Stan Collymore, of all people, set the tone for what was a most auspicious sporting weekend. Stan, the sometime striker, made us all sit down and reflect for a moment when he announced he was suffering from a touch of stress. His affliction was discussed on Sky's soccer Saturday show, where George Best raised his brow at news of Colly's heart-breaking diagnosis.

"What's he earn, 20 grand a week, a couple of million in the bank and that's stress? I don't think he gives a toss," sniffed Bestie.

Richard Keys argued that stress was a demon which hit individuals in subtle ways, citing Judy Garland as a typical victim.

"Yeah, but she was the worst player I ever saw, no left foot, couldn't head the ball," grinned the Belfast boy, warming to the task.

Listening to Georgie's unfaltering six-counties twang, the thought struck that he must have been the only Ulster man not in Dublin over the weekend.

Given the mind-boggingly cryptic nature of the province's evolving political history, it was somehow fitting that its finest sporting hour required a trip to the capital of the Republic - or "down there" as Nigel Carr referred to it.

All week long, we had been assured that across Ulster it was a case of, "last one to leave, lock up the lodges" and when Saturday came, the Dublin streets were filled with the chirpy sons and daughters of Ulster.

Lansdowne Road was positively continental in terms of colour and ambience, with red, white and blue balloons floating high above the creaking old stadium and the heroic Ulster lads sprinting onto the field amidst thick plumes of (fireworks) smoke, an unfortunate coincidence which invited the kind of cheap shots entertained only in unprincipled ramblings such as this.

And there were surreal images too. Martin McGuinness ambled up to the cameras on crutches, cracked a big smile and said, "not much chance of me bein' a sub today."

David Trimble predicted that an Ulster win would have the same impact on the province as had England's World Cup win in 1966. (Didn't realise that Nobby Stiles cut that much ice around the likes of Crossmaglen).

Later on, we saw shots of David talking Garryowens with Ken Maginnis and Seamus Mallon and damned if the trio didn't look happy. Carefree, almost. Perhaps this is the way forward - instead of exhaustive all-nighters at Stormont, a lads' own weekend at the (car) rally or championship day in Clones might forge a greater understanding.

No sign of Big Ian wandering around the east stand with a painted face, no reported sightings of Gerry on the razz in Temple Bar with David Irvine but no matter, this was an important, happy day for Ulster. Jimmy Davidson set the context, assuring Jackie Fullerton that after this, the world would remember "not when Jack Kennedy died but when Ulster won the cup."

Jackie was temporarily stumped, perhaps wondering if he should expound on his own beliefs regarding the magic bullet theory, but at least the comparison underlined the magnitude of the day.

It was a big game, which brings us back to Stan and the whole issue of stress. If Stan can fall victim after a particularly rough day in front of the Playstation, what might happen to Ulster's rugby players?

The possibility of Ulster crumbling was put to Eric Miller. Looking troubled, Miller admitted that he feared the occasion might "be too big for both sides."

This was a grave and hitherto unexplored prospect, the notion that Humprheys, Sadourney, Galtie and the rest might find themselves declaring their nerves were shot and, that like old Stan, they just weren't up for playing.

Thankfully, Eric's fears weren't realised. Although the French were outplayed (love to scribble a similar line in a week's time), they came from stern stock, as Mark Sidebottom found out when BBC dispatched him to Colomiers for a report.

His piece opened with a shot of what appeared to be a massive RUC station, but Mark assured us that the grim edifice was typical of the appalling architecture predominant in the town. And that was about the kindest thing he had to say about the place.

Strolling through the town centre, Mark found himself bemoaning the lack of excitement, noting that "life is lived at pedestrian pace here" and obviously pining for the celebrated mardi gras atmosphere found in towns like Portadown and Newtownards on most January weekends.

By match day, Mark was back in the thick of things, roving around pitch-side and soliciting the views of all manner of rugby folk. Even watching on TV, it was apparent that everyone (even Serge Blanco) was desperately rooting for the northern province and the assured, undoubting manner in which the team finally laid claim on the cup was a joy to behold.

The post-match scenes, the unrestrained euphoria, really told us all we needed to know about the occasion, but reporters from both RTE and the Beeb were adamant that the protagonists convert their feelings into words. For the first time all afternoon, the Ulster players were flummoxed.

"Can you put this into words?" Mark asked David Humphreys moments after the whistle. "No", offered the out-half after briefly considering. The great Harry Williams was more forthcoming but wasn't too impressed with the flow of his own narrative, breaking off to concede that he probably sounded "like a gibbering idiot." But on a day like that, what odds. Great stuff.

While the Ulster boys were celebrating, another bunch of northern sportsmen were busy contributing to the finest athletic spectacle of the weekend. Star of the Sea faced Blue Demons from Cork in the second semi-final of the Irish Basketball Cup on Saturday night in a classic shoot-out. Late in the game, a youngster called Shane Coughlan spun through the Star defence, made to hit a lay-up and dished a no-look pass to American star Duvall Simmonds.

It was just a flash, an instant of brilliance, but you'll wait a while before witnessing a moment of similar quality in any sport.