Take a knife and stab me in the ear. Remove my skin, stretch it into a rectangle and hoist it atop a galleon. Tie me to a chair, sellotape my eyes open and force me to watch Margaret Beckett shower. All this would induce less pain than paying to watch the Republic of Ireland soccer team.
Croke Park on Saturday was akin to queuing for The Ripsaw at Alton Towers as an eleven-year-old. Wide-eyed expectation was crushed into the pithy dust of cynicism. It was cold, it was boring, it was annoying. It was torment.
The Board left at half time.
At least the rugby gives you value for money. Even a boring game of rugby has collisions and set pieces - little moments of unpredictable excitement that warrant more than a passing glance. At least your eyes are kept on the pitch, and not on the five drunk ginger cretins from the north who arrive 20 minutes late, put their tongues in each other's ears and ask every 14 seconds what the score is.
Never again will I pay to watch Robbie Keane run away from the ball and attempt his reverse-twist, fat-man shots on goal.
That is all.