Went the day well? Aye, well enough; it was a near run thing at the end though, when David Humphreys nearly lost the run of himself and almost scored with a last-minute penalty. That would have been unnecessary triumphalism. The Irish XV - though these days it is often the Irish XIX or even XXII - had conclusively taught the French a thing or ten; and, like a good fencing master at the end of the lesson, had stood back with lowered guard to allow the student to lunge with his epee, bawling with gauche and imbecilic joy, "touche." Ha. Touche, mon cul.
Two years ago this column offered some opinions to the lords of irfu, masters of irfuslum. Rugby crowds were faithfully turning up to watch Irish teams, playing a hybrid code somewhere between lacrosse and curling, being massacred by visitors. Any visitors. A dog-sled of Eskimos whose experience of rugby was limited to punting a walrus head around an ice-floe got lost in Labrador, turned up at Lansdowne Road, and ran out winners 59-7.
Waist-high team
Then there were the lads from Congo-Brazzaville, tiny fellows, waist-high, who arrived in Dublin to attend a Pentecostal meeting in the RDS, but got sucked into the crowds pouring into Lansdowne Road. Fascinated to discover that they were at a Rwugabe match, they togged out in their loincloths and nose-bones and won when their lock forward, at a towering 4'6" the tallest man in the team, tore through an exhausted Irish pack in the last few minutes and scored under the posts.
Team managers came and went, but the lords of irfu continued to rule with an ancient rulebook. Match programmes (as this column pointed out) referred to players in Edwardianly ringing series of initials: plain Mick Murphy, lorry driver, became known as M.R.J. Murphy, transport executive. And once one entered Lansdowne Road (as this column again pointed out) it became impossible to get food or a drink. Furthermore, it was the only rugby ground in the world without an action-replay screen, so that journalists covering the match saw less of it than television viewers at home. It was as if the lords of irfu lived in a time warp where success was unnecessary, economic activity perfectly tasteless, and news from Ladysmith was daily expected. And as for the crowds turning up for the match, they could like it or lump it.
The instant response from the lords of irfu to what appeared in this space two years ago was the big frigid collarbone, i.e., the cold shoulder. But of course, reality slouched onwards: the day might soon dawn when the unions of the other International Championship countries would say to the lords of irfu, "Listen: it's time to leave. It's embarrassing playing Ireland and winning 85-3 every year. You last won in France during the Pleistocene. Your provincial selection system means that you have as much chance of winning the International Championship as the residents of a dog cemetery. Your stadium is a Nissan hut where it is impossible to get nourishment of any kind - unless, that is, you are a lord of irfu."
Festive air
Maybe it was the arrival of Warren Gatland, the greatest coach Ireland has ever had. Or, who knows, maybe the criticisms aired here helped a bit. Whatever, soon afterwards things began to improve. Programmes now refer to the players by their real names, not by initials. There are excellent bars and food counters within the stadium. There is, in other words, a splendid and festive air in the ground before kick-off and after the final whistle. There's every reason to arrive at Lansdowne Road nice and early, rather than arriving late for the kick-off, and have a few relaxed drinks there before and after the match.
There's now a large television screen; one is not enough, but still, it's one more than before. Announcements are now in French when appropriate. Crowd control is vastly improved. Admittedly, Lansdowne Road remains a halting-site, but there's no overnight cure to that problem. The real point is that there is a sense of professionalism, of people knowing what they are about, which never existed before. Nuirfu is born. Welcome.
Grand Slam
Now, for this new-found competence to express itself too suddenly would be vulgar, pushy, arriviste. And to win the Grand Slam out of the blue in the first full season of nuirfuism, with France at home, would simply be too easy. True Grand Slams are won taking on France in Paris. Yes, yes, of course it was painful having to surrender a match in which Ireland in every department outplayed France, but in the long-term strategy it was necessary.
In other words, this year, we must settle for the Triple Crown. A modest beginning, you might say. I agree. No matter. The lords of irfu have got the right man in Warren Gatland, and the man has the players, and the players have the self-belief and the skill to play to their strengths. He and they need no advice from me or you, so shut up. Roll on Wembley and Murrayfield and Lansdowne Road and the poor unfortunate English: ahead lie cold steel and no mercy. Merci, we are done with mercy. Next year victory in Paris; next year the Grand Slam. Mark me well.