For years we spent Saturday afternoons watching Irish teams eke out a frugal and forlorn existence, subsisting on penalty kicks and the occasional five-yard try which always looked brutish and ordinary.

Glossy rugby was, we were told, alien to our pysche; Ireland were the purveyors of passion and pride. Developing both of these qualities required untold afternoons of losing ingloriously and on extremely wet days. Most Saturdays, our pack would troop off the field, sodden and distraught, looking like bit characters from a Frank McCourt memoir.

Every so often, we would tune into freak aberrations, such as occurred at Twickenham in 1993, allowing us to employ the rhetoric of Padraig Pearse as we harped on about dawns and identity and the way forward. Then, of course, big hoors like John Jeffrey and Finlay Calder would come over to Dublin and trample all over our dreams. And we would smile grimly because we knew that such betrayals were an eventuality and then the season would end, the coach would be fired and we would walk away no wiser than when we first set out.

So after a generation of disillusionment, what were Irish viewers supposed to do with Saturday?

For a start, Lansdowne Road looked wonderful, bathed in sunshine for an unprecedented second consecutive home international. In the stands, Irish fans beamed expectantly and wore shades and looked the way the French fans do. There was a freshness to the day. The visiting anthem was handsomely applauded. Our own anthem was lustily executed. The Italians made to head to their positions only to be hastily recalled for the rendition of Ireland's Call.

Against Scotland, we favoured tenor. On Saturday, considerate of the Italian contingent, we went soprano. This spirit of musical adventure is in keeping with the new Irish rugby tempo.

By next season, we ought to feel emboldened enough to interpret the new anthem through reggae or dixieland or boyband.

It was a beautifully cultured moment but as the soprano took the Irish team into uncharted musical territory, the strain began to show on the faces of the Claw and Keith Wood, two of the team's most unabashed crooners. By the cresendo, the pitch was higher than a garryowen and the fear was that our meancing front row might, like all the great big-lunged sopranos, succumb to the emotion and pass out. But not our boys, who vowed bravely and in falsetto to answer Ireland's call.

"That was much appreciated, even if it's difficult to sing with a gumshield in," applauded George Hamilton, without clarifying why the soprano was wearing mouth protection.

In the RTE studio, our panelists, seemingly off the Prozac and smiling again, unanimously predicted a home win. The underlying message was that Ireland, as professionals, ought to be tearing the continental novices apart, regardless of the fact that they had beaten us in three of the last five encounters.

Given that Neil Francis had been one of the few pundits to predict a home win against Scotland, his increasingly bizarre pre-game sketch demanded one's attention. Never a man to shirk a theatrical prop, Franno's gimmick for Saturday's sketch was a pair of suspenders, which he duly modelled under a kilt.

Francis began by demonstrating how weak the Italians had been against the Welsh, especially when faced with the Quinnells, or as he termed them, "the Ugly brothers."

The Italians weren't, he reckoned, up to much but he ended on a note of caution. "I think it could be uncomfortably close," he warned.

An ominous theory, and one that was sleeping with the fishes after 20 minutes. At last, the carnival, the Big Top, had come to Lansdowne Road. From the moment Shane Horgan dashed free and chip-kicked ahead, it was evident that Ireland were going to bring us on some wild romantic fling. And naturally, we were dizzied. Early on Ronan O'Gara kicked deep and near the try-line, the ball screwed impossibly and rolled out for a wonderful touch. It forced George Hamilton to do a complete double take.

"Oh, and here's O'Gara, it's not so good from him - aw, it is - it's brilliant." Ireland's entire season to date is sort of encapsulated in that one sentence.

There were fireworks with every play. Flashy runs. Passes flung with abandon. Points racing up. Until this year we believed the Lansdowne scoreboard only went up to 15. Thirty at the break.

"The young guns are turning it on and they carry none of the baggage of the past," pronounced Hook. We waited apprehensively for official confirmation that a new dawn had indeed arrived.

But for once the skyline seemed irrelevant. In a rare fit of hedonism, our panel allowed us to live for the moment. We watched as records tumbled and searched for cosmic metaphors. Tom McGurk stood alone with his reference to Keith Wood.

"The Sinead O'Connor of the front row," he oozed. Images of Woody posing in a priest's collar on the cover of Rolling Stone rushed fourth and at this point, it seemed possible. Anything did. Suddenly Ireland, the dreary and ill-fated masters of the wooden spoon, had become the great expansionists of the Northern hemisphere, the All-Blacks of western Europe. And it's hard to know what we are supposed to do with it.

Earlier in the day, when the world was still sane, Liverpool visited Old Trafford and, in their bid to distance themselves from the nightmare Spice Boys days, duly fought for a notable 1-1 draw.

Afterwards, the goals were the talking points. Ole-Gunnar Solskjaer equalised for United while Liverpool were down to 10 men, awaiting the return of Sami Hyypia, who was receiving urgent treatment.

For seven minutes, Gerard Houllier gambled, hoping the oddly-named one might return. Michael Owen became the most expensive runner-boy in history, jogging between the dug-out and the treatment room to provide dispatches on Hyypia. It must have been a Hamlet moment for the reserve Liverpool defenders, who now know that an injured Hyypia, or indeed no Hyypia at all, is considered a better bet than them.

Berger's stunning free provided the other goal. Sky TV recorded the velocity at 64 m.p.h and it was noted that Dwight Yorke had ducked a little as the ball flew past his nose.

"He could head it," criticised Alan Hansen on Match of the Day.

"If you really wanted to stop it, you could get a head to that," lashed John Giles on RTE. "It's not easy but it has to be done."

But overall, it was no day for slaps in the face. Those hits are probably on ice and awaiting us in Paris.