Behind the couch: Mary Hannigan discovers that you'll never beat the Irish - at least sometimes

"Kean-ooo, there's only one Keano," they bellowed at full-time, with the emphasis on the "one". Even the faithful followers of the Church of Roy had to smile. Touche.

"You're spot on," said the exiled leader's disciples, "but you're being a bit unfair on Robbie."

Robbie Keano the Younger, that is. Son of God? Well, according to immaculately- sourced rumours circulating on the Internet, the News of the World will reveal next Sunday that Roy is Robbie's Da, the end product of a one-night stand with the sister of the hairdresser of the one in Atomic Kitten who once went out with Bobby Davro's caddy's grandson's best-friend's uncle's accountant's gardener's therapist's plumber.

And who are we to dismiss such immaculately-sourced rumours circulating on the Internet about impending News of the World revelations about Roy (genuflect at your leisure), eh?

Robbie Keano? "He's banjaxed, he can hardly breathe, he's running on less than empty," said one viewer after an hour, "get him off."

Full-time.

"Told you he had plenty left in his tank, class will out, never doubted him," said the same viewer. To hoots of derision and cries of "you're full of it".

Mind you, 91 minutes, 41 seconds into the game some of us were packing up our inflatable bananas, attic stairs down, ready to store them away until the next World Cup.

Oliver Kahn?

"We could be there till October and we wouldn't get past the f . . . fine custodian," said the very same viewer.

"It's not to be, trust me - sayonara baby," they concluded with a flourish, an ostentatious display of their multi-linguistic flair.

Ninety-one minutes, 42 seconds: "Now, if Roy was there we'd have equalised by now and we'd still be in the . . . jeeeeeesus . . . Quinner . . . ROB . . . BEEEE . . . gooooooooooooal."

Weeeell . . . mother of Jeeeesus.

There was a time the cry of "yiz'll never beat the Irish" had some of us gagging down our toilet bowls, but cripes, it now appears to be a mere statement of fact.

It was, though, too late to thrust a triumphant, exhilarated, joyous inflatable banana in to the air and over the moon - like Rudi Voller and Oliver Kahn, it was already deflated, hanging limp over the arm of the couch, with not a puff of breath in its body.

By then Matt Holland and Mark Kinsella had won this couch's respect, even if they filled the gaps where our leader should be. Our only consolation was: it took two of them.

Until yesterday this couch was never quite sure what the term "honest" meant in footballing lingo; after watching Mattie and Markie against the Germans it all became clear. If ever one finds oneself in the trenches dial "Eminem" (em, M 'n' M), no better men. (Apart from Roy).

Christ, even Kevin Kilbane won this house's respect. All season he's wrapped his left foot around the ball and delivered it to any spot other than that which was marked X on the forehead of Niall Quinn and the right boot of Kevin Phillips. Now? Are you watching Overmars?

Duffer. It's what we in the trade call "Damien Duff". This couch watched him zig-zagging his way around inefficient German defenders and purred. A damn lovely joy to behold. Damn it, the boy's a bit special.

Still, though, Zlatko Zahovic told his Slovenian coach that "I can buy you, your house and your family - you were a dickhead player and you're the same as a coach," and he's been forgiven. True, he apologised, but that's only 'cos he had no pride.

Calm down, calm down, jest-alert. Expend your energy writing to your long-lost uncle-in-law in New Zealand rather than the letters' pages. You'll feel better in the long run.

For now the faithful followers of the Church of Roy say "hats off to the boys and . . . Mick McCar . . . (sorry, can't do it)" while insisting that our inflatable bananas would have a whole lot more puff in them if our leader was there. But he's not.

So, onwards to the Saudis. It's been a splendid trip so far.