I have been reading the reports of the rugby international against England, with no little perplexity. Not one commentator, not even our own estimable Gerry Thornley, has hit on the key reason why Ireland won, though I should have thought a simpleton would have grasped it.
There is a spurious theory that Keith Wood had something to do with the result. To be sure, he has a certain sturdy charm, not least because his head resembles a hard-boiled egg after it had been gnawed by nonagenarians with one tooth apiece, before they abandoned the enterprise as hopeless. And though his try was certainly relevant, it was not the reason why we won.
The shallower sort of observer might think that David Humphreys's ability to place the ball vast distances to its intended target, so distant it is unseen, explains everything; but such precise long-range skills in the dark are also necessary in gynaecology or dropping artillery shells where you want them to go. But it takes more than that to make a doctor or win a war.
I don't know how many Eric Millers there actually are in Ireland, but I counted several of them on the pitch on Saturday. David Wallaces appeared to be present in numbers, and also an entire portfolio of Foleys. But even this supernumeracy was not the reason why Ireland won.
Hand-trip tackle
Nor was it Peter Stringer's laser-guided passing, or even the extraordinary hand-trip tackle with which he reduced a barrelling Luger to a mere 9mm, and which suggested that instead of an arm he has one of those hydraulic hoists which can lift a man up onto a chimney pot. Similarly, the Dempseys and Hickies and the O'Kellys and other clans no doubt lay claims to the influence of their representatives on the match.
The O'Driscoll family probably believe their Brian is important, but that is the O'Driscolls for you: the name O'Driscoll is, as you know, from Cork, and a modest sense of proportion is as common there as lap-dancing bars in Kabul. So I grant the O'Driscolls this much: their lad is not bad, has a sweet couple of feet, and seems to know where the try-line is. But he wasn't the reason why the barboured Anglo-Saxons trooped glumly home.
Nor was his co-centre Kevin Maggs, though I have to admit his name alone marks him out as a very great gentleman indeed. Indeed, though I make no judgement on him personally, I would merely observe that anybody who is called Kevin M***s invariably possesses superhuman qualities of beauty, intelligence, charm and wit; bearers of such names are - of course - capable of formidable feats of sexual prowess, as many a pantingly grateful young woman in their wake could testify - if, that is, any were still capable of speech.
But I digress. There is no doubt that Kevin's heroic tackles (plural, mind) are vital for the Irish team. But it was the influence of another Kevin M***s on the match that I wish to speak of. It is true he is somewhat more mature than many of the Irish rugby players; that it is a while since he fitted comfortably into a 32-inch waistline; and his hair is somewhat sparser and greyer than that of any other Kevin M***s who comes immediately to mind. But his influence on the match was vital.
Memorable season
Why? Because he wasn't there. For the first time since the series of 1913-1914 - a memorable season, when Captain Basil Maclear, Royal Dublin Fusiliers, played throughout in immaculate white kid-leather glove - I missed an international at Lansdowne Road. Instead, I was at home, under the settee, hanging from the light fittings, running up and down stairs, screaming only slightly hysterically, punching holes in the plaster, chewing lumps out of the marble fireplace, and kicking the dog firmly into touch; but I was not at Landsdowne Road.
This was unusual. I was there when Ireland was beaten by the Bognor Regis Lady Pensioners' Sewing Circle captained by Myrtle Sidebottom. I was there when the Tierra del Fuego Penguins XV beat us. I actually paid to see a Mother Teresa Scratch XV from the Calcutta Orphanage for Victims of Landmines wallop us. I am still in therapy from the time I saw a Tibetan team of four monks, five yaks and a yeti (named Seamus, actually), who had never played rugby before, overwhelm us. There is, in fact, nobody I haven't seen beat us at Lansdowne Road. Moreover, I have even gone to the vast trouble and expense of seeing similar rout after rout abroad.
IRFU delegation
The change in our rugby fortunes came after I received a delegation from IRFU at my home recently. They entered on all fours, bouncing their irfu-bonces on the floor as they approached, uttering supplicant whinnies, their bottoms undulating beseechingly.
I enquired: Yes, insects? Their request was simple. My presence in the ground was unnerving the players. Was it possible that I might be elsewhere for future matches? Patriotic duty and all that? I removed a speck of dust from the irreproachable Mechlin lace of my cuff and I drawled: Little cockcroaches, it shall be done. And it was.
For the first time in my entire adult life, I missed a major rugby international at Lansdowne Road. And Ireland f***ing well won. Yet not a single rugby writer twigged on. An overpaid shower, that's what they are; an overpaid shower. Unless their reports start giving due respect to my vital role in Ireland's rugby fortunes, I'll be back. BACK, DO YOU HEAR? BACK!