There was never any likelihood of Scotland travelling to France first-class next summer.

They have never boasted of being of the Pullman tendency.

Indeed, in Dublin they gave a decent impersonation of backpackers trying to thumb a lift. That they got it from an uncompromising Irish defender who like his mates lent the impression that Martin O'Neill's team-talk must have been Napoleonic in manner, underlines the fact that it was a result of great significance in contrast to the paucity of the performance. Several days on from Dublin, that is beginning to sink in. Uneasy though it made us feel in that respect, we can surely live with that for the time being. We have lived with much worse.

That we seemed nervous and subdued for so much of the match was no surprise to someone who through the years has witnessed our thrawn inclination to choose the road less-travelled by, and dabble in that strange art of making life difficult for ourselves. All that is perfectly in character. The journey was never going to be smooth, nor was Gordon Strachan ever likely to remain unblemished. Immediately after the game we had to ponder whether he still had messianic qualities or actually plays a game of dice with his coaching staff to decide team selection.

Such irreverent thinking springs from The Curious Incident of the Player on the Bench, surrounding the iconic figure of Ikechi Anya who in the dug-out looked as if he was suffering a penance for some indiscretion. Naturally I relapsed into orthodox thinking. Had he broken a night curfew? Had he been on the Guinness? Met a Molly Malone? You know, the stuff that has kept us going through the years.

As the game seemed to be slithering away from us the Anya absence simply spurred my imagination. So in one sense I was relieved for his own sake that it was all down to, yes, tactics. As it was in other spheres. For somehow Steven Whittaker's stature as a full-back, which is always worth a pub-debate, seems now unsullied compared to the unfortunate Craig Forsyth who suffered stage fright of the kind I haven't experienced since the First Shepherd forgot his lines in my school nativity play. And the brief dalliance with Matt Ritchie was simply one of unrequited love.

All the managers I have ever known have made some incredible mistakes, most historically the great Jock Stein in wholly underestimating Feyenoord in the 1970 European Cup final. It is not whether a public mea culpa is worth it or not or indeed, matters. It is what they learn personally from the experience, especially in Strachan's case where despite the protestations about Dublin and the cumbersome manner they went about dealing with Gibraltar has led his side to a really positive chance of outright qualification.

He doesn't need to be reminded that he is not rich in resources. Dublin spelled it out for him. Really valid alternatives to first choices are not thick on the ground. Having said that about crucial limitations let me testify to the fact that his present side has occasionally played some of the most attractive football I have seen since the 1974 World Cup vintage of Dalglish, Johnstone, Bremner et al. Now, before Disgruntled, Benbecula upbraids me for such a comparison, of course they are not as good as that side, but are of the same ilk, the same inclination to make something of the ball that is more than just the shortest distance between two points.

There is potential for variety as there has not been in ages. It is a real tangible asset. Indeed, in the second half in Dublin there were glimpses of that as we shocked the home crowd into realising that their side's addiction to route one is crude and unprofitable. Given that, with the long road ahead and three demanding games to come before the Gibraltar denouement, even with the great advantage of playing Germany and Poland at Hampden, what would matter more than anything is the fitness and health of the men at his disposal. Strachan's lavish praise of Shaun Maloney's commitment to the side does not camouflage that fact that this honest little man did not play well. Outside of that well-constructed move that brought about the goal he looked jaded and distant from the heart of the action. He is a transatlantic traveller now and will be well into 30s by next year. You cannot help but wonder how long the wee legs can hold out given his global commitments.

Scott Brown twinned him in that respect. The Celtic captain was but a shadow of himself and it is any wonder given the intensity required by his club in domestic and European competitions that he is now suffering the consequences. There won't be any let-up in the coming months for him. He bursts a gut or he is nothing. It takes its toll. And it is worth reminding ourselves that even in the games where we have played infinitely better than we did in Dublin we have had to take some batterings in defence as our midfield has wilted in the last quarter of matches.

The name that comes to mind, which might relieve some of the pressure on Brown, is that of James McArthur. Garnering experience for Crystal Palace in the highly competitive Premier League ought to qualify him for a significant role in the coming games. It is not going to be easy. Last Saturday certainly irked me. But I am hardly consumed by pessimism. The fact is the players' sense of dedication to the kind of football Strachan wants to play and the excitement that has been generated amongst the public will continue to be the most powerful motivator for us all. Dublin is well behind us now. And Scotland are still Alive, Alive Oh!