Once again we were reduced to a moral victory. A bit like the Yellow Ford before annihilation at Kinsale, the Irish won the battle of the red carpet. Or did we? Maybe the suits, the scarves and the Ireland's Call merchants in the stands got a kick out of the pre-match rigmarole, but to those of us watching without oval eyes it was all a little embarrassing.

Apparently the England team should have lined up for the presidential meet-and-greet on Ireland's right. But they didn't, the bastards. Perfidious Albion tried to outflank us. But we were having none of it.

Instead, the Ireland team mooched farther down the field, leaving an empty swathe of red for Mary McAleese to walk down. There was intent in Irish eyes. If England moved again, no doubt Ireland would keep going until they reached the sea.

This was all deeply meaningful stuff apparently. This showed our passion, our resolve, our inalienable right to take offence. Not that we were alone. Martin Johnson looked like a man mountain of motivational malice.

"There is a certain protocol and England are way out of order in going to the other side of the referee," fumed an irate Tony Ward, tightening that school scarf around his right-on sense of indignation. Around him grown men steamed and sweated and dreamt of Grand Slam retribution, but it wasn't long before that became a pipe dream. For once George Hook was proved right.

"This is one of those rare occasions in the last 10 years when England are giving us respect, and that's bad news for us," argued Ireland's premier scarf.

He was right to be worried. Alongside him, Mike Burton said England by 10 points.

"Yes, 10," agreed George.

In contrast, Brent Pope was "ra-raing" the Irish cause with gusto and Tom McGurk was off the Richter scale.

"The biggest game in the history of Irish rugby," he oozed. "There's never been an occasion like this . . . a nation awaits . . . fantastic . . .

amazing . . . never seen anything like it."

McGurk threatened to hover over the stadium and beam his benevolent light on one and all, irrespective of race, creed, colour or gender. Either that or combust.

"It doesn't matter about the head, it's all about the heart today," argued Pope.

"And the mind!" declared a contradictory but defiantly messianic McGurk.

Nothing was going to be allowed interfere with the purity of the sporting moment. Not even the Danzig-like provocation of the red carpet. A nation was waiting: unfortunately another nation was waiting too, waiting to kick the living daylights out of us.

Even to those most ignorant of rugby, it was as obvious as Jerry Guscott's vanity that Ireland could play until Christmas and not score a try against England. But that wasn't the real reason for the failure. No, it was the carpet.

"England coming out for the second half, and it looks like they've changed their shirts," opined Jim Sherwin. "They're doing everything right. They've played with their own ball, stood where Ireland should have. They've psyched Ireland out of it!"

The own-ball reference was that England used an apparently magic ball from their own bag every time they had a throw in. This exercised Jim enormously.

"Very interesting stuff going on down there," he mused. Except that by the end the musing was reduced to keeping the score respectable.

"Game, set and slam," announced Ward as Greenwood galloped over. Then he got another one.

"The side have not played well this year. They were lucky to get to this position," said a vindicated Hook, looking as if he had just tucked into a sizeable canary.

"We always thought England were going to win . . . they are the best team in the world," he added, looking like a man who will get to October's World Cup in good shape on the strength of one good call. In the tipping game, it's always the good calls that are remembered, never the bad ones.