Of all the many incidental pleasures of the Spectator Editors’ Dinner last week, one of the most enjoyable was sharing a main course with Coleraine businessman Ken Belshaw and his wife Iris. Ken, a passionate rugby man, was filling me in on the glories of Irish sport, ironically at exactly the same time as, unknown to us all, Thierry Henry was manhandling Ireland’s football team right out of the World Cup.
But Irish friends who were in Paris that night broadly take the Roy Keane line: time to move on. It was clearly a brilliant evening: I watched the game after the dinner and the Irish played out of their skins. Robbie Keane’s goal was beautiful, almost Brazilian, and he and Duff had good-as-gold chances, which they fluffed. But the Irish should have won, no question. Ask anyone. Ask Thierry. One (Irish) friend described it as a ‘rigorous workout for the emotions’, with Irish and French fans sharing a two-hour singsong, followed by legendary drinking sessions throughout Paris.
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