There is more to life than sitting there waiting for Sol Campbell to trip over himself, writes Declan Lynch

SOMETHING has changed for ever in the relationship between Ireland and England. Something that we have cherished is no more.

The fact of the matter is, that when England were playing Argentina at this World Cup, I felt different about it. I felt like I wanted England to ... how can I put this? ... to not lose, and maybe even to ... I think the technical term is "to win".

Yes, that's it. I wanted England to win.

Not by much, necessarily, and not without a struggle. But as long as they won in some wretched shape or form, I decided I could live with it. And no, not in the usual twisted sense of keeping them alive for a more spectacular beating in the next round in order to make our pleasure more intense.

I just wanted them to win the football match, because basically, I know these people better than the Argies. So it stands to reason, dunnit? I mean, there's Michael Owen who has probably given me more pleasure over the years than any man alive, and suddenly he's my hated enemy?

I don't think so. I don't think I can live like that any more.

Many of you will be angry by now. You will call me a traitor to Ireland. But I sense that your numbers are diminishing. I sense that this apparently inexhaustible source of joy is somehow drying up. I fear that we may have to find some other form of entertainment in order to give meaning to our lives.

Because most international studies of human happiness show that the average Irish person derives 63 per cent of his or her sense of well-being from watching England losing football matches. These figures have remained consistent for centuries until a few weeks ago, when, for some mysterious reason, something changed.

I would hesitate to call this the onset of maturity. But maybe it is something akin to maturity, just a suspicion that maybe, just maybe, we might have better things to be doing with our lives. New pleasures to savour, albeit in the knowledge that no other earthly pleasure can be so reliable, so satisfying every time as the one which many of us are now forsaking.

Yes, we are open to change. We are wondering if maybe there is more to life than sitting there for 90 minutes waiting for Sol Campbell to trip over himself, thus making our day.

Some of us, of course, still cling to the old ways, like a barman in a "nationalist" pub in Belfast telling BBC Norn Iron that he wants England to lose because he finds the triumphalism of the English media unacceptable.

This is often advanced as a rationale, but I'm afraid it's just rubbish. The media of every nation on earth is unacceptably, disgracefully, triumphalist about the success of their national team. To single out the English is completely silly, but then this has always been a deeply silly form of amusement, and none the less enjoyable for that.

However, for some of us, the thrill is gone. Something inside of us has died. And it's not just the fact that, as always, the English media has been unacceptably, disgracefully triumphalist ... about us. It's not just the embarrassment we should feel at the vastness of their generosity towards the boys in green compared to our grotesque mean-spiritedness towards the "three lions".

Nor has it anything to do with the peace process. I have always tended to regard our joy at England's failure as a psychological disorder rather than a political one.

Personally I hate all nationalism and nationalists, so for me it's always been rooted in some obscure need to see the big guy coming to grief. Plus a certain amount of plain bloodymindedness. And because England thinks it's better than us. Because it actually is better than us at most things. And because it is there.

So what has changed? Some will call it a new-found confidence, but these people tend to be fools. If we are so confident, why are most of us addicted to alcohol?

Maybe we have just evolved to the stage where we demand more from life than the simple pleasures which have sustained us over the years. Maybe we are at the crossroads like our ancestors when they learned that you could have curry sauce on your chips. At first they were disturbed by it, soon they were insisting on it.

We are evolving, as we realise that it takes more than San Marino scoring against England to make our happiness complete, though nationalists will sneer, still writhing in drunken primitive ecstasy as Danny Mills loses his way.

Indeed I can see my friend the comedy writer Arthur Mathews, still shaking his head in disbelief hours after Portugal had beaten England at Euro 2000, saying, "one of the great nights, one of the great nights", again and again. We will always have those golden memories.

And anyway, England won't win the World Cup, because Italy will.

Please God.

- Declan Lynch