SIDELINE CUT:Where the pundit used to rage with a righteous anger, he is now simply a cabaret entertainer, a prized member of the establishment he used to resent, writes KEITH DUGGAN

CAN WE ever again believe in anything Eamon Dunphy says? Today marks the beginning of the Republic of Ireland’s latest appearance on the big stage of international football. All of their previous adventures in sound have built towards something of a slow frenzy and have, through various episodes of heroism and tragic-comedy, held the nation in their grip.

And since 1978, Eamon Dunphy has been the loudest and most compelling voice in those crazy summer theatres, effortlessly inhabiting the twin roles of arch critic and most passionate defender of the day.

So when RTÉ “unveiled” its cast of stars for Euro 2012 it was no surprise at all that Dunphy, along with John Giles and Liam Brady, are once again the leads. They have, as Spike Lee might say, got game.

And, while disappointing, it was no real surprise either when Dunphy reached into his old box of tricks and rummaged through his ragged collection of knuckle-dusting tell-it-like-it-is truths. He decided to give Roy Keane a good pummelling. As Keane said of Alf Inge Haaland in the biography which Eamo ghosted: “I f***ing hit him hard. The ball was there (I think)”.

In Eamo’s view, Keane has become “a pain in the arse”. More grievously, the man whose decision to leave the Irish camp on the eve of the 2002 World Cup split the opinions of the nation had become a “bore”. This, of course, was all recycled outrage on Eamo’s part: as far back as 2008 he told Pat Kenny (the very man who had once symbolised for Eamo all that was wrong about Official Ireland and who he referred to in print as Plank Kenny) that Keane had become a “rent-a-quote”.

That might have been regarded as fair comment during a period when Keane was manager of Sunderland and was seemingly prepared to hold court on whatever subject was floated at the weekly press conferences. But there was something depressingly calculating about this latest verbal sally. The fact is Keane is of no use to Dunphy any more.

When Keane was at the pinnacle of his sporting life – the furnace of a great Manchester United side and a wonderful if sometimes caustic presence on Irish teams – he was easy for Dunphy to champion. Keane was brave, aggressive, articulate and fearless in both the way he played the game and the way he spoke about it: Eamo might have looked in the mirror during those years to find Keano’s glowering countenance looking back at him.

When Keane walked away from Mick McCarthy’s Ireland squad in Saipan, there was never any doubt about whose viewpoint Eamo would favour. He has always been like Marlon Brando in The Wild One, leaning against the jukebox and, when asked what he is rebelling against, delivering the deadpan “Whaddya got?” Keane’s rebellion was, for Dunphy, like a gift packaged by the gods, a perfectly compressed version of all the themes he had been banging on about for 20 years.

Eamo was Keane’s shining prince during those weeks; his Clarence Darrow. And he was the natural – the only – choice to become the Cork man’s ghost voice on his book and we figured it would always be like that, two of the great provocateurs side by side in the years to come.

But, after the biography, it turned out Eamo found that his passion for Keane was all spent. The Cork man’s football life faded out with an underwhelming swansong at Celtic and after that tempestuous period in management with Sunderland and Ipswich, Keane has ceased to be the towering iconoclast with whom Eamo so identified.

Keane wasn’t necessarily blameless in the souring of relations, but Dunphy was sure to give as good as he got. Perhaps Dunphy reasons that now that Keane has entered television land himself, he is there to be shot down. But is it really only a game? If so, nobody plays that game better that Eamo. Nobody can deny that he adds to the gaiety of the nation and not just as a football commentator.

Who could not enjoy those delightful Late Late cameos when he moonlights as the voice of ordinary Ireland, now tearful about the employment situation, now lamenting the country as a “dump”? Or that dreamy night when he turned all Charles Aznavour on the Miriam O’Callaghan show to serenade the host and Gilesy with Stardust? Or that half forgotten evening now when he attempted to take on the tradition of the Late Late, debuting on his own TV3 talk show by quoting Gore Vidal (“Every time a friend succeeds, I die a little . . .”), who could not watch any of that without thinking it great fun? “That Dunphy”, they say in homes up and down the country, “he’s some craic”.

But then you remember decades ago reading Eamon Dunphy’s articles in the Sunday Independent when he was taking on what he termed the “Decentskins” and even if you didn’t much care about Irish football, it was impossible not to be attracted by the bright, passionate indignation with which he wrote. And you might recall the essay Colm Tóibín wrote after the 1990 World Cup saga entitled “Ireland’s Hatred for Eamon Dunphy” and in particular the passage where he describes Dunphy turning up in the office with his hand-written copy. And you wonder if there is even a scintilla of that guy – the returned journeyman football professional intent on breaking into the Dublin media, the genuine outsider – left anymore?

Or has he been starring in Montrose productions for so long now that he can’t see through the stardust?

Dunphy’s great draw as a television man was that he would say anything. Now, it has become a problem. The man will say anything. So how do you know if he means it? Those carefully chosen barbs at Roy Keane were, on one level, just nothing more than a great television man’s instinctive ability to drum up a bit of controversy for a launch.

But on another level, does it not seem kind of cheap to slag off someone with whom you sat down to write a life story? Should there not be some kind of unspoken loyalty there?

Perhaps Dunphy sees in Keane some future threat to his throne. Brilliant and entertaining as the Giles and Dunphy partnership has been down the years, it can’t go on forever. Maybe the kingmakers in RTÉ have already begun to think about likely replacements and it is a safe bet that a certain forthright Corkonian would be high up on their wish list.

In the meantime, Eamo will continue to give good value. He is like John Gielgud playing Lear: night after night, he steps out on to that stage and summons up the required passions to keep the audience spellbound. But the mask is slipping. It is slowly dawning on the public that the original Eamon Dunphy, the guy who spoke with heartfelt anger and passion and honesty, has long since left the building and what remains is the squiffy cabaret entertainer we all love and a prized member of the establishment he once resented. It’s a shame. What was that great line of his? He’s had a few. That’s it: You jumped the fence, baby.