Thank you, Mr Henry

WITH just six days to go to Johannesburg and almost eight months since Paris, it is time to look on the bright side, time to move beyond the recognised five stages of grief – denial, anger, bargaining, depression and that “low-down, no-good, cheating b*****d Henry” – time to acknowledge that defeat in the play-off was the best thing that could have happened to us, that nothing good could have come of our boys going big game hunting in South Africa and that, all things considered, the nation has been spared a World Cup of pain.

Here then, are 10 reasons to be grateful that we were touched by the hand of Henry.

If you’re not in, you can’t lose. This is the fundamental reason why your canny correspondent has never bought a Lotto ticket although, interestingly, failure to buy one, as far as I can see, seems to have given me as much a chance of winning as the vast majority who do splash out on their foolish dream. Similarly, Ireland’s failure to qualify means we can enjoy about as much success in the finals as if we were actually taking part, bearing in mind that winning is rarely part of our strategy at big tournaments anyway. But the real beauty of all this is that we will be mercifully spared the indescribable pain of defeat or the frustration of failing to perform. Remember Ireland versus Egypt?

We will not disgrace ourselves again in front of the whole world. Do you really need to be reminded of what happened the last time we got to the World Cup finals? Well, just consider this little alternative universe scenario, in which Ireland have qualified for South Africa and you are startled from your sleep one morning next week by a voice on the radio telling you that Damien Duff has been sent home after an explosive fallout with Giovanni Trapattoni. The ugly details soon emerge. The Duffer, long recognised as one of the most volatile members of the Irish squad, had complained about the facilities in the Irish training base, specifically the “lumpiness” of the beds which, he claimed, meant that he rarely got more than 12 hours’ undisturbed sleep.

Matters come to a head early one lunchtime when Trapattoni enters the player’s darkened room and attempts to rouse him from his slumber with a rolled-up copy of the ‘Gazzetta Dello Sport’.

Tempers rise, heated words are exchanged and, as far as the manager is concerned, a line is crossed when, allegedly, Duff accuses him of “not really being Irish”.

Trapattoni holds a press conference in which he announces that he has sent the player home and explains his decision to a mystified world’s media by playing an invisible violin. Duff returns to Ireland and is spotted at the local pound trying to buy a dog. Civil war ensues.

A truly terrible thing called ‘De Little Buke Of De Wurrld Cup’ will not see the light of day.

Eamon Dunphy won’t get to rain on our parade by describing a heroic scoreless draw with South Africa as “an affront to the memory of great football men like Sacky Glen and Sheila Darcy, Bill.”

Following the disgraceful 0-0 draw with South Africa, we will not have to put up with dingbats besieging ‘Liveline’ to complain that not enough was done to bring Stephen Ireland – “the greatest Irish player on the planet, Joe” – to the World Cup. (By the way, has anyone else noticed that, no sooner had Roberto Mancini called on Stephen Ireland to get a new head, than the government only went and closed down all the head shops. What’s a poor boy to do?).

Christy Moore will not release ‘Joxer Goes To Bloemfontein’. (Sample lyric: “The dream turned into a nightmare, Joxer stuck the head in Trap/ for not calling up Lee Carsley or giving Andy Reid a cap”). In fact, there will be no World Cup records released here at all which, in principle, can only be a good thing.

There will be no hilarious ‘handy phrase book for the Green Army’ articles in the national papers featuring such comic gems as the Afrikaans for “can I have spuds with that?”, the Xhosa for “where is the nearest Irish bar, bud?” and the Zulu for “Help, if you please, my friend is doubled up with a ferocious dose of the trots.”

There will be no homecoming party in Abbotstown, attended by literally tens of people whose enthusiasm, according to one report, was “in no way dampened by the torrential rain or the fact that their heroes failed to qualify from the group stages after two draws and a defeat.”

Music by Crystal Swing. Player introductions by celebrity dee-jays Jim-Bob and Bob-Jim. Triangular sandwiches by the FAI.

The Met Office folk on the telly won’t have to worry themselves about getting the forecasts right for South Africa and so can concentrate all their energies on getting the forecasts wrong at home.

Er, did I mention Ireland v Egypt? So, here’s to a exciting, entertaining and, most of all, stress-free tournament (oh yeah, and let’s hope the French get rightly stuffed).

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