“Hard to know how to feel about that,” said the officer of the association. “Another 1-1 win.”

I didn’t say a word. I was lost in thought, looking from one end of the pitch to the other, then back again. “Does the goal at this end look bigger to you than the goal at the other end?” I wondered.

The officer shook his head in a tired way. “Not this again,” he said.

He needed a drink. We all needed a drink. But this was important. As one of my European counterparts said to me at a Uefa conference in Tirana a few years back, there’s no point in being at the top table if you’re not prepared to make a big stink about the wine being corked.

“See this goal here,” I said,” the one that Sweden scored into? It’s massive, lookit. And the one that we were attacking in the second half – you can see it’s smaller.”

“That’s because we’re sitting nearer to this one,” the officer said. “It only looks bigger. What’s this they call it – an optical illusion?”

"You said the same thing to me when Thierry Henry was down on that pitch throwing the ball around like Michael Jordan. 'Our eyes must be deceiving us.' Your words that night."

“That was different.”

“Can I say something to you? And don’t take this up the wrong way. You’re what’s known here on the continent as a f**king eejit.”

“Why, because I think the two goals are the one size?”

“Do you remember the other night when you’d your pocket picked in Bugsy’s Bar?”

“Of course I remember – didn’t I have to cancel my cards?”

“You felt someone take your wallet. And yet you spent the next half an hour patting yourself down, wondering did you leave the thing back in the hotel?”

“I didn’t want to go making a fuss – in case it turned out I wasn’t robbed at all.”

“And that’s what makes you a f**king eejit. Oh, don’t worry, you’re only one in a long line. The Irish have always been scared to make a fuss. That’s why they laugh at us. Do you remember what happened in Belgium in ’81?”

“Of course I remember what happened.”

“And they went to the World Cup. Same as France did six years ago. And the Irish were sitting at home, patting their pockets down, wondering had they been robbed.”

I stood up, set the facial expression to mightily pissed off, then started making my way down towards the technical area, flashing my laminate pass at various functionaries barring my way and shouting, “Irlande! Officiel!” to let them know I was a man who meant business.

The officer of the association followed at a distance – like Saint Peter, ready to deny me at the first opportunity.

The entire stadium had cleared out by the time I found a fella in a Uefa blazer. I walked up to him with a look of murder on my face.

“I think you know why I’m here,” I said.

He looked down at my laminate pass and he recognised my name. “Ah, gute eefening,” he said, in broken English. “Your team does gute, yes? Very unlucky not to wheen this metch.”

“Don’t patronise me,” I said. “We were robbed tonight and I’m here to lodge a protest.”

“Okay – and what is the basis for this protest?”

“I’m presuming that’s a joke. The two goals are different sizes.”

“Different sizes? No, I don’t think.”

“I don’t care what you think. The goal that Sweden scored into is bigger than the goal at the other end. There’s at least two inches the difference. If that goal had been the right size, Ciaran Clark’s header would have gone the other side of the post.

“We’re demanding that Ireland be awarded a 1-0 victory and all three points. Failing that, we’ll take five million euros.”

The official turned his head and said something I didn’t understand to a functionary standing beside him. He nodded his head, then reached inside the pocket of his blazer.

“Jesus,” the officer of the association said, suddenly very brave once he saw me making headway. “Is he writing us a cheque?”

“Stop smiling,” I said out of the corner of my mouth. “We’re supposed to be angry. The very minute they think you’re assuaged, they start knocking the zeros off.”

The official pulled his hand out of his pocket and with it, unfortunately, not a chequebook, but a tape measure.

“Oh, good Jesus,” the officer of the association said. “What are you after getting us into?”

“Will you shut the f**k up?” I said. “You’ve got to brazen these things out. Otherwise, they’ll never take you seriously again.”

We followed the official onto the pitch. With the help of his functionary pal, he measured the goal that Wes Hoolahan scored into, then he asked me to verify the measurement: "Seven point three-two metres – is gute, yes?"

I nodded but in a way that suggested I wasn’t entirely convinced. Then we walked the length of the pitch to the goal at the other end.

“Let’s just apologise now,” the officer of the association said. “You’ll cause an international incident.”

The functionary held one end of the tape measure against the post and the official walked backwards to the other post, opening it out. He asked me to read the measurement.

“Seven point two-two,” I argued.

“Is not,” he replied. “Is seven point three-two, see?”

“Okay, that’s your opinion.”

“Is not my opinion. Is opinion of measuring tepp.”

“Okay, two million then.”

“Two meellion?”

“Euros. To not proceed with a legal case.”

That shook him to his feet. He wasn’t expecting that. He knew he was suddenly in a fight.

“No,” he replied.

“Okay,” I said, “we’ll just take the three points then.”

“No.”

“What about two-and-three-quarter points?”

“No.”

“Two-and-a-half points?”

“No.”

“How does one and a half points sound?”

“No.”

He turned his back then and he walked away. It was clear at that moment that I’d done as well as I was going to do on behalf of the FAI.

“That’s what’s called negotiation,” I said.

“Can we get a drink now?” the officer of the association asked.

“We’ll get a drink,” I said. “I think we’ve earned it.”