I love France and I love the French, but their propensity for 9pm kick off’s is beginning to take the edge off our relationship.

Yesterday seemed never ending, waiting for Godot seemed a successful encounter compared to the wait for Alun Wyn Jones and his boys.

I’m not sure who was under the most pressure on so called Super Saturday, the Wales back row, or my Nespresso machine, fortunately both delivered, although the coffee machine stats were through the roof.

Nutrition is another conundrum on days like this, pizza is first name on the team sheet, scheduled for around 7pm, but the biscuits, chocolate and pastries do not form a rigid pattern, you have to play what’s in front of you, as finishers go I’m one of the best in this area.

Just one other area of concern to negotiate, my large black Labrador, sadly I’m no Andrew Cotter, so canine discipline in my house is on a par with Maro Itoje’s in the match against Wales, early walkies and only a pocket full of charcoal bones provide me with a defence as feeble as the Italians.

Scotland v Italy passed relatively smoothly, a sleepy hound and just coffee and digestives to consume. No crumbs of comfort for the Italians, but plenty of crumbs from me due to poor dunking technique.

Next up Ireland v England in an eerily quiet Aviva Stadium and I’m ashamed to say I dozed off briefly, dreaming of sipping a cold pint of Guinness in Searsons on Baggot Street, regathered myself just before half time with a Labrador face an inch away from mine, charcoal bones were administered at the pace of Keith Earles.

Full time and an Ireland victory that would be celebrated as only the Irish can in normal times, and talking of cans, I reach for the fridge and a Guinness is imbibed with precision, Labrador still on the prowl desperately searching for any form of snack that may be lurking, wearing the kind of pitiful facial expression that only another Labrador owner can appreciate, or indeed an Italian defence coach.

Finally as the spinach and ricotta thin crust disappeared from view it was time for the big one France v Wales

The scoreboard started ticking over quicker than my heart rate, 4 tries in the opening 14 minutes, at least I know my blood pressure tablets really do work.

My Magnificent Wales, so glorious so relentless, so heartbreaking and in a so typically Welsh kind of way, would we want it any different?, on the longest day, and for one night only, yes we bloody well would.