We should have known his kind when he walked through our door, mouthing his evil incantations about options out wide, going forward, and ticking all the boxes.
Irish rugby is truly undead beneath the cold, joyless, calculating, life- draining shadow of Eddie O Sullivan. Inspirational players like Brian O Driscoll have become trudging automatons under the Vampyre’s watery stare and even natural leaders like Ronan O Gara are reduced to twitchy, drooling henchmen following Eddie’s dry bidding and the curl of his bony finger.
Today’s performance ranks among the worst this bloodsucker has presided over, and if somebody doesn’t gather the courage to rise up and let in the light, who knows where all this will end?
One that knows all about Eddie’s proclivities is Warren Gatland, who for many years bore on his neck the twin marks of his former leader’s lust for power. Today, those marks finally faded forever. Today’s game, for Gatland, was more than just another football match, more than a Triple Crown, more than another step along the way to winning a Grand Slam. Today’s appalling horror of a rugby match was Gatland’s final casting out of the malign presence that is Eddie O Sullivan.
If the IRFU zombies don’t do the same, Irish rugby is doomed.