TV VIEW:CLEARLY, WE have now played Cyprus more times than is humanly decent. There were a few years in the early 1990s when we used to play Norway about once a fortnight, but that was fine because the peoples of both countries liked to communicate by drinking vast quantities of beer, writes Keith Duggan

Cyprus is different. Our nations have become much too familiar with one another and are locked into a rivalry nobody really wants. If the suits in Brussels are to have any hope of getting the Irish to pass the Lisbon Treaty, then they ought to pass a declaration that renders the Boys in Green exempt from playing the Constantinou boys and their redoubtable colleagues for a very long time.

For those people who casually tuned into the exploits of the national team, it must have seemed as if Ireland's adventures had been reduced to an interminable series of games against the hardy Cypriots.

Last night was an opportunity to lay a pesky ghost to rest and to kick-start the Trappatoni era in style. In the Montrose studio, Ronnie Whelan is the big transfer chosen to fill the vacancy left by the gloriously downbeat Liam "Chippy" Brady, who, of course, now operates as "Trap's" right-hand man. Whelan is a fine choice, but it is going to take time to recreate anything like the chemistry that Brady enjoyed with the unrivalled Critics of the Irish game, Messrs Dunphy and Giles.

The magic of the original trio was that in the eyes of Dunphy and Giles, Liam Brady was still the wunderkind of Irish football, the lanky Arsenal kid with the goofy grin on his way to an unstoppably illustrious career. They saw an upstart with all the skills and not the middle-aged sombre gent in front of them.

And Brady, raised in the hierarchical structure of English football, deferred to John Giles as the senior man - the Leeds icon! - but regularly got into wonderful, bitchy little spats with the Big D. Often the thought occurred that if the Montrose bosses had the nerve to slam a bottle of malt down in front of them and let them at it, we could have been in for the best television of all time.

But it was a night of new eras. There seems to be a general agreement that Mr Trapattoni does not, as they say in football Esperanto, "fancy" Andy Reid, whose stock rises with each game he fails to play for Ireland. If Reid does not get a game for the rest of this campaign, my guess is that Real Madrid will sign him for half a billion quid - guaranteed by the Cabinet - by early summer.

Before the match, Dunphy graciously granted Trapattoni - Italian legend, winner of umpteen trophies and as dashing as Gregory Peck - the right to leave Reid on the bench. By half-time, however, the gloves were off.

"He has got to get a grip on himself," RTÉ's controversialist declared, warming to his task.

"He is way, way out of order and he is going to deserve all the stick he will get if he doesn't get Andy Reid on that pitch."

He wasn't quite fuming, but it was a sign of things to come. And let us not forget what would have happened had Steven Staunton dared to unveil last night's experimental midfield axis of Gibson and Whelan. The Gaffer would have been pilloried.

As often with the Boys in Green, the night started brightly. There was Duff, after four minutes, playing like, well, Damien Duff. A quick turn, dazzling footwork and an angel's touch on the cross. Brilliant. Robbie Keane will never be gifted with an easier goal. Pure Duff.

As Jim Beglin explained: "He just smelt the situation." Indeed.

Trap was delighted, exchanging a high-five with Brady and later calling Duffer aside to issue a series of gestures that surely translated as: "Do more of that beating-three-men-and-laying- on-a-perfect-chip business."

1-0 - in case you didn't know - is a dangerous lead in football. But it also seems to be the Irish destiny. We were still stuck on Keane's goal by the time Norn Iron had stuck three. Goals were flaring all over Europe, but we had to be content with one in dear old Dublin. But the crowd cheered and everyone was happy.

Well, almost.

"That was a shocking performance, Bill . . . Trapattoni deserves plenty of welly," threatened Mr Dunphy.

But in Italian, it sounds much nicer.