The taxi has no suspensions. As a passenger you begin to regret this acutely as you scud along the main drag in Bydgoszcz dodging matt-painted trolley cars and defiantly sluggish pedestrians. "So. Who now is big player?" asks the driver concentrating rather too much on his conversation. "Who now is Ireland big player?"

When travelling abroad with the FAI members of the official party are issued with a little booklet which details aspirational stuff for a shambles-free future in the form of an itinerary. The booklet also provides factual stuff like match stats, records and useful phone numbers for ourselves and our opponents. They would be invaluable if they came with key phrases concerning Roy Keane. In Tehran. In Izumo. In Bydgoszcz. In all those places it would gave been helpful to have been able to smoothly says to the natives "Yes, we have no Roy Keane."

There would have been no need for a grounding in the language and dialects - just some key phrases. "Yes, we have no Roy Keane. What's it to you pal?"; "Yes, we have no Roy Keane. Interestingly we are also deficient in Lee Carsley"; "Yes, we have no Roy Keane. In fact we all have Keano Fatigue"; " Yes, we have no Roy Keane. The aliens made his head explode. Again"; "Yes, we have no Roy Keane. He has been betrayed by a treacherous hamstring and has returned to exile."

Sadly we have not been provided with such basic linguistic tools and as we pass the local opera house we find ourselves saying slowly but loudly in the Esperanto of the terminally dopey: "IRELAND BIG PLAYER IS SHAY GIVEN." The driver shrugs. By way of helpful clarification we say "NEWCASTLE UNITED." He shrugs again. " Nut Mannedchester United" he says dolefully. No. Indeed nut. It is too late to pop John O shea of Wahfuh and Mannechester into the game, even though we know the words (IRELAND BIG PLAYER IS SHEAZEE). We feel we have let the taxi driver down.

He deposits us outside the Zawisza Stadium and as we make our way to the brow of the hill to look down into the green bowl wherein Sgay and Sheazee and the boys (two Reidys!) are gambolling, it occurs, not for the first time, Bydgosczc's reputations as the kip of all kips is as well deserved as Dublin's reputation as the Paris of the weather-beaten world.

The stadium is a mite dusty but even as the lads train work is being done to the place. The press box is being hammered into smarter shape than the press themselves. The athletics track is being spruced. For the umpteenth time on trips abroad we gather around and note how nice it would be if Irish soccer could have one of these rinky dink little stadium thingies. One decent one. A stadium as good as the one in Bydgoszcz or Tirana or Tiblisi.

There is a distracted feel to the training which extends from the pitch to the press areas. The absence of the leading man hangs over the proceedings out on the grass as Rosencrantz and Guildenstern and Polonious and the others run through their lines half heartedly. Hamlet has done his hammer. He will not be appearing. There will be no soliloquies, no "alas poor Yorrick" stuff with Roy holding aloft the head of Jason McAteer.

In the wings we hacks are reluctantly consigning our conspiracy theories to the grave. Perhaps we are just exhausted by it all but sometimes a hamstring twinge is merely what it is. The conspiracy theory de jour involves believing Roy Keane withdrew from playing with Manchester United for three weeks in order to execute a ruse wherein he might come to Dublin, watch some rugby, train with some fellows he hasn't seen in a while, and then skip off home.

Were it all to have been so cunningly choreographed they would surely have got the press-end of things right. Keane's return and abrupt departure was so badly handled (no words from him, journalists scurrying to count the numbers of players getting on the coach, no press conference, rumours flying, embarrassment to the player, etc, etc) it makes you believe none of it was planned.

Watching the team train we don't want to believe it but we can't force ourselves to come up with anything more plausible. He had a hamstring twinge. He went home. The hamstring acted alone.

Afterwards we have a little press conference in the wood-walled restaurant behind the stadium. There is a huge media showing for what we had assumed was going to be the resumption of the Keano monologues.

Now it's just Brian Kerr and Kenny Cunningham. Competent but no edge. Richard and Judy when we've come to see the Rocky Horror Picture Show. More nice words are said about Roy Keane than will be uttered at his funeral. He is as integrated as a milk shake. He is top man. He gives us something. A presence or an absence. Depending. Everyone tries to evince some excitement about the game at hand but even Kerr can't rise himself to name a Polish player when asked for an assessment of the home team. In less distracted times Kerr would have their inside leg measurements.

It's difficult and awkward and anti-climactic. It's tempting to paint Kerr as the exotic young mistress for whom Roy so nearly left that Scottish harridan who no longer understands him. Yet it's wiser to just wait and let events unfold.

We leave. Catch a wheezing tram back into town. Even the comparative pleasantness of Bydgosczc seems like a letdown. We had been promised epic drama set against a backdrop of decay. Instead we have crossroads. Bah, pass those boiled meatballs in beetroot suit. We've swallowed worse.