IF YOU ASK ME: They are on a high down in the Valleys after ending Ireland's World Cup dreams but the French can put a stop to their singing, writes RISTEARD COOPER

‘AH ME alas, pain, pain, ever forever,” as Shelley’s drama Prometheus Unbound had it. Just in case you thought it was from Fair City. Or to put it in the modern vernacular, “what an almighty kick in the ding-a-lings”. While I might have been wrong in daring to be optimistic about Ireland in advance of the match last week, the fact remains they had the greatest chance we’ve ever had to win the World Cup and if I may quote Paul O’Connell after they beat Australia: “When Ireland play to their potential they’re capable of beating anyone.” Ain’t that the truth.

Having felt the need of a Valium or two before the match last Saturday, a visit to a shrink is still not entirely out of the question. The days of planning and preparation leading up to watching it on the box were an ordeal in themselves. Who am I going to watch it with? Who am I not going to watch it with because they’re a curse and we always lose when I’m with them? Who is not allowed anywhere near me because they talk over the ref-link and you can’t hear Craig Joubert attempting to justify Wales’ infuriating and apparent birthright to stand all day on Ireland’s side of the rucks?

But the pressure told in the end, alright. When Jonathan Davies waltzed with the graceful subtlety of a tank through the Irish defence, the full litany of expletives exploded out involuntarily. I can’t be certain, but it felt like one of those outer body experiences where all around you is momentarily forgotten, all the blood races to your pressure cooker 7am head and boom, it all came out.

When I came to, as it were, I realised there were several young family faces looking at me, wide-eyed, slack-jawed and concerned. Never before had they seen the like of this. It was time for a walk in the hall, a few deep breaths, a good look to the ceiling and back I went, knowing it was gone, the dream was over. By then of course the young ones were giggling to themselves at the returning nut-bag, shaking their heads and wearing an ‘ah well there’s always next year’ expression. They possess maturity beyond their years, I only wish I did. Ah me alas pain, pain, ever forever!

Of course, being an adult you’re supposed to put these things in perspective and concentrate on the positives like . . . eh, no sorry, nothing springs to mind yet. That might take time, like, say 2015. As a mere spectator feeling this way, you can only imagine the devastation felt by the players. Most of us experience troughs and peaks, but not too many go through them with the extremity and speed of the Ireland players.

The frustration of losing four from four in the warm-ups, to the euphoria of putting manners on Australia in a huge World Cup pool game, to the gut-wrenching blow of losing an all-or-nothing shoot-out to the Welsh. The Taffs are now predicting world domination, of course, and while every Gareth Wynn-Jones and JJ Williams-Jones-Davies might be spouting on about the glory days of the 1970s and singing in the valleys, at least we can’t hear them in Ireland. Now that’s a positive.

Although the French are “in a state of chassis” they still possess the extraordinary ability to disguise themselves as somebody else. It’s like they treat each game in the World Cup as a fancy-dress party and the opposition – playing hosts – never know if they’ll arrive as the Musketeers or the Marx Brothers.

Mind you when you have a coach who goes around looking like a cross between Clark Gable and Inspector Clouseau, no wonder they’ve an identity crisis. You suspect that despite their problems they too are sniffing the big prize, and whoever they show up as in the semis they’ll do a number on the Welsh, which should stop them singing for a while.

The all-singing, all-dancing Graham Henry isn’t doing much smiling these days (did he ever?) but when you hear the All Blacks have major injury concerns ahead of their semi-final, the pain is surely eased by having the luxury of drafting Hosea Gear into the squad. How was he not an original choice? Not to mention the others waiting in the wings, such as Rokocoko and Sivivatu?

And while we might be feeling sorry for ourselves, England are left in as confused a state as they were before the tournament. And for all the legendary status applied to Martin Johnson and his leadership, it was non-existent on and off the pitch in New Zealand. Indeed it appeared his only expressions throughout their campaign ranged from confused to livid, with not much in between. Maybe that’s all there is?

So in the end Ireland got it wrong, but along the way they got a lot right. The rare dropped ball, the few, but costly, missed tackles and the odd wrong option will no doubt plague the players for a while yet, but one thing we can safely say about supporting Ireland is that it’s never boring.

And it could be worse, you could be Mick Wallace, which really must be a nightmare. You wake up knowing you owe €19million, you check the mirror to make sure you’re not dreaming and you realise, you still have that head on you. Now that’s just not fair.

Risteárd Cooper’s latest offbeat look at all things World Cup can be viewed this morning at www.irishtimes.com/rwc