AFTER A rousing belt of “Why, why, why Delilah?” (why indeed) and the Black Velvet Band (the usual tribute to Tommy Bowe, we like to think), came the match of the day. No, not the rugby. This one was played out on the red carpet as our new and tidy President moved to shake hands with Paul O’Connell. Superman. All 6ft 6ins of him.
They didn’t drag it out, more’s the pity. The President’s head craned upwards – way, way upwards – for a second or two, until the captain swiftly brought matters back down to earth.
He introduced him to the mascots, a couple of nine-year- olds. They probably represented a kind of urban-rural compromise for the IRFU – one from Wexford, the other from Dublin 6.
We knew we weren’t in Munster, Toto, when cool Jonny Sexton raised a boot for a penalty four minutes in, while things were relatively civilised.
“Get in the hole,” roared a chap who’d obviously missed the turn for Elm Park golf club. Sexton nailed it anyway. It was just as well, because it was all we had to keep us warm for a long, lean time during which Wales rampaged all over the Irish half.
We diverted ourselves from the horror by considering a recurring question: is Phil Coulter sufficiently appreciated at all? An earlier survey of moving mouths during the much-derided Ireland’s Call revealed a compliance rate of eight out of 10.
And there was the weather to marvel at. Fans from both sides agreed that, for once, we were on the right side of the map. And um, that was it.
Then Wales got a try and the gallant, scattered travellers struck up a powerful rendition of Hymns and Arias, an uncommonly civilised chorus compared to the whizz-bang musical effects cranked out by the hosts – a kind of Ryanair-style trumpet blast to mark a score.
Their conversion attempt hit the upright and silenced them temporarily.
But they had lots of occasion for exultant bursts of “oggi, oggi, oggi” (which, by the way, means nothing in any language, except to Welsh rugby fans who have ordained that it means “more, more” – or something).
Then a penalty in front of the posts hit the upright, again. That shut them up again. The loud, hissing noise at that point was actually a lengthy exhalation of sighs and obscenities from the Irish fans.
We ended the first half slightly ahead, which was a bit of a miracle.
“I wish we’d taken our chances,” sighed Meredith Williams, who despite the name, is a grown man from Anglesey, north Wales. Meredith as in a boy named Sue, we asked?
“Don’t go there,” he warned, explaining that he should have been Meredydd but his parents got the spelling wrong. It’s the sort of detail that one likes to hang on to when a match ends like this one.
The second half was a good bit livelier and we didn’t have to endure “oggi, oggi” again till around the 60th minute when the Welsh got a rush of blood to the head and brought the scores into heart-attack territory.
Their kicker, Leigh Halfpenny, had a date with destiny 76 minutes in when he had a conversion to put his side ahead. It was an awkward one.
Poor Leigh, it must remind him of that calamitous miss against France in the World Cup, we thought (well, okay, we hoped) as he lined up to take it.
He missed. Tut tut, poor Leigh. An announcement asking the crowd to respect the kickers wouldn’t have gone amiss, we said solemnly. We could afford to be magnanimous, given that we were winning with about a few minutes to go.
That was until they got a yellow card that should have been a red (no, really. Even the Welsh lads alongside agreed). And in the dying minutes, they were awarded what even our new Welsh friends deemed to be a “harsh” penalty. Directly in front of the posts.
The green army forgot its manners entirely and tried to blow Leigh off the pitch with the booing. Leigh, sadly, got his mojo back. And that was that. No Grand Slam. No vintage year for international rugby.
It was a grumpy crowd that exited Lansdowne Road. “The Welsh deserved it,” grumped a man from Cloughjordan, pulling his hat down around his ears. “It’s down to the soccer lads now . . .”
But look at the upside. At least we didn't have to listen to a reprise of Delilah.