Contrary to the pre-match bleatings of disgruntled Dublin fans in the Evening Heggald, Foul Play can report that he secured a ticket for the Donegal v. Dublin All Ireland quarter final encounter with ridiculous ease.

Indeed, the touts were practically throwing them at me as I sauntered along the North Circular, and there were small but noticeable gaps in Croke Park, especially just above and below the Hogan Stand’s corporate section. (Incidentally, why do WorldCom still have a corporate box at Croker? Didn’t they recently go bust with billion-dollar debts?)

I had a ticket for the Canal End, and found myself sitting next to a fellow from the Na Fianna club, with whom I was already passingly familiar. I had my Walkman with me, so the two of us listened to the RTE commentary on one headphone each, while watching the action unfold.

This had the unfortunate effect of making us glance at each other in disbelief every couple of minutes, as we were treated to the, shall we say, idiosyncratic commentary of “Father” Brian Carthy.

“And as I look down to my right, it’s David Burke waiting to take the kick-out for Mayo,” he informed us at one point. Great, except it wasn’t Burke. It was the Cork keeper, Kevin O’Dwyer. How can you get that wrong?

Seconds later, he did it again, telling us it was a Mayo line ball when it was Cork’s. There was much more, but I haven’t the space here to go into a dissection, except to say that when he’s on this kind of form, Carthy would make you long for a commentary from Marcel Marceau instead.

The match itself was hardly satisfying from Dublin’s viewpoint. Having grabbed the advantage with a well-taken goal in sight of the final whistle, the Dubs were hauled back to level terms, reflecting Donegal’s stubborn refusal to lie down and take their beating like good little soldiers. Things might have been different if the Dubs had had a remotely competent free-taker on the pitch, but where’s the comfort in that?

It was, however, another splendid day at the office for the great Ray Cosgrove, who has now scored 5-7 in his last three games – and who has survived the indignity of having his name mangled into “R. Mac Oscair” by the native-tongue fascists who write out the team line-ups in the official programme into the bargain.

Before his rebirth under Tommy Lyons, such was his apparent ineptitude that Cosgrove was last glimpsed coming on in the ‘99 Leinster final against Meath, and then being subbed himself 20 minutes later. In the current campaign, he has benefited from the fact that so much attention is being afforded to Alan Brogan, outscoring the latter by a ratio of about 3:1.

Dublin’s present firepower makes a fantastic change from the dry white season of 2001, when the front three of McCarthy, Robertson and Sherlock perpetually gave the impression they would have trouble putting it into an empty goal. They didn’t look like scoring even when they looked like scoring.

But in defence, things are less assured. Donegal’s eager forwards repeatedly demonstrated that Dublin urgently require a psychopath or two at the back, in imitation of the, eh, uncompromising Meath team of the 1980s.

That side was full of hard men like Liam Harnan and the fearsome Mick Lyons, man-monsters who would happily tear off your ears if you even glanced in the general direction of the Meath goal, and then eat them without salt at half-time. (yum, yum – food Ed.)

Instead, Dublin have Paul Casey and Barry Cahill, both of whom may be potential tyros – but they’re still a little wet behind the ears and it shows. Then there’s Coman Goggins, an All-Star last year but now a shadow of his former self.

Because Goggins is the skipper (which might be the problem; his form has deteriorated sharply since they gave him the armband), they can hardly drop him. But can they afford a fourth duff performance in a row from him in the replay? Clearly not.

Meanwhile, in midfield, Ciaran Whelan had to do it initially all on his own against Donegal, primarily due to the staggering ineffectuality of Darren Homan. Like Goggins, the Ballyboden bludgeoner has gone backwards at a rate of knots since his fantastic showing last year. (Not that I would say this to Darren’s face, given that he makes your average nightclub bouncer look like a member of S Club Juniors.)

These disquieting frailities notwithstanding, an appearance in the final, probably against Kerry, is still a live possibility. If the Dubs do finish off Donegal this weekend, they meet the winners of the Armagh v. Sligo joust. The latter were soundly whipped by Dublin last year, and the former… well, let’s just say that they don’t exactly court the neutral vote.

They have some talented forwards but Armagh are an aesthetic disaster area, due to their infuriating and unsightly policy of breaking up opposition attacks with persistent fouling.

Whenever a Sligo forward advanced more than a couple of yards with the ball, he was summarily flattened, for the most part conveniently outside free-scoring distance. Indeed Armagh are so cynical and unenterprising that one Dubs fan of my acquaintance confessed he would rather see Cork win the Sam Maguire than them.

I wouldn’t go that far myself, having had to endure the unsavoury, and stomach-churning sight of Cork fans waving Confederate flags on Hill 16, while their team dismantled Mayo.

It has repeatedly been made clear that such flags are synonymous with redneckery and bigotry in America’s Deep South, and that they are likely to be as offensive to black people as swastikas are to Jews.

And yet, in what is nothing short of a national embarrassment, Croke Park is still swathed in the fucking things whenever Cork play there. Why?