Outcome inevitable after Robbie Keane spurns his gift

What a vicious choker this was for the Irish, so splendidly defiant in the face of long odds with a show of relentless drive and passion at the home of a genuine superpower of the game.

And yet, and yet for all the apparent randomness of the result, regardless of the rancid dishonesty from Thierry Henry that provided it, there are moments in even perfectly poised matches when you just know how it must end.

In the 1998 World Cup, England led Argentina 2-1 after about half an hour when Paul Scholes steered the simplest of chances the wrong side of the post. I looked at my friend, he looked at me, and in unison we mouthed "That's it, we've gone". It took another two hours, including the Beckham red card and a penalty shoot-out, but gone we had.

So it was here early in the second half, with Ireland leading 1-0, thanks to a goal of delectable simplicity from Robbie Keane, and the aggregate score level at 1-1. Damien Duff, outstanding here and looking every inch the winger who lit up the 2002 tournament, wasted one opening by shooting feebly when through on goal but the killer incident came a few minutes later.

Keane, also brilliant until then, rounded France keeper Hugo Lloris, and looked certain to double the Irish lead and effectively end this play-off. But his touch was heavy, the ball slid out of play, and at that moment you just knew all the Irish resilience, spirit and talent wouldn't be quite enough. Keane (below, dejected after the game) had been offered a lavish gift by the gods of football and spurned it. Seldom do they offer again.

Ireland had started the stronger, with France weighed down by the psychological conundrum that afflicts home sides defending narrow leads in second legs.  Unsure whether to sit on the lead or try to double it, they did neither. They strolled a bit in midfield, and Henry and Nicolas Anelka showed flashes up front, but there was little cohesion and penetration to their play and Ireland thoroughly deserved it when Duff's perfect pull-back presented Keane with a facile finish.

Magnificently, Giovanni Trapattoni's side maintained the offensive when the second half began and for a while it seemed the French would do what they did in 1993 by throwing their World Cup place away. That time, needing just one more point from two games, they led Israel 2-1 at home with a few minutes left and lost 3-2 thanks to the shockingly casual intercepted pass that earned David Ginola the charming sobriquets "the assassin" and "the criminal". And then, for good measure, they were beaten in Bulgaria.

This time, there was no assisted suicide from France, while Keane could not find the trigger when he was poised to perform the assassination. So it was, as extra time began, that the outcome, although ostensibly in the balance, felt inevitable.

There will be screams of anguish about the Henry double handball for years to come, and justly so. It was as cynical and repugnant a piece of cheating as you will ever witness, not so much for the first one, which may have been instinctive, as  the more cunning second, when he stroked the ball towards his boot with a sneaky glancing touch.

It was probably rough justice because the Swedish referee's refusal to give a penalty a little earlier when Shay Given clipped Anelka, although admirably brave, looked plain wrong.

But soon enough William Gallas had nodded in Henry's cross and after that the Irish, without ever dropping their heads, could not create another half chance as the clock ran agonisingly down.

For the neutral, the feelings may be mixed. Sympathy for the Irish and disappointment at our favourite second team's absence in South Africa must be tempered, and even trumped, by relief that Les Bleus will be there. The World Cup sorely needs them because while they are perfectly capable of crashing out early, as in 2002, they are also one of only eight genuine contenders to win the event, as in 1998 and so nearly last time. Along with all the memories of Platini, Giresse, Tigana, Fernandez, Vieira and Zidane, their quixotic disdain for mediocrity explains why we enjoy them so much.

We cannot love them as we love our neighbours to the west because they are, after all, French but given the choice of which to send home  I'd have reluctantly dispatched the Irish.

Cruel fate happened to agree, breaking the deadlock safe in the knowledge that where the French would have sulked for an eon, the Irish, win or lose, will have a party even if in this case it was a wake to bring a certain literality to the traditional bar room enquiry "What's your poison?"