The unbeaten run continues. Somehow.

Within the last year, Ireland have become an unbeatable force (go on, have a look at the table), while frequently serving up some of the most unsightly, turgid football ever to disfigure the earth.
Which I suppose is preferable to conjuring up dazzling exhibitions of sexy football and not seeing due reward on the scoreboard. Seven grim single-goal victories next summer will do just fine.
But sweet suffering Jesus, the Cyprus game was a truly grisly ordeal, which fell a few notches short of embodying Pele’s vision of ‘the beautiful game’.
The entire purpose of the trip was to exorcise the ghosts of our last visit, and for long periods, it was as enjoyable as an exorcism, or an appointment with a sadistic three-year-old trainee dentist.
The Republic have eked out some away wins against the pygmy nations down the years that haven’t been ugly so much as hideously deformed (Iceland ‘97 and Malta ‘99 leap to mind) and this one was of the same ilk.
It has become abundantly clear at this stage that Ireland react very badly to going 1-0 ahead, and blossom beautifully when the reverse happens. It’s mystifying, and cannot be blamed entirely on Trap’s innate Italian caution, since the trait was already well established under the McCarthy, Kerr and Staunton regimes.
Looked at from a logical standpoint, scoring an early goal in a football match is theoretically supposed to be a good thing. The idea is that it gives you a crucial arithmetical advantage on the scoreboard, which should in turn encourage a willingness to apply greater attacking freedom to the cause. As opposed to which, our lads tend to take it as the cue to clam up and retreat into a shell of passivity.
As offensive and obscene as I find Stephen Ireland’s attitude towards national service, I must confess that by now, I’d sacrifice a finger to get him back on board. We currently have a great big gaping black hole where our central midfield should be, and the prospect of going to a World Cup in that state is, in many ways, even scarier the thought of not qualifying in the first place.
Blaming Glenn Whelan and Keith Andrews for their creative shortcomings is a bit like condemning a bird for having feathers: they’re decent honest grafters, and there’s a certainly a case for keeping one of them (preferably Whelan) in the first XI to do the donkey work. But the team is crying out for some semblance of wit, invention and lock-picking skills.
If the follically-challenged Cobh curmudgeon can’t be enticed into rejoining the army, then it’s surely time to send for Andy Reid. Sure, playing David Gray songs on the guitar is indefensible behaviour on every level, but that was a year ago, and he’s surely done the time for the crime.
Liam Lawrence, Chris McCann and even Rory Delap and Keith Fahey are all options that shouldn’t be dismissed out of hand (Stoke have prospered into one of the best pound-for-pound teams in Premier League history with Lawrence, Whelan and Delap all midfield regulars) but the suspicion is that like most septuagenarians, the venerable Trap is profoundly set in his ways and utterly loath to depart from a set course of action once he’s decided on it.
Full-back is another area of concern: Kevin Kilbane has been a faithful servant and seems like a smashing bloke, but his powers are waning by the minute, and his directionless hoofing the other night made you pine for the cultured precision of Steve Staunton in his heyday.
It would not be an exaggeration to state that Kilbane’s errors in the two Bulgaria games were the difference between us taking six points off them and having to settle for two, and the thought of him taking on the cream of the world’s wingers in South Africa next summer can only be described as spine-chilling. As Ian Harte proved in 2002, it only takes one weak link to fuck up the entire gig.
Of course, we have to get there first. By the time this appears in print, you will know whether or not Italy have slipped up against Bulgaria and left the door ajar for our good selves to push them off the top spot. The world champions have looked pretty desperate for most of the last year, would have had no cause for complaint if we’d mugged them 3-1 in Bari, and have undoubtedly been riding their luck at least as much as we have.
Always renowned more for defensive stinginess than any great attacking prowess, they have recently given up scoring goals completely, and look utterly toothless up front. There may never be a better time to engage them in combat.
The Italians got out of jail again the other night with a vaguely suspicious 2-0 victory in Georgia, courtesy of two magnificent strikes from Georgian defender Kakha Kaladze, a Silvio Berlusconi employee who plies his trade at club level with AC Milan. Nothing untoward there, then. The man surely spoke from the bottom of his heart after the match when he said ‘I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. It hurts me. I don’t know what to say.’
Scanning ahead to the play-off psychodrama which looks almost certain to be our destiny, it strikes me that there aren’t too many teams we should be terrified of. (Of course, it’s also fair to say that nobody will be unduly terrified of facing us).
Of the potential opponents, I would absolutely love a crack at Northern Ireland, would feel confident of having Scotland for breakfast (this must be the most wretched side in their history) and would feel relatively tranquil about the prospect of facing Bosnia, Greece or Hungary. But France/Serbia, Russia/Germany and Croatia look like icebergs to be avoided at all costs.
I will try not to ‘over-think’ the various permutations and possibilities too much over the next couple of months, but I suspect it’s a lost cause. Already, I can feel my brain slowly but surely turning into a football.
Inshallah.