Hard truths emerged in the wake of Ireland's shocking loss to Argentina at the mezzanine stage of the rugby World Cup last week.

On Saturday, RTE (perhaps unwisely) aired the last of Conor O'Shea's World Cup video diaries. Watched in retrospect, the videotape had a Blair Witch element to it, with Conor happily noting that the Irish wouldn't want to give away too many penalties. They were ready, he assured us and all the superstitious loose ends had been tied up. Conor, it transpired, was in the habit of purchasing a CD before every Irish international (which confines him to a fairly slim selection of discs) and innocently, he waved his latest addition in front of the camera as proof of this quirky little habit of his. "It's Fame and Flashdance," he announced merrily.

Once you got over the surprise of learning that Irene Cara CD's were still available, the full impact of what was unfolding began to sink in. This was our full back, the man chosen to hold firm in the last line, innocently waving a Flashdance CD at disillusioned rugby pundits across the land, as if it were evidence in itself of Ireland's ability to pummel the Pumas. It was a Neville Chamerlainesque moment, albeit with less extreme consequences.

But it did make you evaluate O'Shea in a totally new light; this was not a man who spilled a high ball that most disinterested under-10s would fetch, this was a lad who had overcome a crippling deficiency in musical taste and gone on to play representative rugby for his country. Sure, this handicap would have been of benefit every time he had to belt out Ireland's Call, but there the advantages ended.

Still, it presented questions. If Christian Cullen arrived at All-Black squad training with a Flashdance CD, would he make it through the session? Would you find Os Du Randt humming "Remember my name, fame!" in the locker-room before games. The chances would have to be categorised as slim.

And if Alex Wylie knew that the Irish full back was a creature given to listening to Flashdance before games, would he not instruct his out-half to test him with the up and under at every opportunity?

It will be impossible to look at O'Shea now - let alone old re-runs of Fame - and not fear that his musical taste is somehow at the core of all Ireland's rugby problems.

It was surprising, therefore, to find George Hook and the boys still harping on about basic skill levels and the like. They might have been better advised to call for a stringent investigation into the musical preferences of everyone involved with the Irish set-up (except for Peter Clohessy's, because that would be just too scary).

Instead, Brent Pope, during a fairly heated discussion about whether Warren Gatland should stay or go, blatantly stated that there was "no point in shooting the piano player."

Hook, in contrast, took the hardline view that the entire board of directors of the IRFU should be shot. (If they had carried out the executions during half-time of the France-Argentina game yesterday, it might have been of consolation to all the Irish fans stuck with tickets).

In general though, the capitulation in Lens seems to have spooked those closely associated with it. Tom McGurk appears to become more agitated and perplexed every time he watches this Irish team.

"Why are they so bloodless?," he asked rhetorically at one point before musing, almost to himself that, "there is something strange about this team."

It was a spine-chilling and fascinating observation and you couldn't but wish that he would elaborate. But it wasn't to be and instead they turned their attentions to the Welsh game, if only to give Tony Clements an opportunity to speak. The former Wales full back began by assuring everyone that he didn't wish to appear smug simply because Wales were in the quarter-finals and 80 minutes later, there wasn't, in fairness, even a hint of smugness about him.

Away from rugby, there was precious little out of the ordinary.

The Soccer Show, however, charted the astonishing life and times of Patrick O'Connell, an Irishman whose playing career took him from Belfast Celtic to Manchester United and on to Barcelona, where he won acclaim as a manager. His time there coincided with the emergence of Franco and the Spanish Civil War and the belief was that O'Connell's move to the pro-fascist club of Seville actually spared him his life.

Breaking Ball profiled an athlete who peaked around the same period as O'Connell's sojourn in Spain; the late Jack Lynch.

The theme of the piece was that Lynch's common touch set him apart as both a politician and a sportsman; that, as one contributor put it, Christy Ring was like a god to Cork people, but Lynch was simply one of their own.

This was borne out by Paddy Downey, former GAA correspondent for this newspaper, who told a wonderful story of Lynch playing a hurling game in Cork during a time when sliothar's were in scarce supply.

The pitch in question was located near a river and, inevitably, the ball went splash at some stage. Lynch simply jumped into the water, retrieved the sliothar and resumed his playing position in soaking gear.

You really can't get much further away from Flashdance than that.