Sideline Cut:All credit to the FAI. As the search for a new manager to steer the good ship Ireland dragged on and on, the eventual appointment was always likely to be something of an anti-climax. Think again. Nobody on earth predicted the pairing of "Stan" and Bobby. Not since Marilyn Monroe stepped out with Arthur Miller has there been such a mind-boggling couple. I, for one, am excited.

At the very least, it shows imagination. True, it seems clear now that not too many of the candidates who appeared on the FAI's short list had any real interest in being on it. And true, picking a man with absolutely no management experience seems like an odd way to improve on the character and capability of Brian Kerr, a man with football coaching coursing through his veins.

And true, the thought of Bobby Robson, as English as Henry at Agincourt and a man whose football sensibility dates back to the days of Jackie Milburn, does seem peculiar on the face of it.

But surely it is an interesting prospect also? And what is the worst that can happen? That we don't qualify for the next European championships or World Cup? Well, that has been the Irish experience in all bar three tournaments in the history of organised international soccer.

This twin appointment has provoked reactions of shock and thinly disguised derision from many old soccer professionals now riding the punditry carousel. The comments and observations say much about the mindset of the English game. Above all sporting cultures, English football fears and loathes what it does not know.

In a weekend that celebrates the release of the film treatment of Pat McCabe's psychedelic novel Breakfast on Pluto, the FAI's decision does seem appropriately left-field. It is much too radical for most pundits, fearful of ever venturing too far from the status quo, to get their heads around. So they do the easy thing and lament Stan's lack of experience and pay lip service to Bobby's excellent record down the years. They would prefer the gaffer to have served his time, have worked the leagues for a few years and talked the talk.

Well, how about this for a thought? - maybe Steve Staunton will just be a good manager from the beginning.

Remember those days, when we were all a bit younger, between 1988 and 1994, when the Irish soccer team were little short of a religion and entire families used to gather around the television, fervently awaiting news dispatches from the Irish camp? Big Jack would deliver a few booming, confident sentences that assured us we were in good hands. Jason McAteer and Phil Babb would be captured frolicking at the swimming pool. Packie Bonner might pass by, jaw a-chisel, eyes a-twinkle. The morose figure of Bernie Slavin would wander past the Coke machine and we would all squint, trying to remember who he was. Maurice Setters would offer us a thumbs up.

Such incidental shots of Stan Staunton were rare, and when they did appear, they invariably captured Stan sitting on a deck chair, probably playing cards and definitely scowling. Without ever saying much, Stan managed to give the impression he was getting fed up with the bloody heat, the attention and the comedic turns from McAteer and company.

You worried that maybe Stan was being deprived of sleep by someone like Ray Houghton listening to his Sony Walkman late through the night. Ray lying there with his headphones and Stan across the room, fists clenched and white with fury as the tinny yet unmistakable sound of Paul Young crooning Wherever I Lay My Hat filled the bedroom.

Stan always looked like he meant business and, thankfully, he carried that authority on the field of play. During those insanely tense 0-0 November draws we played out against more or less all the Scandinavian nations over the years, you could always relax for a second when Stan took control of the ball. He always looked too curmudgeonly, too damn well pissed off, to make a mistake.

He ventured from the back four reluctantly, like a lad being dragged to a disco by his mates, but always made it count, nonchalantly delivering long and precise crosses towards Quinny or Big Cas with the kind of left foot that used to be described as cultured.

It seems obvious one of the reasons the FAI were attracted to Stan was that he offers a direct and recognisable link back to those glory days. In Staunton, they surely saw a smart, straight-talking football man with a necessary streak of defiance and arrogance, a thoroughbred whose bloodlines are traceable to the Anfield of Kenny Dalglish and the Ireland of Jack Charlton.

In Bobby Robson, they saw one of English football's great obsessives. Robson is reportedly a gentleman and definitely tough as steel. Savaged by Fleet Street many times over, ravaged by life-threatening illness, mocked by some of the millionaire n'er-do-wells at his last stint at Newcastle, Robson has a distinguished managerial record and has retained a romantic view of the game.

The answer to the 25 questions posed by Eamon Dunphy this week must surely be that Robson will do whatever he is asked to by Staunton. Robson is proud but he is 72 years of age now, and in a society that likes to chuck the aged in a closet, you suspect he will be pleased to have a role in the game he is in thrall to, to feel alive again.

Can it work? Who knows? But the question has to be asked: just how much do you have to know to manage the Republic of Ireland? It is more or less a part-time occupation. Anyone with a passing interest in soccer could make a decent stab at naming the right team on a given international week.

And it is not as if the choices in either personnel or systems are particularly daunting. 4-5-1 or 4-4-2? Clinton for Keano after 65 minutes or 70? As for the question as to whether the Staunton/Robson axis can "motivate" the players, well, what does that mean exactly? Does it mean can he persuade the players to give a toss? Can he shout at them? The "players" are supposed to be professional.

The motivation in playing for Ireland has always come from within and from the honour of wearing a green shirt. I suspect that at the very least Staunton will be able to communicate that much, using choice Drogheda phraseology if so needed.

In the heyday of Irish soccer, the Republic were ranked sixth in the world. We languish in the fourth tier of seeds now. Roy Keane is gone. The ramshackle, atmospheric fortress of Lansdowne Road awaits demolition. And a team of debatable quality awaits Staunton and Robson, the odd couple that has so shocked the true-blue, conservative geezers of England's soccer establishment.

At the very least, it should be interesting and - who knows? - it could even be the beginning of the new revolution. Stranger things have happened. The bottom line is they are going to be around for a while. As the old song goes, Wherever I Lay My Hat . . .