Begrudgery and innate pessimism feature among the traits most treasured in this bristling little country of ours, and for many years those virtues have served us well when it comes to anticipating our sporting fortune, particularly Five Nations rugby.

All week long there was a niggling feeling that, as a country, we weren't treating the French game with the same sense of paralytic dread as preceded corresponding games in previous years. There was an air of bonhomie in the air, an alien sense of expectancy which was perhaps best illustrated by Pat Kenny on his radio show on Friday, when he breezily inquired of the nation as to its plans concerning "the match".

More hearts than this one are given to plummeting horribly whenever Pat gleefully turns his eye to the sport du jour (inevitably labelled "the big match") as the optimism which bubbles throughout his fluffy interviews is generally dashed and spat upon during the game. Still, he generally entices senior squad members on for a quick chat about "us" and "them" and what "we" need to do to get the scores. So when Pat began with, "and on the line we have . . .," as a country we might have expected to hear from Warren or Eric, or a even a few rousing words from Woodie. Not this time, though.

". . . Chris de Burgh," concluded Pat, delighted. That's when it became clear that Ireland were gonna get whacked by France.

On to match day and, on the face of it, things looked okay. It rained savagely and, as is tradition, Irish fans made good resource of crisp bags and programmes in futile attempts to keep themselves dry. The line-up for the anthems oozed with those familiar expressions of passion and purpose and, to be fair, the Irish lads sang for longer than most acts appearing at the Point nowadays.

But in the studio there remained this worrying level of expectation, with Phil Matthews declaring we were "due a win" and Neil Francis gravely voting for a home victory.

The consensus was that the French no longer carried that mystique which had served them so well when they used to come over here looking suave, knowing too well they were going to hockey us and that there was nothing we could do about it. Now, however, we felt emboldened to scoff at their very style.

"I hope they play like a French team," offered George Hook. Perhaps we would have been better off had Hook had wished for our visitors to play like the USA.

On to the action, and tense though the fare was, after 20 minutes the most striking feature was the smeared advertising which the players wore with increasing abandon after milling around in the midst of the pitch paintwork. Sure, it lent the Irish uniform a funky, '90s look, but at one stage Keith Wood emerged from a ruck resembling an Andy Warhol creation.

So it was surprising to note the ease with which Jim Sherwin accepted the wildly contrasting hues, as though there was nothing out of the ordinary about watching a French out-half who looked like a throwback to some doomed Eighties pop star. Over on the Beeb, it seemed Gavin Hastings had busied himself by observing the paint dry, so unimpressed was he by the proceedings.

It was not, admittedly, pretty stuff, and the sense of elation carried over from last week's Ulster triumph was gradually being eroded by that familiar feeling that disaster was imminent.

Jonathan Davies pointed out that Ireland should have been about 15-0 up at half time, instead of a mere six points, and even though the stats showed Ireland enjoying 92 per cent of the possession, there were bad signs.

Referee Peter Marshall managed to miss the fact that Phillippe Benetton threw a punch only marginally more subtle than the Nissan pitch advertisement, and after the French rushed over for their second-half try, there was a sense of wilting hope as they retreated with that jaunty swagger of old.

The final minutes were spellbinding, with a climax which brought the nearest thing rugby will see to a penalty shoot-out.

That miss - that floating chance to sever the stunning losing streak which has haunted Irish sides in key games - will go down as a seminal moment in our Five Nations history.

It was impossible not to feel acute sympathy for Humphreys, whose expressions betrayed an increasing unhappiness every time the cameras caught him on close-up. It was hard to assimilate the images of wretched dejection on the same field which played host to that rare bout of Ulster ecstasy just a week earlier.

But the omens were in the air all week and we really ought to learn from this. Bravado does not become us. When Ireland run out again in a fortnight, let there be plenty of studio chat about the bad old days and footage of those dour Scottish losses orchestrated by Finlay Calder and his ilk.

Let us view all Southern Hemisphere referees with deep suspicion and be aware that officials closer to home harbour a natural antipathy towards us. Let us loathe those teams who aspire to total rugby and let our expectations remain confined within the realms of crucial fumbles, heartbreaking misses, heinous refereeing decisions and dog bad luck. That way, we could well win the Triple Crown.