SPORT ON TV: Now that the old currency has been shredded and bailed for eternity the thought struck: isn't it a shame that Peter Clohessy was never considered as a monetary cover star along with Yeats, Jimmy Joyce and the rest, writes Keith Heneghan
How refreshing it would have been for our French and Japanese tourists to study in benign confusion the sight of the Claw in glorious rampage on the back of a £50 note, the ball under one arm and a startled Welsh forward in the other.
"Izz your Bee-han, non? Le Garcon Borstal?" the visitors might have quizzed our friendly barmen.
As he stood there in splendid isolation to receive a Thomond Park ovation for a century of Munster caps on Saturday, it would have been hard to argue that the Claw has not been good value over the years. Who better embodied the undiluted national traits of mumbled understatement, dry wit and hardness that already seemed to be pined after? And it would have taken a hell of a talent to ever forge a convincing copy of that uncompromising match-day scowl.
RTÉ have taken to covering Munster home games with a pilgrim's enthusiasm, dispatching a wintry-looking Tom McGurk to a bird's nest above the ground to assure us of the life-affirming joy that is the Thomond Park setting. Saturday's occasion, with its attendant ceremony and the fact that mastermind Declan Kidney is due to depart for a sabbatical with the Irish squad, gave the match an extra dimension.
Not that Munster games ever lack for angles. RTÉ always present Munster outings as classics of the genre and, in fairness, the past two seasons have yielded a generous bounty of bone fide gems.
But an understrength Harlequins team, sans Keith Wood, with no real incentive other than professional pride was hardly the opposition that dreams are made of. If every Munster outing is to be tarted up as an afternoon of unique glory, passion and blah, blah, blah, then the genuine days of greatness will soon lose their meaning.
Saturday's romp against the demoralised Quins was entertaining but mostly brought on an impatience for the next phase to begin. Satisfying as the Munster try-glut might have been for the home fans, the game's most interesting dynamic was the sight, on the same pitch, of respective outhalves Ronan O'Gara and Paul Burke.
It is as if we have watched Munster's O'Gara grow up on watery sunlit days such as this, a schoolboyish figure with a veteran's rationale. He is one of the symbols of the new wave of Irish rugby, those fresh-skinned professionals that blossomed in the Gatland era.
Burke's tenure in the number 10 jersey already seems like a distant memory. A tense and impeccably drilled outhalf, he - along with the unfortunate Eric Elwood - came to prominence when the Irish game was weighted with all the worst aspects of amateurism.
Both were casually treated and it was no surprise to hear Jim Sherwin announce that Burke "does not want to be remembered as the Orson Welles of Irish rugby and that he was, according to co-commentator Ralph Keyes, "pretty vociferous about that and about putting himself back in the shop window."
This, then, must have a discouraging afternoon for the exile, playing against the momentum for almost the entire match before ultimately being excused to facilitate burly replacement Mark Mapletoft in the final quarter. Burke is one Irishman who will hardly share the national broadcaster's fondness for Thomond.
If the Limerick ground is a mecca of rugby, then Dagenham & Redbridge's patch is something else entirely. The good citizens of Dagenham took a day off from manufacturing cars and kindly contributed their hairdryers in a mass effort to thaw out the local side's miserable little pitch, in honour of the arrival of Premiership giants Ipswich and FA Cup legend John Motson.
It has been Motty's fate to act as romantic middleman whenever the FA Cup conspires to throw up some bog-poor Conference side with a team from the Premiership. The hope is that Motty's unassailable optimism will somehow inspire the underdog to play not so much out of their skins as out of the universe and somehow magic up a historic win that will render legitimate the BBC's over-exposure of such sorry mismatches.
And things did start out brightly. Motty is nothing if not thorough and he had no sooner warmed to passing on thousands of unwanted facts about life in Dagenham when the home side did the impossible and scored.
"And it is straight down the middle from Junior McDougald," is a line that only a seasoned campaigner like Motson could deliver without sniggering.
It was, in suitable Conference League fashion, an utterly poxy goal, conceived off a lucky bounce and absolutely nothing to look at. And it did, of course, spark off an elaborate series of celebrations from the delighted McDougald, whose name invites comparison not so much with soccer heroics as the now sadly defunct Saucy Sponge.
One could just imagine McDougald the Elder lost in the swaying Dagenham masses and praying that the local heroes could but hold on so he could have the night to end all nights down at The Rat and Parrot.
They couldn't, of course. Hold on, that is. No, Ipswich got their act together and struck four goals to win easily.
"You have to earn the right to play football in a game like this," was the lofty excuse of Ipswich's Marcus Stewart afterwards for his side's slow opening.
Thankfully all the piddling little part-time teams are out of the way now so Ipswich will not have to be concerned with earning such titles in the rounds ahead. It will be interesting to see how far they progress with their laudable belief in total football.
