Forget Paris

When Chairman Mao was once asked what he thought the repercussions of the French Revolution had been, he famously answered: “It’s too early to tell”.

Certainly a mere matter of hours after Irish hopes were guillotined in the Paris, there is little perspective in Ireland. Facebook groups denouncing handball culprit Theirry Henry are growing exponentially. Twitter is creaking under the weight of bile directed at the Barcelona striker’s apparent account. Men cried openly in pubs. And to be honest, I can understand every bit of it.

Henry has just come out and – far from apologise – insisted it’s the referee’s responsibility to ensure fair play wins out. This is utter bollix, of course. Without getting all Mrs Lovejoy on it, I have to say I was reminded of walking towards Croke Park on Saturday before the first leg when the French team coach sped past. It was empty, having just spewed a file of iPod-listening Frenchmen onto Jones Rd. But a young father pointed at the bus and told his excited little kid “That’s the bus that Henry was on!” What a joke that seems now.

His reputation is forever tarnished. And though the rest of the world will no doubt, move on and Henry will, once again, be amongst the globe’s most respected and loved players; here, in Ireland, we will not forget. Not that this will bother him much.

Despite our side’s wonderful performance, it has to be said also that, we shot ourselves in the foot. We should never have let ourselves to once again be mugged. We could have finished them off. We didn’t, we got caught.

FIFA have now got their way. They stacked the cards against Ireland (I don’t want to get into the seedings row again, but will) and now they have what they wished for – a tarnished (in my eyes) World Cup with their most bankable stars.

I spent three weeks at the last World Cup – living in a €15 Dunnes Stores tent and cheap and cheerful hostels, attempting to see every team on a €150-per-day budget for a gruelling/life-changing series of features.

I loved every second of it and I’ve loved every World Cup since I was but a lad. Those tournaments are like bookends to phases in life, memories that punctuate my growing up. And something that a country requires – especially one in serious need of some morale boosting.

But I have to say, I’ll find it hard to enjoy the next one. FIFA and the big boys can have their circle jerk; I don’t feel like watching, at the moment. But it’s too early to tell.