The delirium might take months to subside. There’s no doubt that the Irish have a highly developed capacity for the ecstatic mood, and never need much of an excuse for riotous celebrations. But anyone daft enough to dismiss the euphoria which engulfed the land in the wake of last weekend’s monumental rugby Grand Slam as mere mass hysteria doesn’t know anything about the extent to which this team’s epic quest for something a bit more substantial than Triple Crowns has gripped this sport-crazed nation over the last few years.

Still, nobody could have foreseen that Grand Slam fever would strike quite so deep, or manifest itself so dramatically. Complete strangers were possessed to hug or high-five one another while walking down the street. Old dears who probably hadn’t watched a rugby match in decades struck up random conversations at bus stops, the gist of which was that their hearts were about to explode with pride.
It would be misleading to suggest that Ireland had always conducted an unconditional love affair with Rugby Union, historically perceived (certainly in Dublin and Cork) as an exclusively upper-middle-class pursuit.
But since round about 2000 when Brian O’Driscoll’s hat-trick in Paris provided the first glimpse of what the future could promise, the sport has wormed its way into an increasing number of Irish hearts, with interest reaching a critical mass in ‘03 and ‘07 as the Grand Slam began to seem a live possibility. It remained elusive on both occasions, and the public’s adoration was sorely tested 18 months ago, when a catastrophic World Cup led to an ugly media backlash which stopped just short of calling for the public beheading of the then manager, Eddie O’Sullivan.
This was cruel in the extreme, since O’Sullivan’s record was infinitely superior to that of any of his predecessors, and he had laid the foundations for what was to follow. Still, his regime had passed its sell-by date, and a fresh approach was required.
Enter Declan Kidney, whose impact has been immediate and profound. The players have spoken of his willingness to encourage debate, and his immediate declaration upon taking charge that all issues were to be aired among the group, that feedback and constructive suggestions were to be actively encouraged. The results this spring speak for themselves.
The highest peak has now been scaled. We could win another twenty Grand Slams, and it’s safe to say that none of them will ever be as dramatic and nerve-shredding as the end-of-days climax to last week’s epic encounter (wherein a 14-6 lead was frittered away, Wales taking a one-point lead with five minutes left before Ronan O’Gara stepped up to the plate with a superb drop goal – Stephen Jones then missed a 48-yard penalty with the last kick of the game).
But there’s a World Cup in two years’ time, and you can be certain that the team’s spiritual leaders – Brian O’Driscoll, Ronan O’Gara and Paul O’Connell – will go there with every intention of winning the thing. If that comes to pass, last week’s delirium will seem positively sedate by comparison.
In the interim, we’re probably best advised to just savour the triumph. The journey has been unforgettable, its conclusion mesmerising. Even if it never gets any better than this, we can now die happy.