Did you, dear reader, honestly give a flying fuck whether or not Ireland managed to vanquish the Aussies in the Compromise Rules series? Am I the only one who singularly failed to feel the faintest stirrings of excitement? In theory, I liked the idea of it – it is, after all, sport, and therefore inherently exciting.

And it was, y’know, Ireland playing, and thus automatically commanded a certain patriotic interest. But the rush just never materialised, and that was with Mícheál on the radio making it sound as if it was a World Cup Final and the last sporting event ever before an impending nuclear holocaust. And no-one could accuse it of being one-sided, with Ireland mounting a reasonably stirring late rally to whip the crowd into something resembling life. But, I’m sorry: the concept itself is a complete exercise in futility.
With the Aussies apparently on their best behaviour after the naked savagery of the 2006 series, it doesn’t even have the raw bare-knuckle violence appeal factor that was arguably the series’ entire raison d’etre in the first place. As the clock ticked down during those nail-biting final few minutes, I found myself occasionally glancing up from the newspaper. The emotions weren’t engaged at all. The pain, sorrow, disappointment, guilt, shame, self-loathing and humiliation that invariably ensues when you watch Ireland lose at soccer or rugby was conspicuously absent. The regret, the mental replaying of key incidents accompanied by an endless internal monologue of “what would have happened if we’d done this or that” was singularly absent.
With Giovanni Trapattoni’s conquest of Europe not quite proceeding in the manner we might have hoped for, and no competitive fixture until March, it falls to our rugby warriors to raise the spirits as the long dark bitterly freezing nights encroach, with gruelling assignments looming against the world champions (South Africa) and the undisputed best team on the planet (New Zealand, despite their chronic inability to win World Cups). There are also slightly less gruelling assignments against Samoa and Argentina, and with the World Cup now less than a year away, and some serious amends to make after the horrors of the last one, these four battles should give us a reasonably good idea of where we stand in the global pecking order.
Eighteen months after scaling Everest by delivering Ireland’s first Grand Slam in 61 years, the team’s halo has slipped somewhat, and we enter the winter in the middle of a five-match losing streak, with Paul O’Connell absent and serious doubts over the fitness of Brian O’Driscoll. And yet, a cursory glance at our best starting XV confirms that we’re a pretty shit-hot proposition, even shorn of our two best players.
As is perhaps my wont these days, I am in confident, optimistic fettle and fully expect us to put the wholly unpleasant Springboks in their place. I’m not normally one to hold a grudge (as Thierry Henry can confirm, after my magnanimous suggestion that he should be given the Freedom of Dublin for sparing us the indignity of being shafted royally at the World Cup), but I haven’t forgotten Schalk Burger’s disgusting eye-gouge of Luke Fitzgerald during the last Lions tour, or the astonishing observation of their coach Pieter de Villiers when asked to comment on the gouging (“It’s sport, man. That is what it’s all about.”)
South Africa may be world champions, but they haven’t looked like it for most of the summer (one win from six in the Tri-Nations), and this may be a perfect time to take them on. They are handicapped considerably by the stewardship of de Villiers (essentially a rugby equivalent of erstwhile French soccer boss Raymond Domenech), who hasn’t got a clue what his best line-up is or how best to deploy it. Obviously the talent in the ranks is pretty stunning, and the players are more than capable of overcoming the coach’s eccentricities: Victor Matfield and Bakkies Botha remain the most imposing second-row pairing on the globe, Bryan Habana is lightning, the back row is downright evil, and The Beast is... well, The Beast. But this doesn’t seem to be a particularly well-organised or focused crew, and we tend to be quite formidable in November in the howling wind and driving rain. And we have beaten them on the last three occasions they strolled into town. Foul Play hereby backs Ireland to do it again.
And then (deep breath) New Zealand. Are we really ready for this? It’s a bit like a visit to the dentist - undeniably terrifying, and fraught with the potential for agonising pain. In my wildest dreams, I cannot seriously envisage us beating the All Blacks, having been on the receiving end of a merciless 66-28 shafting the last time our paths crossed (and our 28 points were very much an incidental detail, arriving after they’d taken their foot off the gas in the second half). The strength, power and pace in their line-up is so blood-curdling it really doesn’t bear thinking about. Basically, we have two options: curl up into a ball, assume the foetal position and prepare to be brutalised, or roll up our sleeves and give it absolutely everything and hope that we catch them on a relative off-day. A defeat of less than 10 points would represent a significant achievement, and of course there is a time-honoured tradition of the Kiwis peaking precisely one year before the World Cup and always, always, without fail, fucking it up when the big one rolls around.
We’ll know a hell of a lot more after these jousts have been concluded, but notwithstanding the mildly worrying age-profile of the team’s key figures, I think the squad is in at least as healthy a state as it was three or four years ago when the ‘Golden Generation’ was generally deemed to be at its peak. The starting XV arguably was stronger a few years ago, but the overall depth of talent in the squad appears better now than it’s ever been, with a range of options in almost every position, and an indisputably excellent crop of youngish players having broken through in the last two or three years. A 50-point shellacking at the hands of the All Blacks can’t be completely ruled out, but I believe there are reasonable grounds for thinking that Ireland can look forward to going toe-to-toe with the superpowers next September, in a World Cup which we are theoretically capable of winning if the Kiwis implode the way they usually do. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First things first: bring on the Boks!