There is a young man wearing a spare tyre and a Persil white English jersey standing outside Frazer's Bar on O'Connell Street in central Dublin. The time is 1.40pm, just 20 minutes shy of kick-off between England and Paraguay, the first step on the former's never-ending quest to reconquer the world.

In olden times this young man might have been taking his life in his hands. Frazer's is a sports bar where Celtic football club is revered. Ergo, it might be assumed that Blighty and all her works, deeds and beery sons are regarded with contempt.

Upstairs, the cavernous hall is replete with Celtic paraphernalia. Even the lighting is a brighter shade of green.

Here, God is collared to save Ireland rather than the queen. Will the place be full of Paraguayans for a day?

Inside, the first colours on display are Scottish. Five kilted men are waiting like everybody else for kick-off. They are in town for the Download music festival in the RDS.

Surely they wish to see their auld enemy put to the sword.

A non-committal reaction is all that is forthcoming. Maybe it's too early in the day for chat. Ok, who's going to win?

Dozen nationalities "England, I suppose, or at least they should." The reply is delivered without smile or rancour. These lads don't seem to give a toss. Elsewhere, Julio is togged out in the full Brazilian gear. "Paraguay will win, " he says confidently, before a smile lights up his face. "But Brazil will be the champions of the World Cup."

As the place begins to fill up, there could be a dozen nationalities present, settling down in front of one of the nine TV screens strategically placed around the room.

Behind the bar, an Asian man serves, among other products, Latvian, Polish and Lithuanian beer. If an anti-English vibe is on the cards, it will require some multilingual hatred.

There's an Italian shirt over there, and somebody down the way is wearing what looks like Paraguayan blue. There is somebody with a Liverpool shirt. The Irish shirt is conspicuous by its absence and there are no Celtic shirts in attendance, but there is one man wearing no shirt at all.

By kick-off, the English shirts have drifted in, maybe half a dozen of them. Thankfully, none among their number decide to sing along to 'God Save The Queen' when it gets a pre-match rendition, and everybody else simply ignores it. If it's bigotry you're looking for, you've come to the wrong place.

One of the Englishmen, who gives his name as Keith, says he hasn't noticed any antiEnglish feeling in Dublin, but he's just here for the weekend. "Naah, it's just football, " he says before giving the big screen his full attention.

Three minutes in and it's all over. A Beckham free kick, a poor chap by the name of Gamarra puts the ball in his own net, and the cheers go up in Frazer's.

Every English attack brings its compliment of oohs and aahs. There is no ambiguity here as to the favoured side.

Everybody has moved on.

Except, of course, our kilted Scottish friends. They seem to be cheering out of synch, and it's only after a quick peek into the corner it becomes apparent that one of the screens is not broadcasting the big game, but some rugby outing between their national side and South Africa. No wonder they didn't give a toss.