WHERE THE HELL IS LIECHTENSTEIN

Am I pleased with the draw for the European Championships? Well, I am not particularly displeased, so I suppose that I must be pleased, mustn’t I?
Norn Iron is by far the most unpleasant place on the fans’ travelling agenda, but we are getting used to the intricacies of these fixtures at this stage. It seems that in football as in life, our two nations are inextricably thrown together, doomed to re-enact the struggles of generations.
That oily little antique-dealer Billy Bingham was immediately attempting to plant seeds of turmoil with his post-draw declaration that the Republic might be up against it in the wake of a disappointing World Cup.
He seemed to relish the possibility of Jack’s gnarled warriors being put through the wringer in America in the manner of Norn Iron’s dispiriting experiences in Mexico ’86.
Thank you, Billy, for this sobering injection of malice aforethought, and now fuck off back to Southport.
Norn Iron look like being our main obstacle on the playing-field as well as on the social side of things, and this must be an encouraging state of affairs.
I am assuming that Portugal will be a fairly classy outfit, but if we are looking at the second-place spot, then a tussle between ourselves and whatever the Six Counties has to throw at us seems very acceptable from the Republic’s point of view.
A trip to sunny Lisbon should enliven our spirits for one of those ghastly scoreless draws at which we have become adept in recent times, and which prove crucial in our relentless grind to qualification.
On all known recent form, Austria should not pose a significant obstacle. The memory of their defeat by the Faroe Islands is one that could take decades to disperse.
Hopefully, they will still be in mourning mode by the time that our boys arrive in Vienna, though Jack will doubtless discourage his men from any feelings of complacency by adverting to the high suicide rate in this supposedly romantic city.
I am also sure that he will outline the historical dimension; pointing to Vienna’s strong connections with Freud, Jung, Mozart and Hitler, concluding his pep-talk by ejaculating, “they’re no fucking pushovers over here, lads!”
Mick Byrne will then interject, “but what of Strauss, Jack? What of the waltz, the Blue Danube and all that?” To which Jack will reply, “don’t be such a big girl. We didn’t come here to fucking dance, did we?” True, we did not.
Latvia posed few problems for us in the past, and will hardly do so again, while Liechtenstein will provide the players with an opportunity to launder a bit of sponsorship money, and then clean out the locals on the park.
Lisbon, Vienna, Riga, Liechtenstein. It sounds a lot more enticing than Croatia, Azerbijan, Macedonia and Glasgow.
How infuriating for Jack, that just when he’s getting used to the difference between Rumania and Bulgaria, the frigging map of Europe splinters into a thousand pieces. Yet, he remains calm in the face of all provocation.
In the light of the Irish rugby team’s lucky 35-15 defeat by France, the usual post mortems have been delivered with the predictability of the verdict on a plane crash. “Basically, m’lud, no-one could survive that shit.”
The familiar gallery of pundits and potentates appears on cue at this time of year, to grapple with the inevitable.
There’s Doyler, and Wardy, and Noisy, and Neddy, and Freddy, and Johnno, and Quinny, and Mossy, and Murph, and Willie John, who Robbie Robertson cryptically described as Little Willie John in his fine track, ‘Somewhere Down That Crazy River’.
The dilemma facing Irish rugby at the moment is that they will never live with a team like France, primarily because they are shite – but also because they display no ambition to do anything but contain the avalanche in a way that is not too humiliating.
Against France, they spurned the concepts of flair and invention like they would spurn a rabid dog, ending up with the double shame of losing the match and playing in a horrible style.
Boring the arses off the spectators is only acceptable if it affords you some chance of a result, whereas the Paris strategy is doomed in every respect.
Further adding to the woes of the alickadoos, is the fact that when they do force a victory like the one against the Saxon last year, the smart pundits will say that it could be the worst thing ever to happen to them, an afternoon of frenzied passion obscuring the deeper structural problems which beset the game.
Their moments of triumph are likened to a third division outfit going berserk and beating Arsenal in the F.A. Cup, enjoying the brief illusion that they are something more than a third division outfit. Which they quickly realise that they are not.
The clear solution to this impasse is to scour the parish registers of France in search of the great-grandchildren of Gaels who spread their demon seed around those parts.
There must be enough of them out there who can run ten yards without thinking that they are indulging in perversion. And then again, maybe there aren’t.