I was sitting at home on Thursday afternoon when I heard the news that Steve Finnan, Damien Duff and Steve Staunton had withdrawn from the Irish squad for the Nike Cup in America (and not the O'Neill, Adidas, Fila, Ellesse, Puma or Reebok Cup . . . there's balanced reporting for ye). "This is the moment," a la Colm C T Wilkinson, began ringing in my ears.

At that point I headed for the garden and began practising my bicycle kicks, because I reckoned the phone would ring at any moment, with Mick McCarthy at the other end pleading "your country needs you", and muttering "desperate times call for desperate measures". (Why did I expect a call-up? Because I figured a scout had belatedly informed McCarthy of my stupendous under-12 football final hat-trick, when I deceived Magenta O'Reilly, who was chatting up Spuds Donnelly at the time, with three Roberto Carlos-type free-kicks - i.e., I mishit them - but I don't mean to boast.)

By then approximately 463 of McCarthy's players had ruled themselves out of the trip, having been struck down by most unfortunate and largely mysterious injuries/illnesses/unforeseen family circumstances (or foreseen, in Staunton's case, after his wife introduced baby Patrick to the world).

By the way, those of you who allege these lads just fancied four football-free weeks in the Caribbean are just being plain cynical. Shame on ye.

I really, really don't mean to be unkind, but I've had a look at the players McCarthy's been left with, the ones who haven't yet found an excuse to get out of this entirely meaningless tournament, and I have to say that I reckon I could do a better job than 61.28 per cent of them.

True, I never learnt to trap a ball in my youth and, yes, my efforts to head said spherical lump of leather usually resulted in a nose bleed and loud girlie wailing; but some would say that I have that in common with 38.72 per cent of what's left of the Irish squad. Especially the defence.

See, I think football's a simple game. Magnificent, yes, but simple. Ball. Net. Goal. Easy peesy, as Jamie Oliver would put it, as he's blending watercress, banana and peanut butter. When I watch women play football there's no fuss - they just score goals, keep 'em out and voila, game won. But lads? They attempt to con you into thinking it's an art form.

Football's a simple game. Magnificent, yes, but simple. Ball. Net. Goal. Easy peesy, as Jamie Oliver would put it, as he's blending watercress, banana and peanut butter.

It's like this changing plugs business. For 16 centuries, or thereabouts, lads told us that it was rocket science, bordering on the complicated, convoluted, intricate and complex and that you needed a PhD in Extra-Terrestrial Engineering, an Adam's Apple and other bits to be able to understand how you went about the whole process. And the sisters fell for it.

Then Seamus went to the pub of an evening and when he was gone Roisin needed to change a plug - so she did. In 14.3 seconds, discovering along the way that your average under-developed chimpanzee could do it too. When Seamus came home that night he realised that the Battle of the Sexes was well and truly over, and he was on the losing side. All he had left was football. And the lovely game stood between him, his mates and total obliteration. I think I finished Seamus off a few years back when, testosterone overflowing, he asked me: "Which former Polish international and Manchester City player was killed in a car crash in America."

"Kazi Deyna," I said. He looked at me like I'd just stabbed him in the tummy; I looked at myself in the mirror and said "you really need to get a life". A broken man, Seamus then asked me, a tad rhetorically, "S'pose you play too?"

"Just with my big brother in the back garden - he's trying to teach me how to head the ball," I said.

"And why's he doing that," Seamus asked.

" 'Cos, in return, he's hoping I'll teach him how to change a plug." Seamus' bawling could be heard in Poznan.

But still, despite all that, Mick hasn't made that call. Perhaps he has some gender hang-ups, perhaps he'd be intimidated by my ability to change a plug, but, frankly, I'm disappointed in his conservatism. I could play in goal, no bother (Shot on target? Big deal - keep it out); I could partner Gary Breen at the centre of defence and wouldn't complain once when I had to cover for him when he was left stranded in the opposing penalty box after an Irish corner); I could play alongside Stephen McPhail in midfield and wouldn't once annoy him by asking him if Pampers will be sponsoring Leeds next season; and I could join Gary Doherty in attack and resist asking him why he'd taken a backward career move by transferring from Luton to London minnows Spurs.

C'mon Mick, don't be a wuss - I'm ready and waiting, Luther Vandross albums packed and copious jars of hair gel in my kit bag. Magenta O'Reilly may have had her eyes on Spuds Donnelly back then, but I still beat her three times - count 'em. Make that call Mick, my country needs me.