When Irish rugby union eyes are smiling. It's the Grand Slam.

When Irish rugby union eyes are smiling. It's the Grand Slam.


Not content with cleaning up at the Cheltenham Festival,  Ireland once again savoured one of its finest 80 sporting minutes. When Irish eyes are smiling everything seems like the perfect cue for a  round of Guinness for us. Tonight, a thousand dancing Michael Flatley look alikes will be tripping the light fantastic in a thousand pubs across Ireland and the West End of London.

Last week Ireland were crowned Six Nations rugby union winners and at a snow flecked Twickenham they rolled and rumbled over England with a heroic and  hard earned 24-15 victory despite a late, last gasp try for the home side. Late winter Saturday afternoons were somehow made for these rough and tumble, blood and thunder, growl and groan rugby union contests. We knew what we were going to get and we were not to be disappointed.

England had to win but failed somewhat grim faced into the bargain. Ireland played some of the most courageous. audacious and determined rugby ever seen at English rugby union headquarters. At the end of an edge of seat, cliff hanging and tantalisingly brilliant afternoon for rugby union, Ireland, often the muddy contenders rather than the outright winners, did all they had to do on the afternoon.

It was somehow fitting that on this greenest of all St. Patrick's Day that the nation that gave us those fleet footed leprechauns from Southern Ireland should build one of the most formidable of defensive fortresses and shut out an England side who were desperate for just a few crumbs of comfort. But today is St Patrick's Day and Irish rugby was somehow fated to lift the famous Six Nations Trophy.

When Johnny Wilkinson scored that gloriously tumultuous conversion which brought home the World Cup for England at the beginning of the 21st century, you almost felt that there were just a few Irish rugby union supporters who were seething with jealousy. And so it was that in the late days of this winter 2018 that Ireland, full of pumped up aggression and whole hearted purpose, gritted their teeth, confirmed their all round supremacy and rammed home, quite literally, some home truths directly into the home side's face.

Ireland, not for the first time, opened up the game with a series of well rehearsed set pieces, cool and carefully calculated bursts into the England half and quick witted passing across the back of the English defence that sent most of Eddie Jones' white shirts scampering forlornly after green shirts. The Irish forced, jostled, pushed, trundled and barged their way into a sea of white shirts, driving and shoving their way into the English half like a well drilled, marauding army.

For the best part of the first half at least Ireland were a force of nature without quite hitting the heights of their encounters against France, Wales, Scotland and Italy. The first half itself was a scrappy, fractured and fragmented contest. riddled with errors from both sides but  there was always a hint of the Irish brilliance that had so illuminated their earlier matches.

This had to be Ireland's day, a day designed for Irish sporting glory and for what seems an age ago, those gleaming green shirts turned to each other at the end before back slapping, hugging each other with manly pride and then realising that this was the moment to forget about the outside world and revel in this most definitive of sporting achievements.

And yet England did have their rather isolated of moments during the first half. Mario Itoje, at second row, seemed to be winning most of the line outs with the most domineering of leaps. Then fly half Owen Farrell began to find room to manoeuvre with lightly tapped passes forward into Irish territory, Dylan Hartley fashioned some important breaks forward and Elliot Daly was on hand to score what became face saving tries for England.

Sadly, for coach Eddie Jones the seeds of this English revolution may take a considerable amount of time to grow and bloom. Occasionally England were reduced to messy scrums that collapsed without trace with not so much as whimper or flag of surrender. There was a time of course when England were unbeatable, unplayable and flawless on their home turf. Now they were easily knocked off the ball. fumbling and destabilised, grasping and gasping and uncharacteristically flustered.

True, the Irish had none of the suave swagger of the French, the cavalier spirit of the Welsh nor the red blooded defiance of the Scottish but they did fling the ball around Twickenham with the flair, freedom, and an all conquering abandon that never remotely suggested that defeat would ever cross their minds.

Immediately Ireland hurtled into spaces that England thought they'd blocked, chasing, breathing fire, menacing and constantly troublesome. With only ten minutes gone the Irish made their first vital breakthrough. A long grubber kick seemed to spend an eternity in the air before slowly falling to the ground where Anthony Watson fumbled crucially. At this point Garry Ringrose swiftly pounced on English indecision and the Irish lock lunged at the ball before planting the ball over the English line for an electrifying try that turned down the Twickenham volume to a painful silence.

Then after a fairly moderate exchange between both sides and a rather drab, scrappy first half, the second half gave Twickenham's deeply appreciative rugby union crowd, a second half that came to life and then bubbled over with gripping hand to hand rugby that flowed and swayed from end to end. England thrust the Irish pack effectively back and the Irish returned the compliment favourably. But this was never to be going England's day nor did it ever seemed likely.

When CJ Stander extended the Irish lead once again in spectacularly fluent style. it seemed that the pints of Guinness and Magners cider were being stocked up and ready for consumption. Towards the end of  the game though Ireland had to stand firm and unyielding in the face of an English stampede for the line. It was rather like watching a green wall wobbling precariously and teetering on the edge.

So it was that England pressed forward in vain knowing that this had been the most victorious week in Irish sporting history. Ireland were brashly confident, carefree, dashing and daring, all boys together, collective team spirit, united, quite possibly reckless in possession at times but better, stronger and far better equipped for the big occasion. If you're in the mood for a party you would be well advised to pay a visit to the West End. The celebrations could well last well into the small hours of Sunday morning. The Grand Slam was in Irish hands.