Sideline Cut/Keith Duggan: Like many people on Thursday evening, I made the mistake of believing we had a transport system. It was to have been a short drive to the shops for milk but when I returned sobbing and broken yesterday afternoon, it had turned sour.

Probably should have walked but was discouraged by the heavy shower that began, if memory serves, around 1982.

Radio reports had announced that Dublin had become like Venice but without the beauty. Entire streets were flooded. This was confirmed by the sight of a pensioner floating down a stream that was once the road outside my window. He too had been to the shops and was clinging to a large batch loaf in order to stay afloat. Several of his purchases bobbed loyally alongside him. He was of that obsessively polite and formal generation and when he saw me, he attempted to doff his hat and call in greeting. I think he shouted, "Soft Day, Thank God," but the current pulled him under for a few seconds.

I didn't manage to save him but as he floated towards the traffic lights I warned that he should try to paddle out of the bus lane in case he incurred any penalty points under the new road regulations. He appeared not to understand.

So I drove. On the radio, all the talk was of the "Estimates". People were encouraged to ring in with their queries. After three hours, I called to seek an estimate of how long it ought to take to drive 500 f******g yards to buy milk but the minister appeared not to have covered that.

The rain became heavier.

A weather report announced that while most of the country was in danger of drowning, Cork was dry and fair. Felt instantly bitter and envious about Cork in general but inevitably began thinking about Roy Keane and Ireland and managing Ireland.

With several hours to spare, pondering Ireland's managerial candidates seemed as good a way to kill time as any. Other commuters were twiddling with the radio or frantically texting the outside world. It is a curiously claustrophobic experience, being stuck on a dual carriageway unable to move forward, or reverse, for hours on end with just drive-time disc jockeys for company. It is likely that several wills were drafted in text form by commuters fearing the worst.

For the first time in many years, my thoughts turned to Kenny Dalglish. There was a time when Kenny Dalglish held an endless fascination for many people in this country, not only for his wonderful displays with Liverpool but also for his post-match interviews. I do not believe I am alone in saying I have never heard Dalglish utter a single sentence that I understood.

ON countless Saturdays before the advent of Sky television, he would stand before the cameras, fresh off the field after another scintillating display and you would wait with baited breath as the interviewer would venture, "Fine game, Kenny. You must be pleased?

And Kenny would smile and nod in the affirmative and instead of regular football words, a wonderful rush of what sounded like exotic curses would fill the air.

All BBC soccer correspondents must have had to take a special course before interviewing Kenny for they all nodded in sage agreement with whatever it was he said. For a while, I thought that he had developed an ingenious interview technique based on the principle that if they don't know what you're saying, they cannot contradict you. Such a device would certainly serve him well in his dealings with the FAI. But given that we are supposed to be entering a new era of crystal clear communications within Irish soccer, this is perhaps not the best time for Kenny.

That said, he would almost certainly enjoy a harmonious relationship with Roy Keane as they could but stare at one another with a mix of mutual admiration and utter incomprehension any time they might attempt to strike up a conversation.

John Aldridge, Kenny's old Liverpool team-mate has been endorsed by none other than Big Cas. An inordinate number of people appear to have bumped into Aldo over the years since he combined soccer and distance running for Ireland and the general consensus is that he is salt of the earth. The nicest guy you could meet. For this reason alone, he should probably be guided away from the Irish post.

Wondered if the FAI revolution would be far reaching enough to give Brian Kerr a shot at the post. Knew in my heart he was much too articulate and inventive and knowledgeable to be taken seriously.

COULDN'T feel anything but pessimistic about the thought of Bryan Robson. He seems to be cut from top-quality managerial cloth, with a fine playing career behind him, a blokish rapport with the new generation and an endless supply of drinking stories but somehow, even before his Middlesbrough experience, you always felt that luck kind of ran against him.

And an Irish manager, above all managers, needs luck.

Martin O'Neill would seem like a perfect choice but the Irish defence is jittery enough these days without Martin haring up and down the sideline with his intense and violent mannerisms. Anyhow, he doesn't want it.

None of the other candidates seemed worth considering. Began musing about potential dark horses and convinced myself that someone like John O'Mahony or Joe Kernan would do as good a job as anyone. Remembered that Tom Lyons declared he'd love to manage a Premiership team in the summer. Felt a bit better about life at the notion of Tom on the sideline at Lansdowne Road, although found it hard to see at which position he would select Ciarán Whelan.

Considered the possibility of John Giles returning as player-manager. Reckoned he'd still finish in the middle pack during the sprint sessions at training.

Later became convinced the only solution was Roy as captain and manager. Feared that Roy would be too tough and insist on sending himself home. Then, decided that if Don Givens wins next week, he should just be given the thing. Forever.

Realised that it doesn't matter anyway because Ireland is sinking. Began to understand that Don Givens is a seriously lucky man. At least he is getting out of the floods for a few days.

Started weeping at Don's lucky break.

Eventually got home, tired and distraught and none the wiser. Still don't know who should get the job. Still hasn't stopped raining. Still have no milk.