Across in mainland Europe plucky little Belgium has suffered for generations as the butt of a million eurotrash jokes.
Q. What goes Bang! (10-second pause) Bang! (10-second pause) Bang!
A. A Belgian machine gun.
George Leekens, one suspects, has a fine appreciation of the ironies involved in the administrative centre of Europe doubling as the laughing stock of the Continent. He came to Dublin last week and fooled the locals into believing a few of his Belgian jokes.
The "We're on our way to France" vibe which had built up in the Irish media (more noticeably on RTE than in the printed media) suited Leekens just fine. He had injuries to ponder and the untimely retirement of Philippe Albert to consider, and he made some room for himself by playing the harmless village idiot. All the while his team, its experience and his range of options gave him the superior hand.
Leekens was unlucky not to have taken a two-goal lead back to Brussels. He packed his side with muscle, but not in the sense that we understand muscle. His side had more fluid movement and better touch in all sectors of the field than the Irish did. More than that, they had the resilience to recover from an early body blow and the strength to hustle the Irish right out of their stride.
Jack Charlton was in the commentary boxes doing duty for Channel 5 as the misery unfolded. Belgium's goal, spawned by a misplaced Irish pass and delivered by way of mass uncertainty in the Irish defence, was the sort of tab- leau vivant which used to make the big man wake up screaming.
What will worry Mick McCarthy more than that costly slip, from an otherwise heroic defence, however, was the manner in which Ireland were put under pressure when in possession. Most unEuropean stuff from the bureaucratic centre of Europe. Midfield, the ceaselessly clattering engineroom on so many prior adventures, was billowing smoke throughout on Wednesday night.
Keane's growling presence was sorely missed, as was the youth in Ray Houghton's legs. Equally distressing is that Jason McAteer's career has gone into such severe recession that he wasn't even a serious candidate for a late introduction as things got desperate. His team-mates on the Irish side spent the week addressing the Liverpool player as Guisseppe by way of amused reference to his tabloidrumoured transfer to Italy. McAteer must have wondered how his career could have gone to the extent that whisper of transfer interest from abroad provokes ribald laughter.
We in the media don't treat Mick the same way as we treated the success-gilded Charlton. There were times when Big Jack would come in after a bad day and we would take it in turns to wag our tails and hump his leg. By contrast, McCarthy has had his ankles bitten a few times.
Yet on Wednesday night, the nature of our failure was such that the manager's press conference passed almost entirely without incident, save for McCarthy's terse reaction to a daft question about his team being under-motivated.
Indeed, for those of us who have been with the team and its manager through the 10-game apprenticeship which was the qualifying campaign proper, McCar thy's demeanour and bearing in the days before the game marked a new stage in his development as an international manager.
Often in the past he has worn the pressure on his face and expressed it in his words. His stress was perhaps infectious. Last week he was relaxed and upbeat and the spirit within the side was so strong that you could almost feel it. The FAI may not reap the windfall of France 1998, but they made the right decision in extending McCarthy's turn at the helm.
The low point of McCarthy's first campaign - and probably the turning point - was the disaster in Skopje last spring where once again scoring the first goal wasn't sufficient insulation (as it wasn't on Wednesday and in the away games in Lithuania and Reykjavik).
In Macedonia, the manager was forced to confront his players with questions about their bizarre improvisations on the pitch when, having taken an early lead, they began to hear the rhythm of the sambas and devised their own extravagant passing game.
This week, in Kilkea Castle near Athy, the uncertainties and indiscipline which marked that disastrous trip were gone. McCarthy kept his side relaxed and happy with the comforts of routine and the security blanket of the manager's own fierce conviction.
Picking Mark Kennedy was a mistake which was remedied early on, and the youngster is unlikely to receive the indulgence of selection again until he is playing first team football somewhere. Two woefully under-hit passes which gave up possession were merely the most visible aspects of Kennedy's travails on Wednesday night as he struggled to comprehend either the nuance or the urgency of his task. Franky Van Der Elst, 15 years his senior, must have wondered why it was all coming so easily.
At least Kennedy's difficulties were ended early. The introduction of Jeff Kenna restored some balance to the side, and Townsend and Staunton both looked better players when they returned to their more traditional postings.
The other problems came about as a consequence of the difference in class and energy levels between the sides. Georges Leekens spread his five-man midfield wide across the middle of the park and the Irish found themselves compressed.
McCarthy's team, built by necessity around a big man/small man combination up front, scarcely got a run to the byline, much less a telling cross back to the vicinity in which Tony Cascarino was loitering. For his part, Cascarino was ushered about the place like a miscreant being bumped from a disco by a couple of grumpy bouncers.
With Cascarino imprisoned by two burly Belgians, and nothing coming down the wings anyway, young David Connolly was forced to stream back towards midfield where he worked hard in a swamp of muscular Belgians.
It has been a trying time for Connolly: left by Feyenoord to fend for himself up front in Old Trafford a week previously, he came to Lansdowne Road burdened by the knowledge that in the interim his club side had been pulped by Ajax (4-0), a trauma which resulted in the dismissal of manager Arie Haan.
There are explanations and excuses for Wednesday night's disappointment. Injuries have dimin ished the Irish team cruelly. Bad planning by the previous administration has left us with an imbalanced team. It can even be argued that there was something worthwhile and commendable about the manner in which the side rode out the storm and secured a one-all draw when it would have been easier to cave in.
For all that, though, the sterility and lack of invention was depressing. Threading the ball intricately through midfield is a noble aspiration provided that the embroidery yields something. On Wednesday night it sparked nothing more than a yearning for the old Charlton days.
For Brussels the options are limited. As of yesterday, Norwich City were reporting only tentative progress concerning Keith O'Neill's long-running injury saga. The youngster would need to regain his touch and his match fitness in record time to be considered a serious option for the second leg.
Which is a pity. After Keane, he is the team's biggest loss. Ideally, his endless running and huge strength would have given the Belgians something to fret about. As it was, a heavily marked Cascarino found he no longer had the energy to run all day just for the purposes of dragging people away from their position.
No solutions other than a general and drastic improvement in the quality of play suggest themselves for the return leg. Robbie Keane, the Wolves forward, scored two goals on the Under-18 side's trip to Moldova, but that contribution disguised a general quietness in his play. Anyway, no matter how desperate we are, it is too early for Keane.
Ditto Damian Duff. The star of Ireland's youth strings last summer has seen injuries to others grant him a breakthrough at Blackburn in the past couple of weeks. His success is welcome, but we should avoid the precipice we arrive at through wishful thinking. To expect a kid with literally a handful of Premiership appearances to make the difference on a night like November the 15th is to think that the X Files is a fly-onthe-wall documentary.
Gareth Farrelly hasn't developed quickly enough and Lee Carsley hasn't enough big time experience. Danny Cadamarteri has decided he is English and Gary Breen's return to form merely matches Ian Harte's growing stature.
Mick McCarthy genuinely believes that his team can play considerably better than they did on Wednesday. T'is meet. Playing better is the only option left.
In Brussels, we need a win or a draw involving the division of at least four goals to go through in normal time. The team has now gone six games without defeat, which is something of an achievement in itself; but one suspects that a city whose principle attraction is a bronze boy evacuating his bladder might still prove too subtle for us.
The Belgians will have Scifo, Oliveira and De Bilde back in harness. It will be a night when even heroes might be mowed down. We travel in hope, not in confidence.
By the way, if they tell you that the streetlights all over Brussels dim a little when you plug in an electric razor, don't believe them. It's a little joke. Like the one about the useless Belgian football team coming to Dublin trembling.
