Welsh rugby Delilah as the Irish sail off to Botany Bay

TV View: Cheer up, it could be worse. We could, for example, be Scotland. As George the Hook put it on Saturday, "Scotland have now been overtaken in the world rankings by a hunk of coral in the middle of the Pacific". Fiji, by any other name.

And as Ralph Keyes noted during the commentary from Twickenham, "Scotland's defence seems porous - at best". When "porous" is the best thing you can say about your defence then you know your problems are really rather serious. Leaks everywhere.

Speaking of Cardiff.

Leeks, that is. And the obligatory Max 'Oggie Oggie Oggie' Boyce. And Charlotte Church. (Girlfriend of the Dai Beckham of Welsh rugby, Gavin Henson. Quite what the likes of Graham Price make of Gav's hair-do, well, this scribble appears before the watershed so we won't publicly hazard a guess). And my, my, my . . . speaking of Delilah.

Some folk think it strange that Irish sporting fans sing about a fella who stole Trevelyn's corn a fair few years ago, so that his young might see the morn, and, as a result, ended up in Botany Bay.

The Welsh, though, celebrate their sporting successes by singing about a woman who was knifed to death by her boyfriend after he caught her up to no good with another lad.

"Forgive me Delilah, I just couldn't take any more," the Millennium Stadium bellowed, perhaps unaware that poor auld Delilah is hardly in a position to offer forgiveness, or anything else, her being dead and all.

Next in the BBC's Big Match Build-Up: Richard Burton. From his place in the heavens he told us, over grainy footage of Welsh rugby's finest moments, in those rich, dulcet, sweet, honeyed, melodic, glorious, magnificent tones of his (ie quite nice) that: "we are the nation of the possessed where rugby football is concerned. We identify with our national team more completely than any other nation. Now, again, we are in ecstasy for we have glimpsed at something that is an expression of some denied part of ourselves".

Cripes. After that you'd hardly have the heart to deny them the Grand Slam. A feeling heightened after the singing of the, eh, national anthems. From Ireland's Call to Land of our Fathers, from the abominably ridiculous to the utterly sublime.

The Welsh would have lifted the roof, if there was a roof. Except it was tucked away, thanks to the balmy day that was in it.

And from there the missing roof sort of caved in on Ireland's Triple Crown hopes. "The nation is very depressed George, say something to cheer them up," said Tom McGurk at full time. "I'm very depressed," came the reply. "Thanks George, feeling better already," said the nation.

The RTÉ and BBC panels were in general agreement, a consensus voiced by Jonathan Davies who, while attempting to peel himself off the BBC ceiling, noted Ireland's utter lack of creativity during the game. Back on RTÉ Hook said it was all "a bit like Jack Charlton with Liam Brady and Ronnie Whelan, they're no good for the team because they're likely to pass the ball".

A bit like Delilah the knives were out. Hook seemed to be asking the question: "why, why, why, Eddie O'Sullivan?". Disheartened, he just couldn't take any more.

No such gloom at Cheltenham where, as Channel 4's Jim McGrath put it, "it's been a greenwash".

The Queen of Countdown, Carol Vorderman, had predicted as much when she went for Kicking King when asked for her tip. Why Kicking King? "Because it sounds like my daughter's name, Katie King," she said. To think there are folk out there who squander their time studying form and the like.

And, of course, Kicking King triumphed quite wonderfully, dissecting the Cheltenham posts. And this was the fella who we assumed was a non-runner due to injury.

"I'd like to emphasise that it was the horse who told me to come here," said trainer Tom Taaffe, "it wasn't me - he just told me he was so well, he said he wanted to come and that's what we did." A quick horse, a brave horse, and a talking horse to boot.

Channel 4, though, neglected to interview Kicking King himself after the race, opting instead to chat with his many human assistants.

"Twas a race of two halves," he'd have told them, if they'd bothered to ask, "and I won both".

Poor old Beef or Salmon, meanwhile, just couldn't take any more.

"Why, why, why," we asked, forlornly, as we shredded the betting slip.