Shortly after sitting through the rather uneventful Tunisia-Colombia clash at the last World Cup, the incomparable Michel Platini delivered his verdict on the rather dreary first-round games that characterised much of that tournament. I haven’t got a copy of his exact words in front of me as I write, but the gist of his argument went something like this.

At least two-thirds of the countries at the World Cup had no hope of winning the thing, he reasoned. They were not going to progress too far in the tournament. So why not give the watching millions a little something to remember before they went home?

Basically, instead of stacking everyone behind the ball and cravenly trying to avoid a thorough hiding, why not conjure up a little voodoo? Why not lose 4-2 instead of 1-0?

I thought of Platini’s words about a week ago as I watched Costa Rica recklessly throwing men forward against Brazil, contributing fully to one of the best games of football ever witnessed in the finals of a World Cup.

And they flashed through my mind again on Sunday, when Ireland pulverised a supposedly superior Spanish outfit for a solid 75 minutes between half-time and the end of extra-time. This summer the Irish team didn’t give us something to remember. They gave us something impossible to forget.

In retrospect, I think the writing was on the wall when John Giles pronounced that there was only going to be one winner of this match, i.e. Ireland. This was in fatal imitation of Kevin Keegan at France 98, when he said exactly the same thing of England mere seconds before they leaked a last-minute winner to Romania.

Giles, though, is too smart to make a swingeing pronouncement like that without allowing himself a get-out clause. What he actually said was that the penalty shoot-out was anybody’s, if proceedings got that far, but that Ireland were the only one of the two sides who looked capable of a golden goal.

And, as he tends to be, Giles was right. Spain, a team stuffed with skilful players, were made to look like a pub side for long stretches. They didn’t want to know about challenging Niall Quinn under the high ball, they seemed to visibly shrink whenever Robbie Keane advanced on the penalty area, and they shat themselves every time Damien Duff got the ball.

For Duff to stay at Blackburn next season would be like Dubai Millennium being restricted to pony-trekking outings. There has been no attacker more dangerous, more coruscating, on show in this World Cup. At times against the Germans and the Spanish he was simply supernatural, and he needs Blackburn about as much as the Gallagher brothers need the other members of Oasis.

According to the papers, the battle for his services is between Man United and Liverpool, with a price tag of £25 million (a snip!) being bandied around.

On last season’s evidence, I doubt very much if Liverpool would know what to do with him. They’d probably attempt to integrate him into their stultifying “system”, and try and turn him into the next Vladimir Smicer.

Better by far for Duff to join a team actually interested in attacking and scoring goals, so that he may get on with the serious business of becoming the new George Best in short order.

But the really wonderful thing about the Irish showing in this World Cup is that virtually every member of the side, with the exceptions of Ian Harte and the unfit Jason McAteer, ended the tournament with their reputations massively enhanced.

Think of Gary Breen, whose forehead must be halfway to caving in after the number of thumping defensive headers he managed over the four games (to say nothing of that goal). Three weeks ago he was a Coventry reject. Now he is a folk hero.

Think of Kenny Cunningham, whose continued presence on the Wimbledon roster is one of the great sporting mysteries of our time. Always a cracking defender, before the Spain game he had been restricted to a mere five minutes of World Cup action by the continued excellence of Staunton and Breen.

Then, at a moment’s notice, he came out of cold storage and slotted into the defence as if he’d never been away. Cunningham, incidentally, was our best player in extra-time, an accolade for which there was seriously stiff competition.

Think of Gary Kelly, kept out of the Leeds team all year by Danny fucking Mills, only to emerge from his cocoon of reserve-team isolation and play superbly resourcefully on the right of midfield.

Think of Shay Given, who pulled off at least nine world-class saves in the four games. While most of the keepers at this World Cup have explained away their inadequacies by blaming the new Adidas ball, Given has simply got on with it. Only Oliver Kahn and Brad Friedel have been remotely as impressive.

Think of Kinsella and Holland, tireless and truculent, running like furies and chasing every ball as if there were guns to their heads. Apart from a dodgy half hour against Saudi Arabia, both of them looked extremely comfortable at the highest level that the game has to offer.

And think of Niall Quinn, giving it one last heave against the dying of the light in tremendous style. They used to say that Quinner was one of the best players in the world from the neck up. Horseshit. He’s miles, miles better than that.

Heroes all. This is the best team Ireland’s ever had. The Russians, the Georgians and the Swiss won’t know what hit them this autumn.