently at all altitudes during a qualifying campaign that turned into an effortless jog-trot, and will take some beating this summer.
As for the others? Holland have fantastic players, but they’re still Holland, and will surely start cutting one another’s throats in the dressing room long before the first round is over. Germany don’t have great players, but they’re still Germany, and in true Triumph of The Will fashion will probably bludgeon their way through to the last four. Their erstwhile wartime allies, current world champions Italy, did not look in the least bit formidable during a qualifying campaign wherein they twice drew with Ireland, and will need to step it up several gears if they’re to keep their crown. Argentina have a ridiculous array of talent, yet the suspicion lingers that Diego Maradona may not be the sharpest tactical thinker on the planet (though his autobiography El Diego is a hoot, and his press conferences will surely be unmissable).
England? Their squad speaks for itself. They are certainly good enough to win the World Cup, and if they do, I’ll contemplate moving to the Antarctic or the Moon to escape the flag-waving and chest-beating that will inevitably ensue. I mean no offence whatsoever to my English colleagues, some of whom are among the nicest, kindest, most intelligent, well-rounded people I know.
Nor do I have any axe to grind with England as a nation. Any youthful bigotry I may once have harboured has long since evaporated. I always enjoy visiting the place. I love London and Manchester. I devour their broadsheet media and have spent many happy hours watching their clubs play football. I even like some of the players. I just can’t stand the team, or the prospect of them ever winning anything in my lifetime. Anyone who grew up watching Jimmy Hill, Jimmy Greaves and Jim Rosenthal will understand.
Vis-a-vis the accursed French, the inherent pain of watching them at the World Cup will be eased considerably if they go down in flames, a prospect which looks very likely under Raymond Domenech’s half-witted guidance.
Les Bleus’ rugby counterparts, meanwhile, have no such worries, and following a pretty sublime triumph in Cardiff, they are almost certainly en route to another Grand Slam. Our boys did the business in Twickenham, thanks to bloody-minded defending, iron discipline and inspired decision-making at key moments.
England’s demeanour since Martin Johnson took charge has increasingly begun to resemble the children’s cartoon character Bump The Elephant: admirably committed, honest as the day is long, big, strong, powerful, and terminally clumsy. They must have had 70% of the possession against us, but seemed utterly incapable of varying the script or doing anything remotely improvisational.
We are now in the curious position of hoping the Sweet Chariot can do us a favour by pulling off a miracle in Paris. I will be utterly gobsmacked if they do, and the prospect of Italy pulling off the same feat is so remote it doesn’t deserve to be seriously discussed.
So, we probably have to wave goodbye to our reign as northern-hemisphere champions, and make do with a Triple Crown and a four-win season. The fact that this will be seen as a mild disappointment by many — even after winning in London — speaks volumes for how far the Irish team has travelled since the dark days of the late ‘80s and entire ‘90s. I am not quite taking Wales or even Scotland for granted. The Welsh are completely flaky but always have the capacity to rattle off two tries in the space of five minutes, while the Scots are nothing like as bad as their haul of three defeats to date would seem to indicate. But it takes some leap of the imagination to picture this Ireland team losing at Croker to either of them. And a fifth Triple Crown in seven seasons would be an achievement of staggering proportions, when you think about it. Here’s hoping.