A test of allegiance

Exactly two weeks from now, I expect to be shuffling my way back to Edinburgh Waverley railway station after a long night celebrating Ireland's win over Scotland in the RBS Six Nations rugby. More on that closer to the event.

Meanwhile, you may be aware that yesterday Ireland managed to scrape a one point win over the old enemy, England. Needless to say I was in front of the telly and so was my boy.

I've wrote before about how Jamie is at risk of having something of an identity crisis - certainly in sporting terms - as he gets older; whilst he was born in England, all his vital organs do in fact come from Ulster.

I know some fathers who, in this situation, would say that it should be a matter for him to decide which international sporting teams he supports. This is not a view I share.

I love the England cricket team, for example, and hopefully so will he. I wouldn't have a problem with him shouting for England at football either - I do it myself when they're not playing Norn Iron - or in pretty much all other sports. But I draw the line at rugby union.

I'm not a fan of the England rugby team. My dislike stems back to 1991 when, as an 18-year-old, I played for the North of England Colts in an exhibition game against England Colts at Fylde near Blackpool. Lawrence Dallaglio and Mark Regan, who went on to play in the senior World Cup winning side in 2003, started for England.

I had previously played for Northumberland in the Colts County Championship and, along with another friend from Northern Ireland, was selected on merit to play in the North side. We arrived in Blackpool on the Friday evening, trained all day Saturday and played on the Sunday - and I hated almost every moment of it (and not just because England won the match handsomely).

Don't get me wrong, I was treated very well. It was just the complete lack of fun about the place, the "over-confidence" of some individuals (that's the nicest way I can put it), the condescending parents and the fact that Mark and I were the only players to have a pint in the bar afterwards - everyone else had a swift lemonade and left in daddy's big car (I'm sorry, but these things matter in my warped little mind!)

"Sir" Clive Woodward's reign as England team manager hasn't helped me warm to the men in white shirts in more recent years and current boss Martin Johnson, whilst being almost as arrogant as Woodward - quite some feat - was also one of the dirtiest players I ever witnessed on an international rugby field. You are obviously entitled to disagree.

For all these reasons - none of them do to with any dislike for England as a nation, something which is very important to stress - coupled with his Ulster body parts, I want Jamie to shout for the Ireland rugby team in years to come.

And, after his reaction yesterday, I think I have a chance.

In what I regarded as a shrewd move, I put a leprechaun hat on him before kick-off to gently ease him towards supporting the men in green. His reaction to the sight of Ireland skipper Brian O'Driscoll leading his team out was therefore very encouraging. Indeed, it was little short of hero worship.

But, crucially, his response to the pictures of England captain Steve Borthwick and his men waiting for the anthems was even more telling.

If the camera really does never lie, I think my grand mission has already been achieved.