Only two measures might enable Ireland to beat France in Paris in the last away game of the Six Nations Championship. The first is that we must all assume facial expressions of the most direst and most doleful mien. If we have any friends or family in France, we must send oh-woe-is-us messages to them all, glumly forecasting a score such as one from between, say, the Chicago Bulls, with Michael Jordan, and the Kerry Kavaliers, led by Jackie Healy-Rae.
Petitions of doom must be circulated everywhere. The correspondent for Le Matin should be able to report that the country is plein de doleur au prospect d'un walloping formidable par les heroes de rugby français. Their ambassador here, whose name, alas, I do not know, must be called to Iveagh House and told of the gravity of the situation: that a defeat is regarded as acceptable, but a humiliating rout is not.
Channel fleet
It is true that much of our channel fleet is at the moment stranded up the Avon, bombarding Stratford as part of the war to release the Millennium Five (as reported recently in this column recently). And anti-Catholic insurrections in the mustard-growing parts of East Anglia suggest support for the enthronement of Pope Billabong I as Archbishop of Canterbury is weak. (Poor Billabong is eking out his lawful papacy in exile in the modern day Avignon, Woomara, while the Polish Pretender holds court in the Vatican.) But these military diversions must not be allowed to lure the French into believing that we will tolerate a shameful degradation in the next international.
It is simple. Tough, no-nonsense Brian Cowen shall warn the French ambassador: defeat we can live with; but in the event of a merciless massacre by the French, we shall simply return our Indian Ocean Fleet around its home at Killaloe. After refitting, it will sail for Brest, Le Havre and Harfleur, to invest, seize and permanently hold, as its commander-in-chief storms the breaches, crying: God for Mary, Ireland and Pope Billabong!
(Thus assured that we are obsessed with not being massacred, the French will assume their victory is certain, and their coach will be giving them lessons in not scoring more than a hundred points. Thus is laid the psychological base for an Irish triumph.
But we need more than psychology. We need to pick the right team. I have reluctantly agreed to the perfervid supplications from the IRFU to make the squad selection. And though some players from last Saturday might justifiably feel aggrieved at their omission, I am naming a team for overall coherence.
Determined forager
Tight-head prop is Sister Mary Aloysius O'Driscoll, who currently is in a home for elderly nuns in Killarney. She's not great on her pins, but she's a determined forager, and is an expert garrotter in both ruck and maul with her rosary. Immaculata Concepta O'Driscoll is our hooker. She may normally be found in Fitzwilliam Square between six and ten in the evenings. Immaculata also plays netball for the Harlot Globetrotters, so her lineout throw-ins are bound to be an improvement on what we've seen recently.
To complete the front row we have Crispin O'Driscoll, who is a dress designer in London. He and his partner Terry live in Camden Town. They have a Yorkshire terrier called Jean-Luc, and when not working, or at home, they may both be found pursuing their interest in vernacular domestic dwellings on Wandsworth Common, a thoroughly wholesome pastime apparently known as cottaging.
Second row goes to the twins, Pearl and Mabel Goolagong O'Driscoll. They qualify for Ireland through their paternal grandfather, an officer in the RIC Auxiliaries who, for some uncertain reason after the Troubles in the 1920s, chose to settle in the Australian bush.
The wing-forward positions go to the two Xexopocatetl O'Driscolls, Andean Indian brothers who are descended from a 19th-century Kerry silver prospector. What they lack in height and speed they more than offset with their pan-pipes and handwoven carpets. Number eight position goes to their half-brother, a llama named Seamus.
The scrum-half position is difficult. Craig Goolagong O'Driscoll is an obvious contender because of the length of his pass; but - alas! - this normally circles right back to him. So we're going instead for Nanook O'Driscoll, from Alaska, even though an expanse of white second-row belly emerging from the mud usually prompts him to harpoon it.
Fighter pilot
The out-half position, with all the responsibilities for kicking, must go to Douglas Bader O'Driscoll. He is expected to overcome the handicap of having died 20 years ago with the same ease with which he overcame his leglessness as a fighter pilot during the second World War. Outside him will be the more recently deceased Padre Pio O'Driscoll, and in full-back position will be the equally extinct Christy Brown O'Driscoll.
One wing position must, of course go, to Mary O'Rourke O'Driscoll because, though not exactly fleet of foot, she knows how to give private enterprise the run-around. And her performance in the team bath is always something special. The other wing goes to Michael Buckley O'Driscoll of AIB, mostly because our team is short of large, effulgent moustaches, and he's got three of them on his face alone.
Which leaves just one place to fill, outside centre. And for the moment, we just can't think of anyone for the number 13 shirt. So in the best traditions of Irish team selections, we're giving it to A.N. Other. Once that position's sorted out, we have absolutely nothing to fear from France.