It was blindingly clear where the allegiance of the sober and humane neutral was meant to lie in the World Cup play-off between the Republic of Ireland and France.

Memories of the magic that the Republic and their fans brought to the 1994 World Cup in the United States; the naked self-interest on Fifa's part which saw the play-offs seeded at the last minute to protect the wealthy; the geographically insane and breath-takingly offensive pre-match remark by Raymond Domenech, the French coach, to the effect that the Republic are 'England's B-team'; the fact that France are captained by Thierry Henry, the insufferably smug razor blade salesman; the presence at the heart of the French defence of mad bad Billy Gallas; the uplifting knowledge that Roddy Doyle, the Republic's greatest living author, is a Chelsea fan... any one of these factors individually would have presented a cast-iron case for rooting for the Republic. Collectively, those factors were overwhelming.

And yet, come the night and come the televising... support a team containing Robbie Keane AND Stephen Hunt? Against a team containing Florent Malouda AND Nicolas Anelka? I'm sorry, but I just couldn't find it in my heart. It was 'Allez les bleus!' for 90 minutes, and almost certainly will be again in the return. What a strange and deranging thing international football is if you make the mistake of inviting it into your heart.