INTERNATIONAL RULES: In the corrupted idiom of modern sports, surely the most pernicious word is a recent and annoyingly sexist coinage. Handbags.

Sometime, maybe this morning, maybe next Sunday, some clown who never threw nor received a punch in his life will blowhard and dismiss yesterday's first-quarter violence in Croke Park as handbags.

When he's not looking hit him blindside to the head with an elbow as you go running past. Shout "handbags, only handbags" at him as his lights go out. Until handbags becomes a legal defence in assault cases, let's hear no more of them.

Sometime in the past the Compromise Rules experiment took a brave leap in nomenclature and became the International Rules series. Different name, same flawed product. No handbags. Just assaults. "Hard as it gets", as the slogan says.

From the Punch 'n' Judy of 1978 to the bloodbath in Cork in 1984 it's been that way. From the challenge perpetrated by an Aussie goalie in Croker that same year which almost removed Barney Rock's head, to the blow from behind which split Kevin Fagan from ear to chin in Perth in 1990 it's been the same. From the clotheslining of Phillip Jordan last year and on to the worrying, unconscious form of Graham Geraghty on the Croker grass yesterday this has been an experiment which has teetered on the verge of disaster or tragedy for far too long.

Somewhere beneath the highlights reel of violent incidents there is undoubtedly a decent game struggling to get out and an audience willing to watch it. So what? They sold season tickets for the Christians versus the lions games too.

Dress it up any which way, but the current experiment depends on blending two different sporting cultures - one professional, one amateur - for the benefit of an elite minority in either game. Pathetically we ask the Australians every time we see them if they don't think that our boys aren't fit "for amateur players", and condescendingly they say, why yes, of course, they are.

The bald truth is that by twisting the dial on the physicality metre the Australians can win a series just about any time they want. We crave the validation of an international outlet, so we'll put up with being cuffed, shirtfronted and clotheslined every couple of years if needs be. Until somebody gets seriously hurt.

The game carries a virus of violence which seems always to have the Irish as victims. We have seen men as tough as Mick Lyons carried off the field after assaults masquerading as tackles.

The latest instalment of this grotesque parody of two fine sports should be the last, but it won't. They debuted a new press conference room in Croke Park yesterday, and unless Steve Staunton or somebody performs hara-kiri in there sometime the opening night's production will never be surpassed for drama.

Kevin Sheedy, the Australian manager and a smooth operator at this level, came in after the outraged Irish contingent had blown through. Sheedy attempted to take a little of the sizzle out of the row by blithely suggesting Seán Boylan was one of those managers who "smiles when he wins and gets grumpy when he loses".

Of course he isn't. Boylan is one of the most gracious gentlemen ever to have trod this earth. He is also responsible for sending out some of the toughest teams ever to play Gaelic football. When, as they say on the terraces at Millwall, it "all went off" yesterday, Seán went to Kevin Sheedy and said, "That's it Kevin. That's the end of it."

Boylan took his team off the field at the end of the first quarter and he was happy to leave them there. He wanted to scrap it there and then. The players said they wanted to go back out.

Afterwards, in the new press room, Boylan said things like: "I've never seen a more biased umpire in my life than I saw out there today . . . targeted in such a way as to hurt . . . don't tell me it's sour grapes . . . to say we started this is pure and utter bullshit . . . the biggest problem was restraining our players . . ."

That should be enough. That should be the epitaph.

In the end it doesn't matter if Graham Geraghty was legitimately tackled or if he was dangerously assaulted. The salient facts are that he was explicitly targeted before the game and before the throw-in, and afterwards, as he lay in hospital, the Australian and Irish contingents expressed irreconcilable perspectives on the incident.

While the Irish were outraged, Jim Stynes was able to stand in the Australian dressingroom and smile: "Look we didn't go out to get Geraghty or anything. That was a tackle, a fair tackle.

"You all know Geraghty, what he is like. He put one of our guys out after he was beaten to the ball. I don't need to tell you how to suck eggs, read it how you like. It was a fair tackle. He just got knocked out."

Yesterday should have been the end of it but it won't be. You're in the crowd looking at a man standing on the precipice of a high building and some inexplicable part of you wants to see him jump. You go to these games and the darkest, guiltiest part of your heart wants to see the violence.

The desire for the series is partially born from that. An audience in search of spectacle. A few dozen players in search of trips. Complementary needs, but not enough.

We have learned lots from flirting with the Aussies over the past few decades. We have learned finally, though, that we have no future as an item. Time to say goodbye. Sorry guys, it's not us, it's you.