TV View: Copacabana dream recedes as Ireland’s faint hopes unravel
Panel left down in the dumps as a night that started hopeful-ish ends in Hopelostville
Any way, Rio seemed only around the corner when Robbie Keane did his thing, his 936th goal for his country, or something along those lines.
Bill was right, it was like Paris all over again. But by half-time, the crowd had ceased crooning “who are ya?” after Ibrahimovic started the move that led to the flippin’ equaliser. “That was as good as the Irish goal,” said George Hamilton, which wasn’t entirely true, Elmander’s header of the very fine bullet-like variety, from a rather delicious Lustig cross, while Robbie’s goal, Ronnie had claimed, needed the help of the wind.
The panel? Hopeful-ish-ness seemed to have faded a bit, “it’s like a schoolboy match, it’s dreadful,” said Giles of the Irish team’s tendency to bunch together and chase the ball as one. Eamon wanted them to spread out a little, use the width of the pitch. That would help, Bill reckoned. “Don’t hold your breath,” said Giles.
Second half. Well, “who are ya?” did it again, the sulky superstar making what proved to be the winner for Elmander.
“All of a sudden Rio seems a long, long way away,” George sighed.
He was dejected, noting that our World Cup dreams are “just like the jumper that got caught on the nail, the wool has started to unravel”.
Soon after. “If the jumper was unravelling, it’s completely threadbare now.” “What’s with the jumper thing George,” Ronnie almost asked.
Not even a pitch invader could lighten George’s mood, even if it made the spectators smile.
“The crowd deciding this is something amusing,” he said, before the camera picked out one of our former internationals. “Chris Hughton deciding to take a picture of it all,” said George, in a slightly disapproving tone.
“But he’s got nail varnish on,” noted Ronnie, spotting that it was, in fact, the woman in front of our Chris.
“Amazing the foreshortening effect of a television lens,” said George, “I wouldn’t accuse him of that, no.”
Well, that wasn’t very progressive of George, but he was in no mood to be all-embracing, certainly not if Chris was wearing nail varnish, his keeping-the-Rio-dream hopes down the Swanny.
Bill was no less distraught. This wasn’t Paris, it was Hopelostville.
“So gentlemen,” he said, “our dreams of a couple of days on Copacabana seem to be gone.” The quartet on Copacabana? The image will live with us forever.
Eamon? “Despair.” Etc.
His enthusiasmus for the manager gone the way of our Rio dreams. He mightn’t be alone, you know.