When you're jolted from your slumber by the image of Dave Pearson's toothy grin, you know it hasn't been a pleasing weekend's rugby, writes RISTEÁRD COOPER

FOR THOSE of us who get too involved, too emotional and too carried away with the things we can’t control, the manner of the defeat to France last weekend was acutely painful. Of course it’s neither fair nor proper that any men in green should be held responsible for the national mood, it is nonetheless true that if they had won, this week’s rain wouldn’t seem so wet and the repayment of €90 billion would seem perhaps a little more feasible.

It is the way of us Irish that we are either euphoric with silly optimism or paralysed with pessimism.

On a personal note, I awoke several times on Sunday night with the disturbing, recurring image of referee Dave Pearson’s toothy grin staring at me, then penalising me, the way a deranged assassin beams before pulling the trigger!

I should know better, I’m a grown man looking at a bunch of fellas beating the bejaysus out of each other over an oval ball, but nothing gets under the skin quite like international rugby.

A loss of the plot occurs when watching soccer too, but only when Ireland are involved in big tournaments, so consequently it doesn’t happen very often, and if Giovanni Trapattoni has anything to do with it, it’s destined to stay that way.

Ireland’s indiscipline at the breakdown has been widely criticised, but in this observer’s humble opinion they showed admirable restraint in not decking the ref for inappropriate smiling.

It’s one thing to have missed France living off-side for the afternoon, but the subsequent awarding of penalties against Ireland accompanied by an inane smirk had me off the seat, wrecking my vocal chords and beating myself on the head.

Memories of watching Ireland play France over the years tend to be associated with agony of various proportions. There is a distinctly warped symmetry between the Vincent Clerc “moment” in the historical opener at Croke Park in 2007 and the Seán Cronin “moment” at the opener at the new Lansdowne Road last Saturday.

Lady luck might have played a vital part in Ronan O’Gara’s kneed one-two with David Wallace and Jerome Thion’s shin for Jamie Heaslip’s try, but she was having a snooze when the ball broke awkwardly off Maxime Medard’s fumble at the end when it could so easily have sat up for the flying Keith Earls.

This game was a big chance for Ireland and for the players who had genuine ambitions to win another Grand Slam, they now must be content with a possible share in the Championship or, maybe, second or third place.

That probably feels about as comforting as getting your composition to the final of the national song contest and then being told it’ll be sung by Jedward, or Annette Bening being reminded on Oscar night that although she didn’t bag a 2011 Academy Award, she did win an IFTA.

You sensed that in the immediate aftermath of the final whistle those across the water couldn’t disguise their delight that France had pipped us at the post, as it set up the perfect climax for what was always going to be Le Big One in Twickenham, or as they were modestly dubbing it, Le Crunch.

BBC’s John Inverdale said it all: “Yes, bad luck Ireland, plucky and passionate as usual. But now, what about England?”

Indeed, what about them? No country ever gets carried away with themselves quite like England, and having beaten Australia in the autumn and probably France next week, the graph appears to be heading in a similar direction to Fabio Capello’s merry men at the round ball circus last year.

There was huge expectation going in to the World Cup, players throwing shapes, tweeting inanities to beat the band, “writing” columns, their media losing the run of themselves with the inevitable subsequent plummet into the abyss. Will they ever learn?

With speedster Chris Ashton making all the headlines, Martin Johnson appears adamant that Team England is bigger than any one individual. Remember Danny Cipriani anyone?

Johnson knows a bird never flew on one wing, but if Ashton tries his trademark pointy finger and “swallow-dive” down in New Zealand, he’ll be lucky if he swallows again. After the Welsh match, the no-nonsense England coach had a “serious word” with him, warning him not to repeat “the rock star stuff”, but he went ahead and did it anyway, twice, much to the thigh-slapping guffawing of big Jonno in the crowd.

Some people don’t look right smiling, like the aforementioned Pearson, but the sight of Johnson cackling uncontrollably was a more alarming sight than his usual psycho-eyed monster routine.

Not so much the cat that got the cream this time, as the man that ate the cat. Indeed, Johnson’s forehead is usually so heavy with tension at any given moment he looks like he could pull it back to reveal someone else from the planet Vulcan.

Warren Gatland doesn’t usually go in for much smiling either, while Andy Robinson’s only expression appears to be squinting, as if caught in headlights.

Go figure. Gatland has something to smile about however, given he has finally realised James Hook is his best player and that with Andy Powell’s new hair colour and 1980s Magnum PI moustache he looks primed to walk away from rugby and star in the next series of Shameless.

As for Scotland? It’s testament to the quality of their performance against Wales that the only evidence of any creativity came in the form of Dan Park’s icicle-shaped side burns. Congrats, Dan!

After a few days’ rest and recuperation the Irish boys are back to business and, hopefully, with the possible return of the lad Bowe for bonnie Scotland. Maybe we’re due a smile or two as well. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves but, the prospect of denying England a Grand Slam while winning the Triple Crown in Lansdowne Road would certainly do the trick.