They Might Be Giants

I can't decide whether last night's Reaching for Glory: Inside Irish Rugby (RTE 2) demystified the mighty men of Ireland's first XV, or merely added to their growing legend.

On the one hand we were allowed to see them as they presumably are: larking about and cracking jokes, or suffering inconsolably the pain of defeat. And then there was the fact that phrases like "let's get stuck into them from the start" survive in the highest echelons of international sport, and are not just the preserve of bumbling amateurs.

But on the other hand there was the monstrous physical and emotional expenditure that was a constant theme throughout. For all the hotel room high-jinks and training ground banter, it's hard not to think of these guys as supermen when you get such a close-up view of their exploits. The weights, the muscles, the hits, the blood - made me think twice about another Tesco Finest Triple Choc-Chip Cookie (will you eat EVERY LAST OUNCE of this biscuit?!!).

And while we've all done a bit of pre-match roaring during our own miserable pursuit of sporting glory, if I delivered Paul O'Connell's already-legendary "DID YOU SCARE ANYBODY, DID YOU PUT THE FEAR OF GOD INTO ANYBODY??!!" speech before one of my 6-a-side astro league games, it would be quietly suggested that I might have a bit of a lie down.

O'Connell perfectly encapsulates this dilemma, even down to the cute little spectacles he wears when not crushing Saxon skulls. Seeing him squeezed into the seat of the plane returning from the Cardiff victory with his dainty designer glasses, you could almost imagine him whimpering "I'm not all that I seem to be, Lois". Then next thing he's pummelling a punchbag like it was Lex Luthor himself.

Of course, it's the swearing that brings them closest to us mortals. Oh my goodness Father, the swearing! While not quite at the level of the documentary about Sunderland made during Peter Reid's time at the club (if you think Reid is less than articulate on television, that's because he's not allowed to use 50% of his vocubulary before the watershed) the Irish dressing room was as rich in expletives as any another.

It sounded natural coming from O'Connell, when in full Maximus Decimus Meridias mode, and Eddie O'Sullivan has enough of a scowl about him that you'd expect a bit of effin' and blindin'. But Brian?! Oh Brian darling, what were you thinking? It's not big and it's not clever you know!
Then again, O'Driscoll does his talking so persuasively on the field that he could have a speaking voice like Julian Clary and it would not detract from his aura.

We feel like we know them, these boys. It's hardly surprising, given the success that they have enjoyed in recent years, but there's no doubting the degree to which this team have been taken to the hearts of the Irish people. Apart from seemingly being perfectly decent skins altogether, and demonstrating exceptional prowess on the sporting field, they have also been agents of reconciliation, uniting Ireland's opposing cultures: I refer, of course, to Culchies and Dubs (well, the posh ones anyway).

Time was that if a country fella walked into his local pub and introduced the gathered throng to his new friend 'Girvan', he would have been met with the gravest inquest into what kind of "quareness" he was getting up to above in Dublin. Now we have the likes of Marcus Horan, Banner-man to the core, on the couch beside the not-quare-in-the-slightest Girvan Dempsey, talking over the year that was in it, and no-one bats an eyelid.

The inference is clear: any friend of yours, Marcus, is a friend of mine - I don't care if he talks like Prince Philip himself!

The mixture of awe and affection this Irish rugby team generate in equal measure is one of the finest sporting tales of our time on this isle. There's much to aspire to in the way that they have achieved such excellence, yet seem distinctly human also. As Reaching for Glory demonstrated, these men are giants, but they are walking among us.

Heineken Cup Meltdown Could Provide Magners Boost

Hang on, hang on, hear me out okay?

Rugby (or more specifically Celtic rugby) has taken to the bed, consumed with grief and loss after the English and French clubs abandoned the happy home of the Heineken Cup. All those wonderful years of drama and thrills; the colour, the passion, the cash! Oh the lovely, lovely cash! All gone, stolen away by mean-minded blazers and avaricious clubs.

Those marquee sponsors, pouring their investment over the Celtic fringe like a gardener watering arid scrub at the end of the garden!

Gone! WHY??!!

Steady on now. We like to maintain our heads around here. We don't turn a drama into a crisis. If we had turned up in Pompeii as Vesuvius blew her top, we would have remarked on the likely future tourist revenues the town would enjoy. If we had met Jackie Kennedy in November 1960 we would have mentioned the Greek shipping billionaire we had heard was on the lookout.

Yes, calming words. So there's no Heineken Cup next year (even at this point, the rugby populace eyes the feuding parties sadly, pleading "say it ain't so, Joe!"). There will, of course, be a hole in the finances of Irish rugby - union, provinces and beyond. But will all the capital (both financial and in terms of public goodwill) generated during rugby's recent boom years simply vanish?

Scenario: Post-World Cup; Ireland have performed creditably, the French have bewitched, the All Blacks have dazzled. Kids are chucking rugby balls about in country towns and in inner-city playgrounds. Will all those enterprises that sponsored and made hay from the Heineken Cup simply take their money elsewhere, ignoring the continued public enthusiasm for the sport?

There is another rugby competition, you know. It's nothing fancy or clever; it's not always been loved or cherished, and for a long time those sponsors didn't even know it existed. It's called the Magners League, and next season it could be the only way to see rugby's new superstars out of their international jerseys.

Here's the science bit. Doesn't nature abhor a vacuum? If we discount the percentage of rugby's new fanbase recruits who are only here for the (Heineken) beer, doesn't that still leave a significant new constituency for whom the Magners League will represent the only delivery system for their addiction.

Will all those thousands who've joined Munster, Leinster and Ulster on their European adventures, and generated real supporter group identities for all three, simply fold away their scarves, return to civilian life and mention no more of it again?

With a minimum of six weekends freed up, the Magners League will retain the sole focus of rugby fans' attentions from the end of the World Cup on October 20th until the Six Nations returns on February 2nd, 2008. Presuming both attendances and competition standards are boosted as a result of the tournament's temporary market monopoly, this unfortunate turn of events could provide the Magners League with a vital shot in the arm.

With an enthusiastic Munster pouring their energies into the tournament in a manner they have not done this season, with those cocklewarming winter interprovincials, with the presence of Llanelli Scarlets (European Champions? Who knows?) and the improving Ospreys there could be plenty to enjoy until the implacable rivals in France and England emerge from the boardroom with an agreement.

An Enchanting Team, But Not World Champions

And so the Six Nations plunged the bucket even deeper into the emotional well and came up brimming once again. Of course, it was fitting that the conclusion to this year's tournament (the charming epilogue in Cardiff aside) should be ridiculously overwrought, given the excess of drama of the previous weeks.

Saturday's torment was only mild, to my mind, Vincent Clerc's intervention in Dublin being the mortal wound, Elvis Vermuelen's merely the coup de grace. Incidentally, regarding the great kerfuffle over the legitimacy of that late French try on Saturday, the referee, Craig Joubert, had stated to the TMO, Simon McDowell, that he had seen the touchdown, and that he would award the try unless McDowell could see any reason not to.

Viewers on RTE would not have been aware of this above George Hamilton's excited tones, but the BBC commentators were able to point this out quite calmly. Quite why Joubert needed to put everyone through the additional agony just to verify the evidence of his own eyes is uncertain. Perhaps he has a history of hallucinations.<"span class="fullpost">

Over the course of the tournament Ireland would have been perfectly worthy champions of the Six Nations. Their best was as good as, if not better than France's peak moments, and as for their worst? Well, even in Ireland's most puzzlingly diffident moods, they never would have lost to England in the manner that France did.

But it is the way of the world that the French will consider themselves perfectly acceptable contenders for 'le coupe du monde' while we will scorn ourselves for ever having dared to dream. It could just be, however, that our failure in the Six Nations (failure? I know, I know, those damned expectations) might be more valuable than any success.

We can at least thank the Six Nations - not a vintage one, it has been accepted - for providing two things. Firstly, a robust examination of all elements of Ireland's game and secondly, a timetable of fixtures very similar as that required to navigate to the latter stages of the World Cup.

Over the course of the tournament Ireland's scrum did surprisingly well, especially against England's. Surprisingly in the sense that most expected it to be obliterated. However, it is still a wobbly affair and the achievement of parity is often a victory in itself.

Ireland's lineout, once the keystone around which all our ambitions were built, was often disastrous and the restoration of it to its former glory is key to any great ambitions in the autumn. Losing one set-piece may be considered unfortunate, losing two is just carelessness.

Around the breakdown Ireland's possession of two openside flankers masquerading as centres (O'Driscoll and D'Arcy can play a bit on their feet too) often covers their lack of one in the pack. Dear old Scotland gave probably the best examination of this area, spoiling incessantly and rucking mightily, the nuisance-factor here being key to Ireland's ineffectual display at Murrayfield.

Central to Ireland's schizophrenic performances in the tournament was Ronan O'Gara. When O'Gara played well - like against England where is tactical kicking was flawless, or in the try-hunt against Italy where his passing was the bugle call for most of Ireland's infantry charges - Ireland too played well.

When O'Gara struggled - as against Wales where for long periods his boot could barely find the ground never mind touch, ditto with Scotland - Ireland struggled. The form of the number 10, or more accurately, his consistency, will be a prerequisite for success in the autumn.

But at the end of it all you have the backs (and David Wallace)! If rugby were played on Mount Olympus, Zeus and Apollo would be out in the back yard trying to imitate the play of D'Arcy, O'Driscoll, Hickie, Horgan, Dempsey (and David Wallace). We may not have the strength in depth, the beef or the consistency to win the World Cup, but there will be few teams who'll dazzle like Ireland will, that is for sure.

The Six Nations might have delivered a timely survey of where Ireland actually stand, and dampened our expectations to nicely realistic levels, but for sheer enjoyment of the finer aspects of the game, I know who I'll be following come September.

Six Nations Signs Off, Carney Signs On

It's been exhausting just watching it - can you imagine how the players feel?

For Ireland the normally intense Six Nations has had lashings and lashings of extra significance poured over it this year, whether it be the Croke Park melodrama, the Grand Slam chatter or the looming World Cup. The tournament has been utterly captivating, more so than ever perhaps, but after every game I feel like I've just come out of a ruck with Nathan Hines. A sleepy Magners League evening at the Sportsgrounds will be just the ticket after all this stress.

But once more unto the breach we go, and Ireland in with chance of the title on the last day. The sporting integrity of the tournament's climax is seriously wonky however, with France being able to quantify exactly what they need to do to retain the championship before they take the field against Scotland. Television dictates that all matches will be broadcast, so the simultaneous playing of thefinal games cannot happen, but at the risk of souring the grapes before they're even plucked from the vine, it's just not fair.

Of course Ireland first have to actually beat Italy, thoughts of hefty points totals being unwise against a team who, the opening weekend apart, have had a great tournament so far. Ireland will always toil against the Italians, whose powerful pack love to rough up their green-shirted equivalents.

Both packs will be missing talismanic figures, in Ireland's case the inspiration of Paul O'Connell and in Italy's their multi-functional flanker, Mauro Bergamasco. O'Connell's loss to Ireland is unquantifiable, given that Ireland's only convincing performance of the tournament was also the only one in which O'Connell played to his own celestial standards.

But Bergamasco's absence will hit Italy just as hard. He is one of their few genuinely top class talents, and is absolutely key to getting his team moving with the generous portion of ball their pack generally win. Without him they will still be strong up front, but their actual threat to Ireland's line is severely diminished.

Ireland's try-scoring threat is usually one of their best features, but was strangely blunt at Murrayfield. A back-line which is usually breathlessly fluid was notable for more clumsy fumbling than the back wall of a teenage disco.

The Scotland game also highlighted question marks over Ireland's lack of a genuine finisher. Denis Hickie's tackle on Chris Paterson in the first half, after which he sprang to his feet and turned the ball over, was one of the few moments of excellence displayed last Saturday. But the Leinster winger isn't a world-class finisher anymore, injuries and age having robbed him of the necessary explosiveness, as was demonstrated in the second half at Murrayfield.

Enter Brian Carney. Is it utterly fanciful to speculate that Munster new signing is not just intended to boost the province's Heineken Cup bid, but also as another prospective big gun for the Irish back line?

Although Munster supporters have been on tenterhooks all week since the rumours of the former Great Britain rugby league star's imminent signature started, there's been plenty of caution in the red ranks too. After being burned before with Christian Cullen, whose injuries have prevented him from ever displaying the awesome talent of his youth in a Munster jersey, scepticism is understandable. After all, Carney is 30 years old and has only one day of pre-season training in six months behind him.

But there is no doubt that Carney is the real deal, a top class league player who scored 16 tries in 26 NRL games in Australia (the sport's strongest competition) on top of his earlier successes with Wigan. Also, as a winger, he plays in the position most suited to an easy transition to union, Jason Robinson and Wendell Sailor being the proof of that.

It seems a monumental ask to expect Carney to descend fully-formed into Munster and Ireland's massive battles of the next months, but his pedigree suggests he has a chance.

Tales of the Six Nations Unexpected

The Six Nations - you gotta love her.

What an unpredictable, idiosyncratic, wilful little maiden she is! Just when you think you've got her measure, she surprises you. When you think she's settled into some discernible pattern of behaviour, she kicks off her shoes and dances on the tables. You think it's going to be a quiet weekend, next thing she has you throwing craps in Vegas.

The girl can't help it.

Sometimes you forget when February comes around exactly why the Six Nations has such a hold on the sporting and cultural imaginations in these islands. You pull on your sneering hat and wax satirical about corporate knees-ups and city break piss-ups. You scoff at men in wax jackets and their befurred wives, after-dinner speeches peppered with decades-old gags about testicles and anyway, how the Tri-Nations is a vastly superior tournament.

Then Spring kicks in and you say "ah, yes, I remember now" as you're captivated by it all over again. The triumphs, the disasters, the passions, the shocks.

As a tournament it seems to abhor predictability. Not in the greater sense of its ultimate outcome: of the seven championships played since Five became Six in 2000, France and England - the powerhouses in terms of playing numbers - have won three times each. Moreso in that, just when it seems that a level of reason can be applied to an upcoming fixture, and all logic points to a certain outcome, it's at this point that events take a turn for the confounded.

Of course, with Ireland confounding expectations is nothing new. Heading to Murrayfield after the bravura dismissal of England at Croke Park, armed with a vastly superior team, as well as an increasingly one-sided recent historical record over the Scots, we talked of pulling away at a canter. We expected the home side, nostrils ablaze having just sang proud Edward's army home tae think again, to charge into the fray fiercely.

But class would tell, and Ireland would respond with steel and skill, being as how we've moved onto 'another level' and all.

At some point, maybe after the first twenty minutes when 70% of the possession had yielded a scoreline of 3-3, or perhaps after Nathan Hines came back from the bin to find his team three points better off than when he had gone off (in contrast to the match-breaking 14 points that Ireland had tacked on in Danny Grewcock's absence two weeks previously) it became apparent that this tournament's persistent awkwardness was striking again.

Scotland slowed the ball down at every turn and ranged their defensive lines right in Ireland's faces. At the same time, however, they drifted sufficiently well so as that, on the handful of occasions when Ireland's line-breaks were shifted wide, they had men over for the saving tackle.

In many ways, Scotland's tactics were identikit to those which beat Wales, their aggressive and mobile pack dampening down the attacking ambitions of a more gifted side and the accuracy of Chris Paterson's boot rewarding the forwards for their exertions.

Thankfully the capricious Six Nations only decided to give us a fright, rather than the shocking loss we could very easily have left Edinburgh with.

France, on the other hand, got the full whammy from the fickle tournament. England's victory was improbable for two reasons. Firstly because the last time we saw them they looked as at home at Croke Park as Kilkenny footballers; secondly because they had made so many changes (enforced and tactical) from that side that it seemed very unlikely that they could conjure a defeat of the best side in the tournament from what was largely a team of strangers.

The ensuing events, happily for Irish title hopes, kept with the Six Nations' tendency toward the unexpected. England's youthful promise, in the shape of Messrs Rees, Flood, Geraghty and the already established Ellis, bloomed gloriously. There hasn't been such brio in a white shirt since the days when Guscott and Underwood roamed the land. Who'd have expected that?

But that's just the way she likes it.

Irish to Crush Rebellious Scots

So where were we? Ah yes, Scotland! Murrayfield, formerly graveyard of Irish hopes, now a biennial source of Six Nations Championship victories. Where once the Scots were as miserly with championship points as reputedly in fiscal matters, now they ply their Irish guests with away victories like an Edinburgh barman dispensing Glenlivet.

On the face of it only negligence of the highest order on the part of the Irish team and a flawless display from the home side would seem to be able to prevent another victory for the visitors tomorrow. Given that Scotland's defeat to Italy last time out contained more flaws in the first seven minutes than the Irish team have exhibited in three full games so far, Ireland's seventh straight win over the Scots seems likely.

One consolation for the Scots is that, had they handed Ireland the three early opportunities they did to Italy, they might not have been punished so severely given how slowly Ireland have started matches this term. They began the matches against Wales and France with all the urgency of surly teenagers who'd been told to tidy their bedrooms. In the latter case this lethargy proved terminal to a golden opportunity to win a first Grand Slam since 1948.

In fairness, although they went 3-0 down to England early on at Croke Park a fortnight ago, they responded quickly enough - and with sufficient gusto - to suggest that they had overcome the slow start problem.

One thing that might work against Ireland is the complete inability of any game to match the intensely emotional proceedings of two weekends ago, let alone a trip to down-on-their-luck Scotland. The Scots succumbed to a rugby version of Ally McLeod syndrome against Italy a fortnight ago.

McLeod, for those who don't remember one of the many less edifying episodes in Scottish football history, was Scotland's manager for the 1978 World Cup. He managed to whip the nation into frenzy of expectation when he optimistically claimed that he expected his squad to return from that tournament with "at least a medal". Of course his spectacular hubris proved calamitously misplaced when the Scots went out after the first round following a loss to Peru, a draw with Iran and, in the true tradition of glorious Scottish failure, a win over tournament favourites the Netherlands.

Anyway, back to Murrayfield two weeks ago. Scotland, following an impressive win over Wales (impressive at least in terms of their forward play; their backs proved as penetrative as guerkin cutting through granite) were feeling pretty good about themselves, and the visit of Italy seemed to provide an perfect opportunity to further burnish their form.

Not content to redeploy the hard rucking and solid set-piece policy that did for the Welsh (against an admittedly stronger pack), they reached for the weapon in their armoury called "expansive back play" and set it to "attack from deep". In a repeat of McLeod's misplaced confidence, it blew up in their faces.

Of course the other thing that this story underlines is that the Scots are infinitely better underdogs than they are favourites. Much like Ireland used to, Scotland look dismissively and uninterestedly on favouritism; it bores them. Tell a Scot he has nae chance and he's painting his face blue quicker than you can say "freedom!".

So they'll have a good go tomorrow, and will pester Ireland incessantly at the breakdown, but a couple of line-breaks from Ireland's centre pairing should see them quickly hung, drawn and quartered.

Some Points For Discussion re. Last Saturday etc.

It's the match that won't die. So, never being one to set the sports discussion agenda when we can slavishly follow the prattle of the masses, here are a few more points for rumination regarding last Saturday.

Would God Save the Queen have been so respectfully observed by 'the soccer crowd'?
Sorry to go on about this, really; just one more question, ma'am - my wife is such a big fan of yours.

One of the Proven Facts established last Saturday is that the Irish people are mature,well-rounded humanists, for whom respect for an opponent's national anthem is a natural part of decent manners. To a man.

Anyone who has spent an evening at Lansdowne Road watching the Irish soccer team, however, will know that the patrons of those occasions like a boo. They'd boo anyone given half a chance. Roy Keane and Mick McCarthy; Peter Lovenkrands and Shota Arveladze (the poor Rangers players who were booed by the naughty Provos on the terraces); Taoisigh, Lord Mayors, councillors, FAI honchos, UEFA dignitaries, overzealous stewards. I've even heard a schoolboy international, part of a team who'd won some tournament or other, get booed because he plied his trade at Manchester United.

Generally, fuelled by gargle and a sense of mischief, the Irish soccer fan sees the opportunity of a good boo as part of the matchday experience. Its a similar subclass of popular culture to that in which pantomime resides, a place where cheering and booing represent a satisfying survey of the gamut of human experience.

So, Mr.Mature and Well-Rounded Irishman, are we to believe that, with the first parpings of the God Save the Queen at an Irish soccer match, respectful silence would be observed?

Is there some sort of magic fairy dust sprinkled on the spot from whence O'Gara launched that cross-kick?
Twice in recent years has a moment of play in Croke Park stolen the breath away. On Saturday, when Ronan O'Gara dinked that cross-kick toward a spot of thin air where he had calculated in a millisecond that Shane Horgan's outstretched arms would soon be.

The other time was in August of 2005, in the drawn All-Ireland Senior Football championship quarter-final between Tyrone and Dublin, when Owen Mulligan caught a long ball around the 45 into his midriff, then turned and set off on a shimmying, jinking run that ended up with the ball exploding off his boot and into the Dublin goal.

Both of these moments had their genesis at around the same spot on the Croke Park turf, give or take a few yards. Was this the former site of a fairy ring? Did druids once meet to sacrifice goats on this turf? Did Vikings offer praise to Thor and Odin at this precise point a millenium ago?

Maybe Buddha once napped there on his way to transcendence. Certainly the two players involved achieved a Zen state of high sporting grace, that place where everything around them slows down and the surroundings bend to their will.

Will Croker 2007 be the new G.P.O 1916?
Gore Vidal, the American author and witty type, once said "every time a friend succeeds, a little something in me dies." Circumstances prevented TSA from being able to join the scavenge for tickets for last Saturday, so every friend or acquaintance that informed me that they had secured a prized brief unknowingly stuck a metaphorical dagger in my jealous heart.

And then the occasion goes on to be this big watershed moment in Irish history blah-de-blah and a bloody good game too. So now its one of these "were you there?" things, and your children will come running home from school because their friends are slagging them because their Dad's such a loser that he wasn't even at the Ireland v England match at Croke Park.

Then in later years your grandchildren will slink sullenly from your knee when you tell them you weren't there unlike bloody Zyborg next door (its the future, people will have names like that then. Well, was anyone called Darren in the1950s?) whose granddad was in the Cusack Stand that day. The incontinent old bastard.

Ireland Harness History to Trample England

As chance would have it, I happened to be travelling on a flight from London Stansted (although 'Sheffield Stansted' would be almost as appropriate a name for it given its location) to Dublin on Saturday morning. Accompanying me were several hundred members of the English rugby fraternity; their pie-and-ale countenances and Barbour jackets gave them away, if their earthy banter hadn't already.

Even as they read their morning papers, which attempted to set the scene for Saturday evening's thunderous events, they can't have known what they were walking into. On the other side of the Irish Sea a nation had been contextualising itself to a standstill, binding itself up in cultural analysis and historical deconstruction.

The country that flight FR296 landed in had been gazing so intently at its navel that it barely remembered that their visitors were looking to watch a game of rugby, not hear a history lesson.
I'm sure England's travelling supporters' eyes glanced through the think-pieces on what this game meant to the Irish and why they weren't going to rackety old Lansdowne Road this time round. But they probably spent more time worrying about whether the green shoots of their team's recovery under Brian Ashton were about to be trampled by the highly-rated Irish team.

They probably fancied that their pack would do alright, possibly dominate the scrum, but feared that they would struggle to translate their ball into points. They probably hoped for a tight game and that Wilko's boot might edge for England.

By the time half past five ticked round, however, these thoughts were lost in the noise of an occasion that inevitably transcended rugby.

For all that, as we found out against France a fortnight ago, the only satisfactory ending to these epic tales comes on the park. Where that day the volume of the preliminaries seemed like so much pointless hot air when Vincent Clerc crossed to deny Ireland the win, yesterday, pace Seamus Heaney, hope and history rhymed.

It was a good day for rugby, the sport associating itself with so much that was positive. Given that our national sport is currently neither hurling nor gaelic football, but rather Discussing Ourselves And, In Particular, How Far We've Come As A Nation, rugby's association with such a good news day will generate decades of goodwill for the sport.

But back to the 15 against 15 business. The English rugby team has long seemed diminished, especially so in comparison to the last time they attracted so much attention during pre-match pleasantries in Dublin: 2003, and Martin Johnson's eyeballing of Mary McAleese across the red carpet.

Ireland have tougher warriors on their side now, while England have never recovered from the Leicester man's retirement. Jonny Wilkinson, Lancelot to Johnson's Arthur, is back. But the outhalf now resembles one of those rock legends of the 1960s still touring even though all his old bandmates are either dead or vegetarian. When he turns around to jam now, all he sees are plodding session players.

But we're not talking about history, or rock and roll, just rugby. That's what this Irish team are all about; that's why the policy of giving it a lash - especially against the English - has long been jettisoned in favour of ruthless pragmatism. And that's what must have made the loss to France so maddening: that an occasion, or rather the peripherals thereof, usurped the careful planning and finely-tuned psychology that made them sure of their ability to win a grand slam.

The intensity and emotion on the faces of the Irish players as their own anthem played suggested that the peculiar endorphins of the day were flooding their systems dangerously and uncontrollably. Thankfully, the players harnessed them in the most clinical manner possible, turning the crude ore of raw emotion into the gold of a devastatingly convincing performance, England's worst points-against tally in Five or Six Nations history.

The Englishmen on flight FR296 had no idea what was coming.

God Save All Of Us From This Nonsense

TSA is off for a few days R & R, but would be absconding our duties not to mention the events of Saturday coming at Croke Park. I'm afraid we're one of those people for whom the occasion has been deflated a little by the defeat against France. Beating England in the Six Nations is getting a little old now, especially without the greater motivation of a grand slam.

I'm also afraid we are a little too much of a modern-Tiger-cub-urban-sophisticate to get up for the prospect of 'beating d'English at Croker'. Sure, there will be disappointment if we lose, but only in pure rugby terms: we are a better team at the moment.

I'm all for tasty sporting rivalry with our former rulers, and enjoy that little bit of edge that remains from 800 years of oppression and all that, but those for whom Jonny Wilkinson and Jason Robinson represent the grandsons of the Black and Tans are living in a derangement that is utterly unfair to the sporting traditions between the two countries that have developed since our independence. The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.

Anyway, any rugby person will tell you that the English rugby side were the first international sporting team to come to these shores after the outbreak of the troubles, when even some of our kindred Celtic neighbours would not.

As for God Save the Queen: the only sensibilties it should offend are those of music-lovers.

Grand Slam Slips Away On An Epic Day

Amid the portentious fanfare and endless talk of history that greeted the first ever rugby international at Croke Park, it became clear by Saturday evening that the Ireland v France had another lesser, but unquestionable significance: that of a decider for this year's Six Nations championship, and possibly, the Grand Slam.

It was fitting then, with so much at stake, that it was, as Eddie O'Sullivan put it, "the bounce of a ball" that decided the game in the end.

The particular bounce O'Sullivan had in mind was the one which took the French restart (after Ronan O'Gara's seemingly victory-fastening penalty) back into Gallic hands and eventually over the line in Vincent Clerc's piercing dart.

Saturday's fixtures had shown the deficiencies of the other combatants to a degree that ratcheted up the Croke Park intense-ometer several unnecessary notches. Italy matched England up front and only lost due to greater indiscipline. Both sides were uninspired in possession, and the boot of Jonny Wilkinson will not contribute enough points to compensate for their lack of backline firepower.

Scotland and Wales played a harem-scarem 80 minutes which, if engaging, was not in the same the same caste of quality as yesterday's match. Scotland played like Scotland should, rucking ferociously and recycling more enthusiastically than a Tory politician looking for green kudos. Much like England, however, they lack the line-breaking devilment in the backs to capitalise on good work up front.

So, yesterday the bounce of a ball decided the Six Nations.

Did it? Or did Ireland just run out of luck? The team that robbed poor old Italy at Lansdowne last year through Tommy Bowe's try that never touched the ground; that squeezed past poor old England at Twickenham a few weeks later through an improbable late try; that got to burnish its reputation in the Autumn against depleted Australian and South African outfits; that did a Jedi mind trick on the referee in Cardiff last week ("I am going to foul incessantly in the ruck and get away with it". "Yes, you are".) - was the ball due to bounce the other way for once?

Ireland have, of course, made their own luck. They've been good enough to take advantage of fate's loose morals and it has often got them out of jail. Not yesterday, however. Going into the plush Croke Park dressing rooms at half time only two points down certainly seemed like an escape from death row. France had dominated and around the time Rafael Ibanez touched down for the first try in the Greatest Stadium on Earth And No Mistake, our paté-wolfing friends were playing with that bristling momentum that has destroyed us so often in the past.

But Ireland were almost good enough again to turn fortune their way. Good enough to heave the seemingly unstoppable flow of the match the other way. Good enough to concoct a move that showcased both their ability to bludgeon back the initative and also the capacity for improvisation at the crucial moment. O'Gara's dummy, Hickie's vision, Horgan's line, Wallace's hands and O'Gara's foresight to have seen it all before it happened - all manifestations of the brilliant rugby minds this Irish team possesses.

Having survived near-capitulation in the first half, the second period provided the game that the occasion deserved. It was ceaseless, enthralling and, by the time Ireland's spectacular maul won them that late penalty to go four points clear, it must have been deathly exhausting. France's restart bounced beyond Ireland's tired grasp, as did Clerc through John Hayes fingers.

It was a day for the epic, cacophonous and historic. It drew the Herculean from the game, the players' endeavours rising to the level of the decibels that the crowd generated. Ireland gave everything, but couldn't turn fortune their way again.

On such days, God is often in the details. Like the bounce of a ball.

The Very Rough Guide to the Croke Park Area

Travelling to the northside for the first time? Worried about the trip? Fear not - TSA brings you all you need to know about navigating one of the world's last great wildernesses. Follow our cut-out-and-keep guide to the Croke Park area and who knows, you might even even enjoy yourself!

Getting There and Away
Avoid using the specially laid on buses provided by some of the more avaricious southside pubs: these will only make you stand out and arouse unwanted attention from locals. Instead, take the number 10 bus. Though passing Kiely's and making its way through such fine avenues as Waterloo Road and Morehampton Road, this incredible route eventually winds up traversing the rubble-strewn inner-north-city. The closest thing in this country to the Orient Express.

Handy Hint! If taking the DART, do not walk from Connolly Station to Croke Park without an armed guide!

Getting Around
Once north, the more adventurous traveller might wish to access the ground from the more 'authentic' Summerhill/Ballybough quarter. Sample the local culture by 'putting a bet on' in one of the many 'bookies' in the area, or taste the delights of a single fish or batter burger in a typical 'chipper'. Take care not to carry valuables (shoes, trousers etc.)

Those with young families or travelling with the infirm might wish to reach the Clonliffe Road from Drumcondra, an area which was civilised several years ago, now even boasting a number of estate agents.

Handy hint! Listen out for a Munster accent: rugby fans from the south-west have a long history of missionary work in this area, and may be able to help with directions, or in a fight.

Dining: With the proliferation of the aforementioned 'chippers', those seeking some semblance of basic gourmet fare would be well served packing a lunch. However, this needn't be a source of embarassment. A traditional repast in these parts is the Ham Sandwich Eaten While Sitting on the Bonnet of the Car: a little imagination can transform it into Serrano on Ciabatta Taken While Locked in the SUV.

Handy hint! Eschew the omnipresent Centra roll for the hearty delights of Paul's Delicatessen on Dorset St., an outpost of fresh food amidst the tyranny of the snack-box.

Bars: Again, the intrepid explorer can steel his nerve and delve into the Dorset St. fleshpots like the Big Tree, the Findlater, McGrath's and, for only the most fearless, Quinn's. The latter is believed to be the site of the original Barbarian settlement here several thousand years ago. It remains a sacred place for northsiders: they believe that the spirit of Ant-Oh, the god said to have created the tracksuit, resides therein.

For the less adventurous, Fagan's in Drumcondra will provide some of the comforts of home. In a strange quirk of the political system, an Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern, frequents this famous watering hole.

In actual fact, rather than popping in regularly as a token reinforcement of his man-of-the-people image, Bertie actually hangs out here all the time, rather like Norm from Cheers. In fact he often takes part in the pub's efforts to put one over on nearby Enda's Olde Tyme Tavern, leading to hilarious practical jokes and misunderstandings.

HANDY HINT! If visiting a northside pub's toilet facilities, you may be cornered by a foul-smelling inebriate, ranting incomprehensibly. To extricate yourself from this situation simply recite the following words, very loudly: The ould triangle went jingle-jangle, all along the banks of the Royal Canal. You will be allowed on your way with the heartiest approbation.

Things to do: Well, go to the rugby match, obviously. Unlike Lansdowne Road, picturesque and charmingly appointed, the local Croke Park stadium is something of a soulless montrosity. Boasting endless perfect sightlines, spacious and comfortable seating facilities and a terrace unlikely to collapse at any moment, the stadium will seem at first rather strange.

Locals are inordinately proud of the arena, however, so complement them profusely. Don't worry about seeming patronising: they secretly long for the Victorian poise of the West Stand at Lansdowne.

HANDY HINT! If you become the subject of physical aggression from a native, grab a nearby Frenchman and suggest that he is 'over here taking our jobs'. The ire towards you will soon be directed towards the Gallic usurper.

Imperfect Ireland Survive Millenium Bug

'Phew!', I believe was the word that sums up any reaction to yesterday's messy win for Ireland over Wales.

Phew, that we don't look silly after all our confident talk about that thing which we will not mention here again, but which begins with the letters G and S and almost ended yesterday in the Millenium Stadium.

Phew, that next week's welcoming party for France, a selectively convened group of 82,000, will not be deflated by the disappointment of anti-climax.

And phew, because, hopefully that means we've got a dog of a performance out of our system.

It would be great if, over the next phew, sorry, few days, we got further cause for relief with positive news of Brian O'Driscoll's fitness, after the captain's worrying hamstring injury sustained yesterday. Even those of us whose knowledge of physiology and anatomy is restricted to knowing which limbs our trousers go on understand that "oooh, the hamstring's a bad one". A healthy O'Driscoll is a prerequisite to have any chance of winning of the unmentionable thing that begins with G and S.

So was that just a rusty team feeling their way into their work in the rather testing environment of a passion-drunk Cardiff, or a troubling demonstration of Ireland's limitations?

Certainly thoughts of future glories seemed miles away in the first half. Wales asked Ireland difficult questions and, like a slow-witted boy faced with a disciplinarian headmaster, Ireland stuttered and hesitated in reply. Stephen Jones kicked demonically, picking out Andrew Trimble's discomfort with the sweeping up part of the winger's duties as a key area of weakness.
Trimble cleared his lines in a manner that suggested he should have had L-plates on his boots, and the momentum was with Wales.

Of course the Ulsterman's kicking was a masterclass compared with how Ronan O'Gara was faring. Mishit, scuffed or ballooned, O'Gara's stock-in-trade betrayed him repeatedly. Clearances sat harmlessly in front of the Welsh back three, touches were missed and one penalty effort in particular was clobbered unpleasantly well left.

Dwayne Peel, Jones and James Hook were choreographing a bravura Welsh performance; Peel gave a stunning display of scrum-half play, and only the convention of giving the Man of the Match award to a player from the winning team denied him a deserved sponsors' nod.

With all the talk about Wales pummelling us in the scrum (puh-lease) it turned out to be the line-out that banjaxed Ireland yesterday. Eddie O'Sullivan mentioned how the noise in stadium made the calls difficult to hear, Ireland having rejigged their line-out repertoire after the autumn. Rory Best certainly appeared to be playing the deaf grandma to a patient Paul O'Connell, and the absence of clean ball helped scupper Ireland.

But just when the eBay Croker ticket touts were beginning to worry about the value of their investment, Ireland received a sprinkling of fortune. That is, apart from the fortune that had prevented them having a man sin-binned early on with Wales on top. Ronan O'Gara punted a clearance that had sufficient meat on it to have the home fans clearing their throats to jeer it all the way past the goal line.

However, upon its arrival just short of the try line, the ball skewed left, going into touch just inches from the line. Somehow - albeit Ireland would have several more moments of stress after that - that moment seemed to lift the worst of the day from the visitors, and, like clearing fog, they were able to navigate their way home from there.

The nasty cut suffered by Denis Hickie turned out to be a happy twist of fate too. It allowed Geordan Murphy's introduction as a blood sub, during which time he caught his own garryowen and contributed a pass which culminated in O'Driscoll's try. Murphy's spell on the field was, in proportion to his time on it, invaluable. Aw, can he not stay, we thought?!

All throughout, Gordon D'Arcy and Denis Leamy had never exhibited the lower than usual standards of some of their team-mates. Leamy, incidentally, pulled a few catches from above his head in a manner suitable to Croke Park on days of its traditional usage. D'Arcy's tackling had helped an Irish defence keep the Welsh largely well clear from the line, but it was his slippery run, drilling into the Welsh cover which led to O'Gara's clinching try.

What emerges from yesterday - a bad day at the office, all told - is the fact that, when certain of Ireland's players were off colour and parts of the team's game not functioning, there was a reservoir of class sufficient to, in the end, complete the win in an almost businesslike manner.

It is certainly a relief to know, that, even when Ireland are stinking up the place, a Murphy or a D'Arcy or a Leamy or an O'Driscoll is likely to arrive with a can of Airwick, especially with the seismic afternoons ahead over the next fortnight.

One again - phew!

Six Nations Preview: The Rest of the Impertinents

ENGLAND (Saturday 24th February, Croke Park)

By the blood of Michael Hogan, begone from this sacred turf!

The. Big. One. England in Croker. The subject beloved of T.V. and radio discussion programmes desperate for 'divisive controversy'.

TV Vox Pop: "Do you think they should play God Save the Queen at Croke Park?"

Punter: "Don't care."

TV V.P.: "There you have it - this divisive issue continues to prove controversial..."

A few months ago it seemed that we were to have a nice handy afternoon of Saxon-whupping to placate the infamous 'backwoodsmen' who continue to grumble from GAA county board missives. Unfortunately Andy Robinson is gone, Brian Ashton is in, with Rob Andrew upstairs peering through his designer specs at the whole thing. In short, they've belatedly attempted to get their act together.

For all the good vibes coming out of Twickers, much like TSA's dress policy for most social occasions, it all looks a bit too thrown together at the last moment. So much hangs on the three-pronged risk-orgy in the backs. This weekend Jonny Wilkinson starts his first England game since clipping that World Cup winning drop-goal in Sydney in 2003, Jason Robinson starts his first for his country in two years and Andy Farrell, at 31, starts his first international, well, ever, in union at least.

For all Ashton's reknowned ability to coach backline flair, a settled and immaculately prepared Ireland will approach this latest English team with the confidence of a side fully expectant of a fourth victory over the old foe. God Save the Queen might get an airing, but Sweet Chariot certainly won't.

Jerusalem in Croker's green and pleasant land?
As Brian O'Driscoll pointed out last week, for all England's supposed wretchedness in recent years, they have never been given a proper doing, and even a cursory remembrance of last year reminds us how it needed Shane Horgan's telescopic arm to win the day for Ireland in Twickenham.

As Frank Hadden showed last season with Scotland, the creation of a postive working environment and the sense that there is some kind of plan afoot can change a team's fortunes quite quickly. All through England's trough, their forwards continued to win masses of ball, but were scuppered by diffidence behind them.

Coming just a few weeks after Munster were demolished up front by a Leicester pack, five of whom are in the 22 for this weekend's Calcutta Cup game, its safe to assume England will give us a tough day up front.

Last year we had too much guile and nous for them when we had the ball. However if Ashton's talents have had any effect, if Jonny Wilkinson can rediscover a fraction of his ruthless mastery at out-half and if the whole lot of them have even a small amount more confidence about them than we've seen in recent seasons, they might be sending her victorious at the end of the 80 minutes as well as at the start.


SCOTLAND (Saturday March 10th, Murrayfield)

Not so brave now, oh eaters of artery-clogging, deep-fried foodstuffs!
The days of our struggles against the Scots in Murrayfield may be relatively recent - we only ended an eighteen year winless run in Edinburgh in 2003 - but, psychologically, any sense of inferiority to Scotland in rugby feels as remote as, hah!, unemployment and Mike Murphy.

Since we last lost to them in 2001, the Scots have served up a routine victory for Ireland wherever we have played them, only offering mild resistance on our triple crown winning afternoon in 2004.

Scotland are traditionally at their strongest from 6 to 10, ravenous back-rowers and impudent scrum-halves being key to their game. As ever they possess class in these positions this year too. Trouble is, most of it is either injured or just returning from injury. Jason White, last year's player of the tournament, and Alistair Hogg are missing from the back row (although Hogg could be back for the Ireland game), Mike Blair at scrum-half is also out and Chris Cusiter has been bandaged up after a ligament injury to take the 9 jersey.

With an inexperienced tight five and a continuing inability to really spark in the backs - flaws which Ireland do not share - this year should be another business-like trip to Auld Reekie.

They've sent us hameward, tae think again!
Scotland were the big good news story of last season's championship. Frank Hadden proved to be the Walter Smith to Matt Williams' Berti Vogts, reinstilling enough pride and pleasure into performing for the national side to make a stark difference on the field.

That positivity permeated their play in the way that the embarassing error-count of previous seasons was reduced, and with Sean Lamont emerging as an exciting attacking presence on the wing, the Scots were almost able to fill Murrayfield again.

They are also starting to produce quality young players again, Rob Dewey in centre and Ali Kelloch at lock being two currently causing drams to be raised in appreciation north of Hadrian's Wall.

With Dan Parks and Chris Paterson at 10 and 12 they have an experienced creative think-tank and a metronomic kicking presence that could just be a potent fulcrum for the emerging talent around them.


ITALY (Saturday 17th March, Stadio Flaminio)

Get back to organised crime and driving too fast, you immaculately coiffured types!
And no better time and place to win the grand slam than Paddy's Day in the Eternal City, which is how long the wait seems like since Ireland last won one.

We all know the drill here. Italy will batter us about a bit up front, Bergamasco will rampage, Bortolami will rumble. At half time the score will be 6-6 and George Hook will howl in the studio about this being "the poorest performance from an Irish side in living memory."

Then D'Arcy or O'Driscoll will make a line break shortly into the second half, which will end up in Wallace going over after a couple of phases and that'll be that. Cue endless footage of the despoilment of the Trevi fountain.

Rome riddle as Ireland burn!
Or maybe, for once, our traditional first half buffeting by the Italian pack will result in them picking up a few scores, rather than the usual fruitless territorial dominance.

Maybe, after a glorious run to this stage Ireland will come over all, well, Irish and conjure inglorious failure at the moment of truth.

If this happens, as a nation, we should throw our hat it.

Six Nations Preview: Who Dares Stand In Our Way?

Prior to the formality of picking up the Six Nations trophy and the mythical garlands of the grand slam on Paddy's Day in Rome, the organisers of the tournament have laid on five preliminary matches for Ireland to fulfil before the party begins.

Here we look at the wretches who are lined up to be crushed under the heel of mighty Erin....

WALES (Sunday Feb 4th, Millenium Stadium Cardiff)

Bow down you coal-mining, sweet voiced dwarves!
The selection of Simon Easterby in the pack ahead of Neil Best was explained through reasons twofold: a) he plays in Wales and therefore doesn't mind the smell so much, and b) he's a fine tall fella who's good in lineouts (even though Best is only an inch more diminutive).

We can be pretty damn sure then that Eddie O'Sullivan plans to silence the Millenium Stadium mid-Land-of-my-Fathers through the boot of Ronan O'Gara into the corner, followed by the grinding of maul on the back of lineout supremacy. The avoidance of broken play - Wales' preferred modus operandi - until domination is won up front will be the theme of the day.

A capital plan it is too. By hopefully notching scores through the aforementioned forward rumbling and perhaps a few penalties borne of Welsh frustration, we will hope for the Welsh to get all panicky and start throwing the ball around off inadequate set-pieces; by the time our backs get the ball in their hands, they will be merely gilding the lily.

Aaargh, the male voice choir is weakening our powers with their rousing chorus!
Best laid plans and all that. With the wobbliness of Munster's scrum against Leicester a few weeks back, it's a little rich to assume forward dominance over anyone in this tournament.

Wales will attempt to attack this perceived weakness - they'd be mad not to - and, if Gethin Jenkins gets a heave on, watch Ryan Jones postively gulp down the Irish halves. And if Rory Best and his jumpers get it wrong in the line-out, we could be exposed to an open gunfight. With a balance of the guile and cleverness of Stephen Jones, James Hook and Dwayne Peel and the power of Gareth Thomas in the Welsh backs, we might be eating daffodils in jig time.

FRANCE (Sunday Feb 11th, Croke Park)

Back to your quasi-socialist economic basket-case state, Froggy!
As the team who initially punctured Ireland's 2005 Grand Slam ambitions, it understandable to greet France's arrival with furrowed brow and a modicum of caution.

However, the single factor which makes this an unlosable game for Ireland is not on the pitch, but rather around it: Croke Park. This match is such a hugely anticipated and culturally seismic occasion for the Irish that I fully expect France, like a Vichy border guard spying a swastika, to stand graciously aside.

I am basing this supposition on two things: Biarritz did likewise when confronted with the reality of the emotional weight behind Munster's Heineken Cup bid last year, writ large on the Cardiff big screen at a crucial juncture of the final. When those pictures of O'Connell St. in Limerick were broadcast, the Biarritz players could clearly be seen mouthing to each other: "ah, un grand passion" before shrugging in admiration and chucking the game.

Secondly, the French have made it clear that their attentions are focused totally on this autumn's World Cup, and no amount of Six Nations victories will compensate for the opprobrium they will face at home if they host the tournament in as ramshackle manner as they did their autumn internationals. Hence rotation, experimentation and another win for Ireland.

Merde!
But then again, a year ago the Irish scrum was obliterated to the point of farce in the first half in Paris, leaving Ronan O'Gara trying to use the ball while practically on his backside.

What's to say that won't be the case again? Sure, Ireland responded on that occasion with Almost the Greatest Comeback Ever, but the French had moved onto the petit fours by that stage.

France have named Milloud, Ibanez and De Villiers in their front row for this weekend, the same three that played in Stade de France last year. Ireland name Horan and Best instead of Corrigan and Flannery from that game, which is just a slightly more than negligible improvement.

True, unsettled in the half-backs - the French give Pierre Mignoni and David Skrela the 9 and 10 shirts on Saturday in place of the more familiar twosome of Freddie Michalak (injured) and Dmitri Yachvili (benched) - there's no guarantee that the French will be able to punish us. Then again, behind those two are the experienced and dangerous likes of Yannick Jauzion, Cristophe Dominici and Clement Poitrenaud, who, like Kerry's footballers, will enjoy the open spaces of Croke Park.

Tomorrow: the hapless Jocks, perfidious Albion and the pizza-munchers. Or Scotland the Brave, England's Glory and Forza Italia. You choose.

Heineken Cup Review: Hard Road Ahead

The announcement of the Irish squad today for the first Six Nations match against Wales on Sunday week draws a natural line under Heineken Cup matters and focuses attention on the springtime soirée about to ensue. Albeit the provinces plod on with Magners League fixtures in the midst of the international hoopla, the top players are, of course, spirited away to be rubbed nightly in papaya and honey balm, wrapped in silk sheets then rocked to sleep by the sound of lute lullabies.

Before all that a timely moment, then, to survey their exploits thus far in the Grand Papa of club competitions. And my, what a confused and conflicting scene we are presented with, full of giddy backslapping one moment then fear and loathing the next.

NOTHING'S GONNA STOP US.....NOW
This season's pool stages seemed bipolar in nature, all three of the Irish provinces vascillating from Marlon Brando to Marlon from Emmerdale within six matches.

There was obviously enough good stuff in there to help (on top of the Autumn international successes) put a jaunty spring in our World Cup year step.

Ulster's demolition of Toulouse in the first round seemed to point to great things, suggesting that a Third Way was about to present itself between the red and blue of Ireland's hitherto dominant ideologies.

With Ulster's 1999 success in the tournament generally accompanied with an asterisk - "note: no English teams participated in this season's competition" - was this, with a tough pack steered by General Humphreys at outhalf and youthful promise in the backs, the province staking a rightful claim to contender status?

Leinster's drop dead gorgeous attacking potential was demonstrated against Gloucester at home, then fulfilled against Edinburgh at Donnybrook, a fantastic display of a 15-man game, admittedly against a team whose interest in the fixture was mild, and certainly not prolonged.

But it was the gutsy win in Agen that augured best for Leinster, a courageous and hard-fought victory which seemed to suggest that the flibbertigibbets were all grown up, thanks to the introduction by Keogh and Hogan of foul-humoured Munsterness into the pack.

Munster, we said, were 'savvy'. 'Experienced'. 'Nous' was mentioned. So too 'smarts'. The smuggling of a win from Welford Road was the best moment, a triumph of nerve in the face of alarming reversals in the scrum which would only be properly punished at the end of the pool stages.

ITS THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT
The word 'Ulster' now accompanies in many dictionaries of modern usage, the phrase 'flattering to deceive'. The trip to Llanelli was seen as the reckoning, the revelation of whether Ulster were anything but home-town heroes.

Defeat at Stradey Park, in a game in which the province never got a foothold, was deflating, and the rest of the group offered only ignominy: a loss to the Welsh side at Fortress Ravenhill, and the fact that the fight between an Ulster supporter and Trevor Brennan was the only meaningful contest in which the province were involved on the last day.

For Leinster, a silly, maddening loss to Edinburgh suggested a lack of focus, but the loss to Gloucester was more depressing. A foul night in January did not help, but the sense of lack of control was all-pervasive, the conditions preventing Leinster from maximising, as they usually do, their inferior percentage of possession. The questions will not go away.

Still, we can live with Leinster's foibles, due to familiarity. The decimation of the Munster set-piece in defeat by Leicester at Thomond Park (the shock of it! Losing at Thomond, and on a good, dirty oul night too!) was the most worrying sight of all, even if it had been coming. Leicester tossed the Munster pack around like a plastic bag in a gale, the scrum especially being ransacked.

DON'T LOOK BACK IN ANGER
Away quarter-finals, the old question marks arising, Biarritz determined, Leicester rejuvenated, Llanelli flying....will the trophy so bumped and boozed around the south-west this last eight months or so be leaving our shores?

With the Six Nations to come first, clairvoyancy for the Heineken Cup is ill-advised until the body count is in. The absence of an O'Gara or a Contepomi (admittedly not playing in the Six Nations) would be almost terminal for either side.

Still I expect at least one of them to win their way to a semi-final, and will state that it is not beyond both. Munster do not have a great record in Wales, that day in May notwithstanding, but will not fear Llanelli. And Wasps is not the worst draw for Leinster either, whatever about the obstacle posed by their blitz defence.

But they're both strong opponents, and at home. With potential semi-finals away also, an Irish win this year would be even more hard-wrought than the momentous one of 2006.