F***ing France. Again. It is probable that followers of Irish sporting life will never be truly happy and fulfilled until such time as France disappears off the face of the Earth, or at least moves to another continent. They have been Ireland’s serial tormentors on the rugby field since time immemorial, and of course, no compensation could ever be adequate for the agony inflicted by their footballers in the World Cup.

When the dust had settled on the horrible, bitterly frustrating finish to France’s raid on the Aviva last week, when we looked at the final scoreline and realised it was a verdict that could never be overturned and would pass into history, when we’d finished replaying the agonisingly there-for-the-taking closing sequence, there were consolations aplenty. In many respects, aside from the multitude of unforced errors and the frequently senseless penalties conceded, it had been a mightily impressive showing.
I don’t know about you, but I’d had visions of being ground into the dirt, on home soil, with the scrum malfunctioning completely. Yet as it turned out, we had the upper hand in that regard, and for long stretches, it was the French who were being bullied. Three tries to France’s one hardly indicates that we’re in the middle of a catastrophic meltdown. In particular, the patience and persistence displayed by the entire team in going through 20-plus phases en route to Jamie Heaslip’s second-half try was worth marvelling at.
As an attacking force, Ireland were excellent, evincing power, poise and plenty of invention. France didn’t help their cause with a few shoddy errors, but they were hardly alone: we eventually threw it away with a damaging pile-up of penalty concessions, seized on by the unfailingly accurate Parra and Yachvili, and left ourselves too much to do. Even so, Ireland’s comeback in the final 15 minutes was a stirring sight. The Slam is gone; the championship is winnable.
You will recall Ireland’s Grand Slam triumph of 2009 of course. But your memory is playing tricks if it recalls that year’s campaign as a sequence of majestic triumphs. It was knife-edge stuff from start to finish. We outgunned France on opening day in a wild gloves-off attacking free-for-all – by far our best performance of the five – and the rest was far from plain sailing. We trailed Italy before they imploded, beat England by a point, were really put through the wringer by the grim-faced Scots, and wouldn’t have won the Slam at all if Wales’ Stephen Jones had nailed his last-minute penalty in Cardiff (handed to the Welsh on a plate by some senseless handling on the ground from Paddy Wallace). It was undeniably our finest hour, but it came very very close to being a heartache of unbearably epic proportions.
The point is, the margins are tiny. Had it not been for Sean Cronin’s fateful fumble the other day, few can realistically doubt that we would have crossed the line and won the war, in which case we would already be licking our lips at the prospect of a Slam showdown with dear old England on closing day. To invert the equation for a minute, history records that we would have won the Slam in 2007 had it not been for Vincent Clerc’s very late try for France at Croker. Essentially, we are now back in exactly the position we were in after that historic encounter: with one win from two games, licking our wounds after being mugged by France, with all still to play for, pride intact, a championship to be won and a World Cup on the horizon.
Scotland now lie in wait, in Edinburgh. I was apprehensive about this one a couple of months ago: far less so now, after watching their impotent efforts against the Welsh. Sure, we need to bear in mind that they mugged us last year in Dublin, when Ireland’s high-risk/high-reward gameplan played into their hands. They could never be accused of a lack of honesty or effort, or of being physically soft.
But part of the beauty of playing Scotland is that it is not strictly necessary to have the ball for very long. They are terminally lacking in subtlety and cunning; they trudge through the phases, recycling and recycling the ball, holding onto possession, leaving you time to nip off, boil the kettle, pop out for a haircut and a pint, walk the dog, and come back in time to see them still on the 38th phase, having advanced precisely two yards in all that time. Admirable, but not exactly terrifying. And they have a tendency to offer unsolicited free gifts, which are always to be welcomed.
Complacency is unlikely to be a problem for Ireland after last year’s fiasco. I expect Scotland to dominate possession, but provided we can punch plenty of holes in their defence when we have the ball, put points on the board, establish a lead and force them to play catch-up, we have to be favourites. The penalty count is a concern: we shipped seven against France, and it’s conceivable that we may be dragged into a penalty contest, in which case Dan Parks’ metronomic efficiency (and Johnny Sexton’s wayward lack of same) would give them the upper hand.
The longer Scotland can keep it close, the more you would have to worry. A draw, or a 9-6 or 18-15 defeat, is conceivable if we repeat the errors of Rome, but a three-quarters-decent display and a slight reduction in the error count should be enough to see us through. I’d love to be there – Edinburgh, with its labyrinthine nooks and crannies and wynds and hills and closes, would be the nicest city in the world if the icy, biting north-east wind wasn’t so horrific – but will have to keep a watching brief from home. To those of you who are going: have a pint for me, enjoy the battle, and savour your surroundings.