Three games into the inaugural we-swear-it's-not-meaningless league and Ireland languish at the foot of their group like coffee cremes at the bottom of a box of Cadbury Roses. During this period the Boys in Green have notched one goal, and that of the type benignly referred to as a consolation, and conceded five, none of which were in any way consoling. Crises, unfolding in the background like poorly made origami swans, have hinted at disharmony in the squad. Stoking these controversies have been Ireland's Mr. Angry, Roy Keane, and his tendency to alienate players, and Ireland's Mr. Maybe, Declan Rice, and his ongoing identity crisis. Unfortunately for Ireland's Mr. Clueless, Martin O'Neill, none of this has distracted from the abject standard of Ireland's play. A combination of tactics anachronistic even by Stone Age standards, a youth policy antiquated in comparison to our antediluvian tactics, and a primordial soup of managerial inertia which seems to predate sentient life, has not so much arrested Ireland's development as sent us back into the sea.

By inverting Darwin we have given birth to a species of football which is already being dismissed as "primitive" by opposing players. In a testament to the lethargy of Ireland's pressing game, opposing players could sequence our footballing DNA, publish a peer-reviewed journal article on their findings, and conduct a speaking tour of Ivy League universities, and still find themselves in ten yards of space. If Liverpool are football's deafening answer to heavy metal then Ireland are the eardrum tickling pan pipe version of Stairway to Heaven. The petri dish of the opening game against Wales exemplified the devolved state of Irish football. Admittedly, the squad was deprived of several first team regulars, such as James McClean, Shane Long, and Harry Arter, but that doesn't in any way excuse the team's performance, which resembled a 90 minute long mannequin challenge; even the viral trends are outdated.

Ireland's 4-4-2 formation did little to help. Out-numbered in midfield, the Welsh trio of Ramsey, Allen, and the 17-year old debutant Ethan Ampadu, luxuriated in space so wide as to resemble the Russian steppe and dominated the game with minimal fuss. To compound matters, Ireland's midfield 2 of Hendrick and Hourihane offered the defensive solidity of an ethereal mist. Their naivety regularly mocked as they acted as twin pivots around which Wales' neat passing triangles could revolve. That Ireland achieved 32% of possession can only indicate that UEFA were counting restarts and kickouts as worth double. Similarly, that the final scoreline was only 4-1 felt like a statistical quirk impersonating a small mercy.

Post match, O'Neill wheeled out his tired cliches with the practised habit of a lifelong gardener pushing a wheelbarrow full of manure into his vegetable patch. He lamented the crippling impact of injuries on the squad and challenged the players to be "braver" in possession. Typically, as he passed the buck to his players, O'Neill overlooked the role of his own guileless tactical approach as a contributory factor in the sorry defeat. This soliloquy of self absolution flowed into the buildup for the next Nations League date against Denmark. An injury to Seamus Coleman served as the perfect cue for O'Neill to get his excuses in early, bracketing the Everton man in the same "world class" category as the likewise injured Christian Eriksen, he reasoned that both sides entered the game equally compromised by injuries.

When the game did come around Ireland lined up in a 3-5-2 formation, which at least suggested something new, but in practice resembled a half finished Jackson Pollock painting. O'Neill's haphazard drip painting technique re-imagined Cyrus Christie, a right back, as a box-to-box midfielder, and James McClean, a wholehearted headless chicken, as a disciplined wing back. Antithetical to the modern conceptualisation of a back three, none of Ireland's trio of Richard Keogh, Shane Duffy, or Kevin Long are accomplished ballplayers. Operating on the left side of the three, Long, who is so right-footed he would make Antonio Valencia jealous, is by virtue of his one-footedness particularly prone to surrendering possession needlessly. Not that this is relevant to O'Neill of course as Ireland showed straight from the kick off by hoofing a long aimless ball down the wing.

That said, like the first dawn after a nuclear winter, it was encouraging to see Ireland occasionally exert a modicum of pressure on the Danes, particularly during the opening exchanges, and to enjoy Shane Long rediscover some of his old nuisance factor. We also witnessed the Machiavellian innovation of feigning injury to lull the Danes into the misplaced nonchalance of fair play. This cunning strategy almost yielded an unlikely goal as with play notionally frozen, Jeff Hendrick ignored accepted protocol to steal possession and advance on goal. Carrying neither purpose or venom, his tame effort drifted harmlessly wide into the waiting darkness of a cool October night, but it did at least generate some rare excitement for the crowd. Thereafter, Ireland's play largely reverted to the stupefying norm, Cyrus Christie did warm Schmeichel's fingertips with a crisply hit drive, but mostly we sought out the reassuring comfort of our familiar defensive blanket. The sideways to and fro of Danish passing resembled the pendulum swing of a hypnotist's clock and eventually lulled the game to a sleepy 0-0 conclusion.

In light of the fact that a Christian Eriksen inspired Denmark had thrashed Ireland 5-1 in a World Cup qualifier last November, this result was quickly sold as progress, as a step in the right direction. But such an appraisal requires a cherry-picked version of history to hold water as it demands that the 0-0 draw in the away leg of said qualifier is stricken from the record books. Selective histories are dangerous mythologies which elevate half truths to the status of fact. Therefore, if this result was progress it was a post-truth version of progress, evaluated against the nadir as opposed to the mean.

The latest game against a very youthful Wales, saw Ireland persevere with their 3-5-2 formation and with the reductive tactic of hoofing the ball away from the kick off. Actually, initially at least, Ireland seemed more at home in the formation and on occasion, led by the lively Callum Robinson, even pressed with the harrying intensity of a jack terrier stalking a postman. What is more, the tactic created a very presentable opening for Christie, whose sadly telegraphed effort was palmed away by a scrambling Wayne Hennessey. You know what? It looked a bit like progress! However, as energy levels dipped, the flow of the game was reduced to that of the slow drip of drying paint. Wales' dominance was sterile, the injuries to Ramsey and Bale dulling their cutting edge significantly, while Ireland were largely happy to revert to type and protect their "progress". The fans meanwhile, lost interest, the Aviva Stadium echoed to the idle chatter of a thousand voices discussing places they'd rather be.

That changed when a Harry Wilson free kick crashed into the Irish net. Darren Randolph, in the Irish goal, wrongly anticipated that Wilson would whip an effort over the wall and inched across his line in that direction only to be left wrong-footed as the ball arced agonisingly into the space he had vacated. Woken from their slumber, the great choir of Welsh fans sang mockingly in unison; "You're getting sacked in the morning". With the taunting melody ringing in the air the onus shifted to Ireland to attack. Sadly, O'Neill's tactical riposte was delivered like a poorly timed joke. Our most incisive performer on the night, Callum Robinson, was withdrawn as Ireland shifted to a 4-3-3, which converted to a 2-5-3, and which finally mutated into a formless amoeba. McClean and Doherty, who provided occasional subtlety, provided width, while a rejigged front three of Shane Long, Scott Hogan, and Sean Maguire operated largely between the lines of the box. Essentially, the plan, such as it was, was to chuck man, ball, and Shane Duffy into the Welsh box and hope something might break for us. It didn't, and if anything Wales continued to look the more likely as they broke with pace and verve. After the shrill beep beep beeeep of the final whistle pierced the night sky it segued into a chorus of disenchanted boos as the Irish fans voiced their collective disapproval.

Now, if O'Neill's own historically revisionist parameters are applied to analyse the Wales result, surely the only conclusion can be that Ireland are in decline. Last time we played them, we were stretched to the bare bones and lost, whilst on this occasion they were more thinly stretched and yet we still lost. The continuity here is not to be found in the playing staff, it's to be found in the results. Simply, this is why our status in League B hangs by the filament thread of anything is possible. Hence, the question for O'Neill is how long can he captain a drifting ship before admitting that he's lost.

Obviously, this squad doesn't stand comparison to those of the past, no one could reasonably argue anything but that. However, talent wise, on paper at least, they're much superior to Northern Ireland for example, yet Michael O'Neill's men somehow play with an expressiveness Ireland can only dream of imitating. The truth is that Martin O'Neill is a Brian Clough tribute act trapped in a 1980s time warp alongside his tactics, football, and man-management style. And for the time being so are Ireland.