TV View:For the past fortnight, the World Cup seemed like more of a promise than a reality. At last, though, we were in Paris. We knew this because Eddie O'Sullivan told us so. "We got off the TGV and suddenly we were in Six Nations territory."

It was uncertain which arrondissement the Irish coach was referring to, but who cared. A huge rugby night was promised. At last. The official team advertisement that has been broadcast throughout the tournament, showing four generations of Irish rugby heroes passing the ball was perhaps the most inspiring prelude to what was meant to be a cup when Ireland thrilled the world.

It was a smart and imaginative coup to get the likes of Willie John McBride, Keith Wood and Ciaran Fitzgerald passing the rugby ball through the passage of time. And it was genuinely touching to see Simon Geoghegan, a cult hero during a miserable period for Irish rugby, running in their midst. Many of us had despaired of ever seeing Geoghegan receive a decent pass in a green jersey.

The final pass was, of course, to Brian O'Driscoll, who promptly took off like the clappers through the rain and gloom. During Ireland's mildly horrifying form against Namibia and Georgia, the advert took on an unexpected poignancy. As of last night, it was the only decent Irish move we had seen in months.

Over on Setanta Sport, they opted for the unexpected by not starting commentator Nigel Starmer-Smith. The signing of Starmer-Smith was a masterstroke by the nouveau players in specialist sports channels. He was a regular on BBC during the old glorious fisticuffs-and-champers era of the Five Nations tournament and nobody could pronounce the names of French rugby players with the same zest and enthusiasm as Starmer-Smith. He made rugby sound better than it was and it was a shame he was not on hand for this momentous evening.

Nonetheless, there were plenty of options. On TV3, Conor McNamara quoted Dickens "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times" in order to convey the immensity of the occasion. Matt Cooper looked the nation gravely in the eyes and declared: "Our backs are against the wall." Over on ITV, Adrian Logan's voice quivered when he announced: "Our World Cup dreams are hanging by a thread."

Logie put the few days of international Gallic-Irish diplomatic tension in perspective when he mentioned the alleged campaign of French "dir-tay thricks." Nobody can use that phrase quite as juicily as a Tyrone man in a state of indignation.

As Ireland's most famous French resident, Trev-ois Brennan seemed like the ideal man to expound upon the cultural nuances between the two nations. However, he, too, was caught up in the melodrama of the Irish camp. "I know there is rumour, rumour, rumour. But there has to be some bad feeling," he declared, banging on about the team changes. Jim Glennon, meanwhile, wanted to hammer out the really big issues. Jim, for one, felt it was a disgrace they would have to make do with singing Phil Coulter's cross-border ditty, Ireland's Call. "It is an appalling piece of music," he sniffed.

And with that, we were off to Paris, where a stony -faced Brian O'Driscoll led the men in green out. With 57 minutes gone, the shape of that destiny was captured in a marvellous overhead shot of the scrum, when the blue pack, complete with grunting sound effects, annihilated the Irish men. A minute later, the worst had happened. A tricky chip by Freddy Michalak and Vincent Clerc, the villain of Croke Park, was dashing in for the easiest of tries. "Where is Andrew Trimble," screamed Conor McNamara. Up in the stands, Bernard Laporte shook his fists with joy. He just might get his place in government after all.

It was time then to trot out the gloomy statistics. "Ireland have not won in France since 1972," Conor McNamara said mournfully. It got worse. Paul O'Connell got himself sin binned for "persistent fouling." Who could blame him? Chris White, the referee, used this match to illustrate his competency and his incredibly irritating personality.

We were left watching the men in green simply hoping and praying they would score a try at the tail-end of a hammering by the suave, handsome hateful Frenchies and their bloody bad brass music trumpeting from the stands. Down and out in Paris. Well almost out. And not even the dulcet tones of Starmer-Smith to soothe our aching hearts.