Scripture taught us that Christians are supposed to show mercy. But there was none to be found on this damp November Tuesday evening. And by the time the Lord dealt the final blow, it was numbness rather than pain that we felt.

The only charity on offer came in the form of the space offered to Danish playmaker, Christian Eriksen, by Martin O'Neill's tactics and the Irish players.

Mirroring the campaign, the evening itself started positively. The misty air was crackling with atmosphere, as what would be a full house made their way from homes and workplaces to fill the lounges and bars around Lansdowne Road. On nearby Haddington Road, the Beggars Bush was packed to the gills, with many punters carrying the new two pint plastic glass being served rather than fighting back through the scrum at the bar for seconds.

As kick-off approached, it was hard not to believe. We'd a habit of getting results when the chips were down. We had Germany. We had Bosnia. We had Italy and Wales. Surely this squad had one more do or die result in them.

Inside, a pipers band played Amhrán na bhFiann and the camera panned along the men our hopes depended on. James McClean, the hero of Cardiff, roared with passion as the anthem reached its crescendo. The crowd did the same. It felt a special night.

Six minutes after kick off and things move up another level. A lofted free kick from Brady isn’t cleared and Shane Duffy, a man who literally almost died for the shirt seven years ago after a training collision ruptured his liver, rises to head the ball past a stranded Schmeichel. Could the ultimate redemptive journey from life-saving surgery to sending his country to a World Cup be complete?

Alas, no. If there’s one thing we’ve learned from this campaign, it’s that Ireland don’t do early goals well. A chance for Murphy hit the side netting as half the stadium rose to acclaim a second goal. Another for McClean rolled agonisingly wide as Ireland sought that elusive buffer. Then a mistake from Arter, a Danish mish*t that squirms onto the post and rebounds off Christie. One all and a vital away goal conceded.

We’re still coming to terms with this when Ward cedes possession and two swift passes later, Eriksen caresses it into the net. Three minutes of madness and the game turned on its head.

With two goals required, it looked an impossible task for a team that can’t be described as prolific. The half-time decision by the management to replace our entire central midfield with Hoolahan and McGeady was as baffling to us as it was manna from heaven for the Danes. With the space that had been denied to him in Denmark, now all too available, the Aviva pitch became a canvas for Eriksen to decorate.

And decorate it he did, two superb strikes completing his hat-trick as Ireland’s shape disintegrated. By the time Danish cult hero, Nicklas “Lord” Bendtner entered the fray with six minutes to go, the stadium was half empty and the humiliation almost complete. All we wanted was the final whistle. All the Danes wanted was for their Lord to apply the final flourish. You can guess who got their wish.