The shipping forecast was delayed until two minutes past nine on RTE Radio One last night because of their live coverage of Ireland's game in Turkey. We can only hope its postponement didn't leave the vessels off our coast roughly where the Irish team found itself by the time the forecast was aired - all at sea, grounded, on the rocks and out of commission.

Which is where RTE's negotiations with Turkey's Star TV - the Nicolas Anelka of European broadcasting - found themselves yesterday afternoon.

"Does that mean the match is off," a young person asked me.

"Ah no, the match is on alright - it'll be on the radio," I reassured them.

"Radio?"

"Yeah, you know that box in the corner of the kitchen with the knobs on the front."

While this young person, who until yesterday thought "football" and "telly" ("you can't have one without the other") were as inseparable as `Puff' and `Daddy', spent the evening fiddling with their microwave oven, those of us of a pre-Sky Sports vintage tuned in to Gabriel Egan and the lads in Bursa.

There might have been those who switched on to Network Two at 6.0 in the vain hope that a last-minute deal with Star TV was struck, but all they got was Homer and Marge Simpson, Springfield's version of Bill O'Herlihy and Eamonn Dunphy.

Doh.

"God, why do you mock me?" Homer once asked his ceiling after life dealt him yet another raw deal. But if Homer thinks he's had it rough he should talk to a supporter of the Republic of Ireland's football team. Is there no end to this play-off misery. God, why do you mock us?

"It's do or die," said Con Murphy, as he welcomed us to Bursa, on the radio. Then there was a hush for the Irish National anthem, which featured an over-exuberant drummer and an asthmatic trumpeter. Then there was a minute's silence for the victims of the earthquake in Turkey. "Very well observed," said Con, as he chatted through the first few seconds of it.

There was just enough time before kick-off for a quick chat with Tom Connolly, father of David, Ireland's centre forward for the night.

"For some unknown reason I feel a certain amount of confidence in David," he said. Yep, Tom's an Irish Da alright. Eoin "the glass may be empty but if you look at it in a certain light it almost appears half full" Hand was trying to give us hope. "It's a good thing us coming here with a 1-1, rather than a 1-0, because we're useless holding on to a lead," he said.

"Mmmmm," said a not entirely convinced audience.

"Huge crowd, huge wind," said Con, the latter troubling Eoin a whole lot more than the former.

"It's important who wins the toss," he said, surprising those of us who thought this coin-flipping business only mattered in cricket.

Moments later: "we lost the toss," he announced, so Turkey put Ireland in to bat . . . against the wind. Omens not good.

I used to love listening to matches on the radio, but I discovered last night that I can't take it any more. Why?

"Sukur goes up for a header aaaaaaand . . . he's just grazed the crossbar."

"Erdem . . . ooooooh . . . inches over Kiely's crossbar."

"We're in to the 49th minute now and Ireland certainly do not want to concede a goal annnnd . . . there's a mistake by Kenna . . . and . . . Sukur is in to the Irish penalty area . . . aaaand . . . (seemingly enough time to boil the kettle, make a cup of tea aaaand aSsandwich . . . Kiely makes a great blocking save."

Mother of Jeeesus. At least with telly you can see the horror unfolding for yourself, but with radio? You should see the dust under my bed. And the bite marks on my knuckles. And the bare patch on the carpet. And the bald patch on my head? And the clumps of hair in my hand. And the . . .Star TV? When you pass away I hope a `Welcome to Hell' sign is waiting for you at your final port of call.

Half-time. Eoin and Ray "both goalies play for Fernabatchy" Treacy kept our spirits up and told us we could still win.

Con? Only thinking of his stomach.

"They're selling spicy sausage sandwiches on the terrace beside us and the smell is wafting up, so we'll take a break."

When we returned? Con was talking about the wind again, but this time one suspected it had more to do with the spicy sausage sandwich he had just failed to digest, rather than the climatic conditions on the pitch.

Second half? "A case of Irish despair and Turkish delight," as Con put it, between burps. And then it was time for the shipping forecast.

"Too bloody late," Mick McCarthy might well have cried.

"The good ship Euro 2000 has sunk without a trace."