Tom Humphries World Cup LockerRoom So its over. Over and done with and the World Cup is returned to us as something we watch on the television. Not a spiritual journey anymore, not a communal session on the sofa, not a tearjerker.

It's been an adventure. It's been a boys' own story. A ripping yarn, a blockbuster, a series of cliffhangers. You call it.

Two, maybe three years or so ago we left Dublin airport as young men. Little did we know how long it would be before we saw our loved ones again. We sucked oranges on the voyage to keep away the scurvy and we lags lay low in the economy galley in case Roy Keane or Mick McCarthy would come down and give us a lashing just to make the time pass. We sucked, but they called us scurvy anyway.

First, we spent a year or so on Devil's Island avoiding $40 massages and working all night, every night, as the two great houses of the Irish aristocracy clashed viciously and the younger of the great houses exiled himself to his great house near Chester. We wondered would the House of McCarthy relent, but apparently a gentleman is never rude unintentionally and there was no way back. The House of Keane would miss this brief eastern season.

The aftershocks stayed with us lags as we were transferred to a camp in rural Japan and our ranks were swelled by new meat who hadn't seen the things we'd seen. Things like dawn coming up dreamy and gorgeous on the Pacific and not a word filed or wink of sleep claimed and a telephone bill which would buy you a house to be settled downstairs in an hour.

By now the FAI, under whose auspices the whole awful experiment of living in each other's ears was being conducted, was riven and fragmented and there were rumours of splits and investigations as they shipped us out to a modern precinct in Chiba City.

And without the football, of course, it would have been unbearable. Sport larded the whole thing with romance and danger and joy. We left as young men, and some of the party who went now come back as world-class footballers. It's been a journey for some, a rite of passage for others. When it comes to standing up and being counted on a football pitch we will have a national surplus for the next decade.

We have seen great things along the way. We have seen Pat Quigley of the FAI walk topless through the lobby of a fine hotel. Seen Mick McCarthy grow old, grow young again and grow old again. Seen Niall Quinn launch a daring diplomatic mission and still be able to turn on his special genius when thrown into a game.

We have seen Damien Duff effectively hibernate throughout the tournament, emerging sleepy-eyed only to play the games of his life. And Steve Finnan, who never says a word, will go home a class player and will do his talking on some pitch other than Fulham's next year.

We've seen Steve Staunton's 100th cap. We've seen Ireland score more than one goal in a big match.

We've seen Duffer do the most undemanding goal celebration of the World Cup, a bow, and then say "You just go mad, don't you?" We've seen Gary Breen score maybe our best goal and perform the quintessential centre- half celebration, one arm in the air, slightly apologetic glances to his defensive brothers on the other side.

We've seen the team hotel at six in the morning and demanded that the staff wake people up. We've seen Niall Quinn give a half-hour press conference by himself. Oh, and we heard Robbie Keane singing.

Things have changed, too. Breen had his doubters and his detractors and it seemed smart at times to deride him. He's bigger than all that now.

Roy Keane. Of course we've missed him, but we survived without him better than Manchester United do. Damien Duff is too big for Irish football now and must be hunting down Brazilian relatives.

Somehow it's all a measure of Mick McCarthy's smartness as a manager, a footballing acuity which he seldom talks about between the bouts of paranoia and gruffness.

We've said some goodbyes. Stan and Niall. Their time with us stretches back to the dark Eighties and their contribution can't be measured in caps and goals.

And we've said a few hellos. Steven Reid and Andy O'Brien sat on World Cup benches mostly, but they will play on great teams together and the bulk of those who made this journey with them will do so also.

There is, of course, the lingering matter of England. There are those among us who bitterly regret the insipidity of the Danish performance on Saturday night, those who can't understand how a team which strolled through its group could suddenly cease to be viable. These people invested hope and good pub time in the Danes. It was wrong and immature to do so.

It is best that, regardless which level we step off the World Cup lift at, our English friends inflate themselves to the maximum level of expectation and imperial self-regard. It is when they see themselves striding the football world as a colossus that it is most apposite for them to come upon the great banana skin of humiliation.

This moment hasn't yet arrived. The English, some of them anyway, are still busy patting us on the head. Irish eyes are smiling. Pints of the black stuff are being downed. There's a party in old Dublin town tonight. Jolly green giants on a sing-song and a prayer, etc.

We have to get all that out of the way before we can concentrate on England to the extent that we can fully enjoy their demise and reflect proudly on how it is a sign of how far we have advanced as a nation that we can separate this pure, innocent joy from feelings of politics or nationalism. We just like seeing the big guy next door slip on his backside. If there's something wrong with that, so invade us.

We don't care anymore. We don't care what happens. The FAI have their investigating to do and doubtless it will be unseemly. There are a few shouting matches left to be had. They'll be ugly too.

But Niigata. Ibaraki. Yokohama and Suwon. They are the memories to insulate us. The World Cup is just a TV show now and the bunting is beginning to fade in the wind, but we can wonder if it's worth packing it away again; the good times will be back, and soon.