Managers' reaction: The Chicago Tribunenewspaper was presided over for many years by an incorrigible old loon called Col Robert Rutherford McCormick.

The proprietor styled the Tribuneas the World's Greatest Newspaper and every page reflected his own world view.

The Colonel stocked his newspapers offices with thousands of surplus rolls of newsprint with which to insulate the corridors and thus save his staff from the debilitating effects of radiation from an atomic bomb attack which he always believed to be imminent.

As a further precaution he installed a whistle on the seventh floor of the Tribunebuilding, this to serve as a shrill warning signal when the Big One was finally on its way.

And he stockpiled what he deemed to be the correct number of aspirin required to save the general population of the Windy City from any of the suffering or headaches which the bomb would cause when it did fall.

Steve Staunton's paranoia and the measures he is driven to by that paranoia are just as impressive and reassuring.

In time we may look back on this era and laugh fondly at the innocence of it all. Right now, our encounters with him have an ersatz quality to them, a certain phoney war theatricality heightened by the media being in the peculiar position of taking The Gaffer far less seriously than The Gaffer takes the media.

On Saturday night as we waited down in the Croke Park catacombs for Staunton to come among us red-faced and irritable while he fed us whatever line he had decided on, we entertained ourselves by listening to the Germans' smooth, confident eloquence and by speculating as to whether a result against mighty Cyprus on Wednesday would, in the current market, buy Staunton a three- or a four-year contract extension.

We even felt a little sorry for him. His name being the answer to the half-time trivia question thrown at the crowd had drawn a chorus or groans and boos and served to remind us all that the last question 'Steve Staunton' had been the answer to was the one John Delaney asked himself when he wondered whom he could pass off on the Irish soccer public as a world class manager.

When he came among us The Gaffer did nothing to stimulate our atrophied adrenal glands. The Germans had a fine little press conference, quietly discussing the implications of qualification and then leaving en masse.

"Ah yeah," said an Irish voice bitterly as the visitors made their orderly retreat from the press conference room, "off ye all go now and leave us".

It was disappointing but at least in that respect our mood matched that of Staunton who was himself, as he put it, bitterly disappointed. Not with having to do a press conference - that's a given - but with the result.

His thoughts coming hard on the reflective words of his counterpart, Joachim Loew, were an interesting reminder of the fates of the two footballing nations.

Loew delivered his post-match thoughts through a chipper translator and very little of what he said even touched on Ireland tangentially.

The point which the Germans had gained playing so far beneath their potential was as incidental as qualification itself. Loew will be judged on next summer.

The point which Ireland gained playing perhaps to their limit given the leadership they endure was pressed into service as a symbol of competence,

"I'm bitterly disappointed. I thought we should have won the game.

"It was a very good performance, especially in the second half. I thought we passed the ball a hell of a lot better. We wanted to keep our record intact here in Croke Park.

"We know it is not going to be easy on Wednesday night. Cyprus are not a bad side. We know it is going to be difficult."

This is the nature of things now. A group which held out some serious prospect of qualification, a group with no outstanding team, has melted down prematurely to the point where we sit in the press conferences and listen to the Ireland manager muse about the exciting race for the third place.

"Third place? Ah I think it is important. We have to improve on fourth seed for our World Cup draw. That was the second aim. It is important.

"We want to win games. We have been beaten once in 11. We want to keep that going."

Once in 11. There is listless shifting among the hackery who were only vaguely aware that they had been present for such an astonishing run. On this hack's recording of the press conference this is the point where a colleague leans over and asks, 'what's he talking about?'

We meandered on in a netherworld of resentments and jadedness. Robbie Keane's two chances? We could remember that astonishing goal in Ibaraki half a decade a go. These two fluffs were a cruel counterpoint.

"I thought the first one was a pretty good save, the 'keeper narrowed the angle well. Second one I think he thought he was offside and didn't play to the whistle, which is a cardinal sin. But he knows that."

A question, a good one prompted by an article by Brian Kerr, was asked about the difficulties of managing modern players. Kerr had reflected on what it takes to motivate young players who, it would appear, care less about the green jersey then do the fans who shell out for the replica version. Staunton didn't take the chance to engage in meaningful discussion.

"Quite isolated from the public?" he repeated tersely. "Not at all. Not isolated at all. They go for walks along the beach. Into Malahide. Just because they don't go into the city centre . . ."

What about the laughing and joking after bad results which Kerr had spoken about? "That's history. I didn't see too many laughing or joking. They are as sick in there as they were last year after a bad defeat."

Maybe it's just practice.

The press conference petered out. We spoke about Wednesday, about missing Richard Dunne and Lee Carsley, about Staunton's team selection. He was needlessly vague about which players were getting ice for treatment of injuries, we weren't that interested anyway.

It all took about seven and a half minutes. When it was over The Gaffer went one way and we all went the other. Everyone was relieved to only have to do this a couple more times before we all get a break from each other.

Pass the aspirin please, Colonel.