Am I the only one who has broken out in a rash at the prospect of going to Euro 2016? I know I’ve said all this before but after a convoluted qualifying journey, we’re off to play soccer in France next year and the hullabaloo will drive me mad. I mean, is it not the object of the exercise when you go to these tournaments to try to win one of them, at least occasionally? Have we a hope of winning the thing? No. As long as Spain, Germany and Italy exist I don’t think we’ll be picking up many trophies. We’ll have to be content with moral victories and nearly nevers.

We all had high hopes for the rugby until the Argies punctured our balloon. We came home dragging our hopes behind us and wondering if we’ll ever really get into the big time.

Wouldn’t it make more sense if we could play in a lesser international tournament, akin to the Junior B football championship in Kilkenny or the Christy Ring in hurling? If they had tournaments like these where we could play countries like Kosovo, Andorra, Macedonia and Luxembourg maybe we could win something now and again. But throwing us in with the big boys is like fielding the Leitrim hurling team against Brian Cody’s best – the absurdity of this seems to be lost on the most intelligent of people.

When it comes to Ireland in Euro 2016, the TV pundits will agonise over every kick, every misjudged pass and every near miss. They will do so in the certain and sure knowledge that the boys in green will be coming home without a hint of silverware. The Irish fans, of course, will be voted fans of the tournament; the more we’re beaten, the more we celebrate. The usual scutter.

Maybe I should forget about winning and just relax, enjoy the spectacle and appreciate the moral victories. Perhaps I should take my lead from Larry Gogan and the way he consoles the more disastrous callers who attempt his 60-second quiz. He’ll blame the questions as he assures callers: “they didn’t suit you today”. Even people who couldn’t name the capital city of Ireland or tell Larry how many quarters are in three-quarters are made to feel good and feel as if they have won first prize.

I think RTÉ should have someone like Larry on the commentary panel to console us in our delusion: “Oh sure, the type of football the Spaniards played just didn’t suit our boys today. And the four goals were unfortunate – they certainly didn’t suit our keeper.”

Even without Larry we’ll give ourselves plenty of soft-soaping till the open-topped bus has come and gone from O’Connell St and the strains of the last Olé have echoed around the GPO. But then the build-up to our next international nearly-never tournament kicks off and the delusion begins as if the last disaster never happened.

No, I don’t care for the hoopla that goes with Ireland on the international sports scene. As Willie Shakespeare might say: “’tis much ado about nothing”. The beauty of soccer in Ireland is in the local leagues and cups played out on muddy fields around the country at this time of year. The teams playing at this level are made up of your original hardy bucks; they tog out in the car or by the ditch with briars threatening to do them permanent damage in the family planning department. They wait to shower till they get back to mammy or back to Dublin and hope they might have enough time to get a training session in before the next match.

These local teams often rejoice in very salubrious names like Borrisnangoul Rovers, Glengooley United and Bally Rangers. Indeed a particular local team lost the plot entirely when it rechristened itself Atletico Shronefodda. The aforementioned teams and their likes are full of characters – many of them fanatical soccer men who have learned to survive on slim pickings found in the shadow of the GAA. One such character is my colleague at the Depot, The Whip Carey.

In his day he played in goals for Borrisnangoul Rovers and was good at his job. He was brought into the team to replace Toby Buckley, a long-standing keeper who had become leaky with age and earned himself the nickname Butterfingers Buckley. Borrisnangoul fortunes improved as soon as The Whip took up position between the posts and they won the league after beating Rathbinnis United four goals to three in the final. The disgruntled Butterfingers met The Whip the following day and remarked: “Them were three soft auld goals you let in yesterday, Whip.”

The Whip shot back: “Wasn’t it lovely to be there to let them in.” CL