Keith Duggan Sideline Cut

Tomorrow presents a unique proposition for Irish sport. The visit of England, whether for the purposes of soccer or rugby union, has always been treated in this country as somewhat of a call to arms across the country. For all the talk of letting bygones be just that, beating England in sport matters deeply here. The heroic feats, the blows struck, they stay struck and carry a distinctive moral weight.

Ray Houghton's unlikely headed goal back in that dream summer of 1988 or Simon Geoghegan's laying claim - eternally - to a corner of Twickenham some six years on were like inestimable acts of atonement for all that happened to the ancestors. Only a goal or a try but God, it made us feel good.

It is never explicitly stated, of course - it would have been a fine thing if, after watching Houghton's header drop leisurely and unforgettably underneath the English crossbar, George Hamilton had yelled, "What do you think of Cromwell now?" But the residue of historical antipathy is there at some level, whether we like to admit it or not.

It does not matter that many Irish people care deeply, cheer on, and in many cases travel across the water to see English football players starring for the famous clubs which, for some reason, have always been acceptable and traditional for Irish people to follow from childhood. All bets are withdrawn and loyalties severed for the time the same player is wearing a white shirt with the three Lions. Or with the Rose.

Many of us have muddled feelings towards England. It has always been fine to love the BBC, to stumble through adolescence to the background noise of doomed and stylish English pop bands and even to sneak a peak at the Queen's Christmas address before getting down to the main business of Eastenders.

It was fine to head across the water in droves through the second half of the 20th century and to establish small, suburban Irish pales on the sadder edges of England's big cities. It was fine to work there and to be accepted, however grudgingly, even after the bombs started going off. It was important to always, always point out the Irish bloodlines of anyone, from Johnny Lydon to Des Lynam to Noel Gallagher to Kyran Bracken, who began to make a name for themselves in the London news pages.

The lingering anger and resentment towards the England depicted in the history lessons taught in Irish classrooms (up to quite recently if not currently) must, logically, account for the impulsive lurch to conservatism in the Rule 42 debate.

Sport is an arena where the trappings and symbols of nationality are most nakedly manifest and the notion of thousands of young English men bedecked in St George's flags and Union Jacks moving up Jones' Road is, rightly or wrongly, simply too much for some people. And even for more moderate Irish fans, even for Irish fans acutely sensitive to the political incorrectness of satisfying a lusty antipathy to England's sports teams, beating England is a carnivorous pleasure.

A couple of years ago, when Martin Johnson refused to give ground during the pre-match ceremonies in Lansdowne Road, he probably only half realised the symbolic connotations behind what he was doing. Whatever about the protests in well-heeled Lansdowne Road, the howls of outrage and anger along the Border counties and in pubs from south Kerry up to north Donegal must have made for X-rated listening. It was a dangerous thing.

No matter that Johnson has an Irish background himself or that Geordan Murphy was treated royally in the Johnson household when he went to Leicester as a young kid or that the Irish players speak warmly of "Johnno". At that moment, it was England occupying a patch of land they shouldn't have, bare and simple.

Worse again, they went on to rub Irish noses in it, reducing Lansdowne to silence as they claimed a Grand Slam in rampant fashion, just as they were expected to do.

But that was two years ago. Today, Ireland expects and that is why it is such a strange and unique occasion. Because it leads us to confront the uncomfortable truth to the question as to whether we have it in us to kick old Blighty when she is down.

It has been fascinating to follow the lead-up to this game from an England perspective. As ever, the English commentators have been respectful and full of praise for the Irish. This is partly to add salt to the criticisms of the woebegone and unfortunate present England side but also because English sports commentators have traditionally been generous to Ireland. In the 1994 World Cup, which England failed to qualify for, they took as much pleasure in our topsy-turvy run as we took in the unravelling of England at the European Championships in Portugal last summer.

Sometimes, England's affection and goodwill towards Ireland in sporting matters can make you feel guilty about our own complete inability or wish to return it. Will Carling, in an interview given to a London broadsheet from his home in Austen country this week, fondly recalled the warm reception the used to get on the streets of Dublin back when he was King. The sentimental blarney was, he suggested, just a ruse to soften the visitors up so the Irish team could really hammer into them on the field.

In a somewhat loaded phrase Carling said, "the Irish are smiling assassins." And it is true that in his days as the handsome, spoiled prince of England the nascent rugby power, Carling invoked in almost all Irishmen of my acquaintance an inexplicable and borderline psychotic hatred. Then again, I can't recall too many Irish lads talking about what topping blokes Rob Andrew or the Underwoods were either.

But it is in a state of self-flagellation and high anxiety that Carling and the heroes of England's dimming past will watch events at Lansdowne tomorrow. There is the sense that the chariot is at the mercy of Irish whimsy, just as we used to travel to Twickenham resigned to a humiliation in the years gone by. As Quentin Crisp put it many, many years ago, "In England, failure is all the rage." England's fall from grace since their brave and pragmatic World Cup win is just another example of the fact that the nature of sport is cruel. Eight defeats in 11 games, injury-stricken and low on confidence, they are meeting an old adversary whose form is the mirror opposite.

That is why tomorrow's game is such a fascination in Ireland. It is a game that matters far beyond the strongholds of Irish rugby and it will be watched with deep interest in those corners of the country that do not feature on IRFU maps. They will be glued to this one in the rugged countryside where there are no rugby posts for miles, in the early morning houses in the Bronx and in the Irish strongholds located above London's Jubilee line.

For once in this ancient and unending confrontation with our near neighbours, Ireland is the whip master instead of the wounded animal. It is a strange - and not entirely comforting - position and it means that England enter the old ground as something of a mystery. The old order has turned full circle, temporarily anyhow. The moral obligation lies with Ireland to put a weakened England to the sword. It is a scary thought and the very weirdness of that position alone will make tomorrow a day to remember.