The look of bewilderment on the Germans’ faces was priceless. There are few experiences in football that compare to a 94th-minute equaliser away from home against the world champions, and it having been quite some time since we had anything at all to really celebrate, the nation went appropriately apeshit.

Certainly, qualifying for the Euros last time out didn’t really compare in terms of euphoric release: that was more of a slow, steady, sure-footed hike through what in hindsight was a shockingly favourable group, with the added bonus of facing Estonia in the playoffs, where a 4-0 first-leg away win basically booked our tickets to Poland, for better or worse.
But this was different: this was one of the great redemptive payoffs, a delirious punch-the-air-and-roar-like-Thor moment that recalled the crescendos of the glory years, invariably 1-1 draws against nominally superior opposition, with the rescuing equaliser rarely arriving before very late in the day. We were entitled to rejoice uproariously.
Looking with a more dispassionate eye, after the euphoria had settled, it should be pointed out that in truth Ireland’s performance was not a particularly great one. The lack of comfort in possession, and absence of passing fluency, was especially pronounced in the first half, and I can’t have been the only one who was roaring at Stephen Quinn to close Kroos down about 500 years before he rattled in the Krauts’ opener. The likelihood, of course, is that if he hadn’t scored, neither would we: it stretches belief that we’d have flung the kitchen sink at them in the manner we did if it had still been 0-0.
Still, one point against Germany is still only one point, and it will count for little if we slip up further along the line. A seven-point return is the best we might have realistically expected from the first three fixtures, despite the inescapable truth that there were lengthy passages of all three games where we didn’t play well. And with Poland and Scotland both showing signs of resurgence, the group is shaping up to be a belter. I won’t be able to get to Celtic Park next month, but Warsaw for the final qualifier this time next year is a definite.
Back on planet Premiership, as I type, Man City have just slipped up badly at the Hammers, and Bond-villain Jose Mourinho’s Chelsea have the opportunity to establish a scarily commanding lead at Old Trafford, a task I imagine they will have pulled off with minimum fuss by the time you read this.
I am really enjoying watching Manchester United in their new incarnation as a preposterously entertaining, deeply flimsy proposition who hold onto leads as if they were live electric cables, short-circuiting the scoreboard: the 20-minute spell at Leicester during which they turned a 3-1 lead into a 5-3 humiliation may have been the most enjoyable passage of football I’ve seen in many years. Keep it up, lads.
Anyway. Next issue: Scotland, here we come.