Taking the mick

God knows we all needed a laugh while engaged in the grisly business of watching Mick McCarthy fall on his sword in slow motion a fortnight ago. And it fell to some idiot member of the public, interviewed by RTE’s Six-One News on the night that McCarthy quit, to provide it.

“I’m pleased that McCarthy’s gone,” he wittered, “because obviously now Roy Keane will come back and obviously we’ll qualify for the 2004 European Championships.”

Obviously.

Even if the Roy Keane thing had never happened, you could, if you wished, make a half-plausible case for McCarthy to relinquish his job, on the basis of two results and (more importantly) his infuriating penchant for sticking with several bad players out of irrational fealty to them.

But we all know damn well that McCarthy wasn’t manoeuvred out as punishment for sticking with Ian Harte, or for picking Damien Duff up front, or for losing at home for Switzerland. He was pushed to one side so that we could get our golden boy back into the fold – a fold which the aforementioned golden boy shows increasingly few signs of wanting to return to.

So Roy Keane wins. He stamps his foot and gets what he wants. And then he might not bother coming back anyway. He’ll see how he feels. He’ll let us know. Or not.

Between around 1999 and the early months of this year, I used to rate Roy Keane as the best footballer in the world, or at least the best midfielder. What happened subsequently has poisoned it all, for me at least.

I’m speaking personally here, but even as a United fan, I just haven’t got any attachment to the guy any more. What Keane did during the summer was so twisted, so self-absorbed, so appalling, that I’ve lost nearly all interest in what he does from now on. I didn’t even pick up a copy of his wretched book (if Eamon Dunphy is to be believed, Keane himself hadn’t bothered reading parts of it, so why should we?).

Let’s just ask ourselves for a moment why everyone is bending over backwards (or forwards, if you like) to pander to the wishes of this self-centred boor, who has never apologised for his own actions and presumably now never will.

Question one: why has everyone forgotten that (a) Roy Keane made all the initial moves to ensure his non-participation at the World Cup, and (b) spent the weeks beforehand loudly declaring that he’d had it with international football? Even if Saipan had never happened, he wouldn’t be playing in these Euro 2004 matches. He had said he wanted out a long time ago. Remember, a year ago he gave the Tehran game a miss of his own volition.

Question two: what is in it for him? Why would he bother getting on a plane next March to fly to Georgia and Albania, two of the least hospitable countries in Europe, for matches against tricky opposition, at a time when Manchester United’s season will be coming to the boil (assuming they prolong their interest in Europe)?

And then we come to the elephant in the room, the big, lumbering, foul-smelling one that nobody wants to talk about.

Question three: what is going to be done about the inescapable fact that Roy Keane is as popular with the other players as a pro-gun control liberal on Capitol Hill?

Some of them actively despise the man for what his behaviour did to Ireland’s chances of a good showing in the 2002 World Cup. Others weren’t that wild about him to begin with. And a couple of them (including, it is said, a certain winger with blond hair) are reportedly intimidated by him, to the point of clamming up in his presence.

What’s particularly disgraceful about the whole farce is that, in the stampede to get Keano back onside, the best manager Ireland has ever had was trampled underfoot.

After a hesitant first two years, due largely to the mess he inherited from his predecessor, McCarthy’s record was largely excellent. Of the four best performances in the history of the Irish national side, at least two of them (against Yugoslavia in 1999, and against Germany in the World Cup) took place on his watch.

He built a good side from fairly spartan materials (the current squad has no more than five, maybe six, international-class players). He got some superb results from 1998 onwards. And – this must never, ever be forgotten – he converted Ireland’s style of play from long-ball bollocks to a very watchable brand of passing football with the emphasis on attack.

For this, he was slung out on his ear like a dog to keep Roy Keane sweet. Those, as they say, are the breaks.