IF there's truth in the old axiom about making your own luck, then surely the corollary applies: you contribute to your own misfortune. The Republic of Ireland did just that on Saturday night.

A glib assessment of Nicolas Anelka's wickedly deflected dagger through Irish hearts is that this was a lucky break, end of story, for the French.

A more rounded version of this unfortunate saga is that Ireland, while courageous to a fault, were also wilful accomplices to this criminal concession.

Anelka would never have been presented with the opportunity if the penned-in Kevin Kilbane hadn't kicked the ball blindly up the left touchline -- and straight to a blue jersey.

And France would never have enjoyed such bountiful supplies of second-half possession if their hosts hadn't hoofed it straight back to them with such frequent and indecent haste.

And maybe, if Giovanni Trapattoni wasn't so in thrall to his beloved 'system', Ireland might have (a) occasionally tried to pass the ball through midfield instead of bypassing it completely and (b) picked one or two absent players with the ambition and vision to play just such a game.

Late

Did anyone mention Andy of the Reids? Never heard of him! Enough of that for now -- it's far too early in this article, not to mention far too late in Ireland's teetering World Cup campaign, to expect any Pauline conversion on the road to Paris by Signor Trap.

Afterwards, Eamon Dunphy described Anelka's 72nd-minute winner (via the leg of a luckless Sean St Ledger) as an "accident waiting to happen". Love Eamo or loathe him, he was on the money.

The French had owned the ball for most of the preceding 20 minutes. They could have won a penalty minutes earlier, when Patrice Evra went tumbling over Shay Given.

And they could have scored a second as Irish legs, minds and back-passes (this one belonging to Kilbane) started to wilt: thankfully Monsieur Gignac felt sufficiently sympathetic to the Irish cause to turn his gilt-edged opening into a throw-in.

Still, maybe it's a sign that this France team isn't quite the sum of its myriad individual talents that they should cough up a glorious late chance on Saturday night.

There's something refreshingly unconvincing about Eric Abidal as a centre-back -- never more so than in that hair-brained moment when he decided he was, in fact, Abigail Titmuss.

His control/pass/whatever having gone tits-up, as Abigail might say, we suddenly had a rare Irish opening as Robbie Keane, Leon Best and Robbie again combined only for Glenn Whelan's point-blank effort to be brilliantly snuffed out by the hyper-alert Hugo Lloris.

There endeth Ireland's last chance (on Saturday, whatever about overall) and the only eventful postscript came with that brief schemozzle at the final whistle.

A fitting end, you might say, to Ireland's competitive swansong in the home of the Gael.

Earlier, especially in the 15 minutes preceding throw-in -- apologies, kick-off -- Croke Park had been the most magnificent 12th man imaginable. This was like those closing minutes against Italy (pre-Azzurri equaliser) all over again.

Cacophony

Deafening cacophonies will only get you so far, however. Once the match started, we had more of the same great endeavour that has marked this Irish campaign -- and sadly more of the misplaced passes, too.

Even though the French started more breezily, the first half eventually offered some genuine encouragement. Two similar cameos -- feisty double tackles from Keith Andrews and then Glenn Whelan -- exemplified a commendable in-your-face aggression.

Still, it was telling that our few clear chances mostly emanated either from uncomplicated route-one or careless French turnovers.

Maybe we'd now be on the cusp of Cape Town if Liam Lawrence had found the net after 27 minutes, but how did that opening materialise?

A Given punt and a Kevin Doyle flick-on, almost releasing Keane before the ball broke to Lawrence.

French vulnerability to the most basic of set-piece manoeuvres was evidenced again in the 52nd minute, when an all-too-rare Irish corner found its way to the back post to John O'Shea. His clumsy 'execution' sparked a mad goalmouth scramble with the offside flag already raised.

Yet here's the rub: Ireland's best hope may have been via the set-piece route but corners and/or dangerous free-kicks are desperately difficult to engineer if most of your team are camped so far from the opposition goal.

In the second half, we lost count of the times a harassed Irish defender rushed his clearance to halfway and a man in blue.

Cue another patient French build-up and, eventually, the dam was bound to burst, especially against a backdrop of Irish limbs visibly tiring from chasing for so long without the ball.

Now it's blindingly obvious to most of us that Andy Reid and his namesake Steven (fitness-permitting) would offer a more creative midfield hub than Messrs Andrews and Whelan.

Exposed

It's even more obvious that the manager is not for turning on the aforementioned Andy ... and yet surely his two exposed front men would have benefited from having such a clever link player to close that gaping void between midfield and attack.

It was impossible not to sympathise with Keane and Doyle as they toiled heroically, but in vain, for morsels of possession. When Doyle was hauled off after 70 minutes, it looked a dubious call even if fatigue was setting in. Even more so when the misnomer that is Leon Best lumbered on to no great effect.

Two minutes later, the visitors had scored and it all means we may have to summon George Best from the other side to make it a magical night in Paris.

Then again, Trap would probably leave Georgie on the bench.

- Frank Roche