I FOUND myself scoffing uncharitably at some harmless-looking students on Sunday. A gaggle of Irish girls, clad in green, had descended upon Cooper’s on Great Western Road to watch their team play Wales in the Six Nations. I, too, had been dragged along by a native from across the water to watch what, in my more sour moods, I call ‘egg-chasing’.

As Ireland launched a frenetic attack, I noticed that the Irish girls were chatting away, oblivious to their team’s surge through the Welsh defence. "Look at that", I muttered to my absurdly patient better half, as, not for the first time, I moaned about the laissez-faire attitude of so many so-called rugby fans.

Then I got home and thought about it a bit more. Those girls had spent a pleasant Sunday afternoon having a leisurely drink, catching up with friends, and enjoying a bit of sport. If Ireland had lost, it probably it wouldn’t have spoiled their day too much. They had a healthy sense of perspective.

Compare the hordes of grown men across the country who pet their lips and wallow self-indulgently around their homes for days on end if they don’t see their team win (mea culpa). Who really deserves more scorn? The sunny Irish girl or the sulking man-child?