Whither Irish rugby? Whither, oh whither, oh whither? There were moments during the latest debacle against France when a familiar observation sprang to mind. It has occurred to me before, and will no doubt occur to me again, that this Irish team are not good at rugby.

Most of the time, this is not a problem. It matters not one whit, for example, that I am not good at rugby. It is a matter of total indifference to everyone that, say, President Mary Robinson is not good at rugby. And no-one ever held it against the former Chancellor of the Exchequer, Norman Lamont, that he is not good at rugby.

However, I beg to propose, ladies and gentlemen, that in the case of the fifteen men who don the green jersey under the aegis of the Irish Rugby Football Union to do battle with Johann Foreigner, the issue of not being good at rugby becomes somewhat more germane.

France, on the other hand, are clearly good at rugby. You know that stuff they were doing as a prelude to scoring those tries? The fancy running and passing and kicking and shimmying and generally acting the bollocks? Good at rugby.

Ireland didn’t do any of that stuff, and on the odd occasion when they attempted it, there was a palpable shock to the system, a feeling that they had lost the run of themselves and would soon settle down again into more comfortable, stodgy patterns of play, or recline once more in the abyss.

Was there a hopeful sign for the future in the promising performance of new cap, David Tweed? Well, he is 35, but then George Foreman, Heavyweight Champion of the World, is 87. A crumb of comfort, or as Ken Maginnis said of the Framework Document, not a crumb of comfort? I think ‘not’.

Certainly, the current state of affairs offers ample scope for those headline-writers who herald each new international match with the optimistic forecast that Ireland tend to thrive in adversity.

Well, in that case they must be the most thriving outfit in both hemispheres at the moment. Another way of putting it is that, by the law of averages, Ireland can’t lose every fucking match from here to eternity. It is all very sad.

The club scene is also under a wretched cloud amid widespread allegations that they are flogging tickets to that extremely low form of pond-life, the Corporate Hospitality Sector. The “real fans” are apparently being deprived of their quota.

However, it is surely appropriate that if a team isn’t good at rugby, then the spectators are ideally people who wouldn’t know one way or the other, and care less. There is a nice irony in the fact that the world of Irish rugger buggery, so imbued with the spirit of the management and business classes, can neither organise a half-decent team or a half-baked scam, to save their lives.

I spurn them as I would spurn a rabid dog.

The strange synchronicity of this planet was never more apparent than in the recent troubles of Chris Armstrong, centre-forward with Crystal Palace, who recently yielded up traces of cannabis in his wee-wee. Like his namesake Neil, he has walked on the moon.

Armstrong’s career is on hold at the moment, but the prevailing view is that he will not be unduly shafted, since cannabis is not regarded as a particularly heinous drug under the rules of football.

I can see the logic in this, when you consider the levels of relaxation which cannabis tends to induce.

The parts which cannabis stimulates are not necessarily the parts which centre-forwards require for upping their peak performance.

One can envisage a cross from the wing to the striker Armstrong who, under the influence of ganja, rejects the option of trying to knock it into the onion-sack, and chooses instead to admire the graceful arc of the ball, the perfect rotundity of the sphere, and the cosmic one-ness which it connotes.

Then there is the possibility of a penalty shoot-out, with Armstrong called up to take a spot kick. It is a sudden death situation, but our man with the spliff behind his ear is now a confirmed pacifist, like one of Frank Bruno’s opponents.

He shoots weakly and misses, and the absurdity of it all makes him crease up laughing, bent double, interrupting his fit of the giggles only to embrace the winners as part of the universal consciousness.

Was this why he was in the frame when Eric Cantona lashed out at Selhurst Park? Was he trying to calm the situation with words of wisdom like, “I don’t dig this rumble vibe: make love not war?” And in the proposed “rehabilitation” of Cantona, would a prolonged prescription of marijuana help to curb his impetuosity, and render him lamb-like?

The synchronicity in all this concerns the efforts of the Genealogy Wing of the FAI to establish the Irishness of Chris Armstrong. He certainly has the demon seed of Erin coursing through some obscure part of his anatomy, though documentary evidence is as yet sparse.

Now that the puritanical English authorities are likely to judge Armstrong harshly, it is wonderful to be able to reassure him that he will receive a compassionate hearing on this side of the water.

Indeed I think I can say for certain that we will forgive and forget his transgression – moreover that we have already forgiven and forgotten it. We are a broad church, and we didn’t hold it against Terry Phelan when he found himself in a similar difficulty. Nay, we embraced him, celebrated his redemption, and as one, chanted, “pass the Dutchie pon de left hand wing.”

Come home, Chris Armstrong, to your own people. Blood is thicker than water, even if it is tingling with reefer. Maurice Setters has already disembowelled the fatted calf!