Michael Moynihan, Thomond Park (eventually)

I BELIEVE the exact term is a hostage to fortune.

Some weeks ago your columnist took it upon himself to debunk the myth that the road from Cork to Limerick resembled Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow – half-eaten horses, sullen Corsicans, a distinct tang of garlic – when Munster played a Friday evening game in Thomond Park.

Having left Blackpool in Cork at 5.30pm, yours truly saw the bright lights of Thomond Park at 7.17pm, and the sound of scoffing reverberated around Henry Street.
Last night, your correspondent was not so lucky.

For one thing, if the person in the sky-blue Focus that cut us off outside Grenagh ever comes into our orbit, he or she can expect violent and immediate retaliation.

More significantly, it took us five minutes shy of three hours to get from Cork to Limerick yesterday. Spirits sank at the trail of cars sloping upwards to Rathduff and weren’t revived by the tailbacks which came in not-very-quick succession: Mallow, Buttevant, Charleville.

It even sounds like a decade of the rosary.

The bumper-to-bumper traffic in Limerick were easily understood - frankly, by the time we saw the Maldron Hotel we were practically weeping with gratitude, but is there anything more likely to induce suicidal frustration than the realisation that everyone else in Ireland is going around the GAA pitch in Charleville, just like you?  (maybe the next time you have a short cut in your back pocket you’ll keep it there rather than publicising it here - ed.)

The journey in itself was at the extremely unenjoyable end of the spectrum, but far more painful was the gloating.

Family members and friends – we’re using the latter term loosely – were quick to flood the message minder with what purported to be message of support, but which were in fact thorns aimed directly at our slightly overheated form.

WHERE YOU NOW THE DOCK RODE HA HA HA was one; U SHDVE LEFT AT HALF FIVE LIKE THE LAST TIME was another (The misspellings have been preserved to give the authentic experience).

This columnist has many failings, but among his nearest and dearest impatience is a solid regular in any top five. Consequently the light beeping of the mobile with yet another faux-sympathetic message did little for the blood pressure (WL I ORDER U A PINT OH NO 4GOT YR IN BUTTERVANT STL OOOPS).

And of course, everything conspires against somebody fighting the clock. The bottle of water that’s usually in the glove compartment is gone; the emergency Mars Bar in the driver’s side door compartment has been kidnapped; and if I find, for example, the person who keeps moving the Johnny Cash CDs into the Jackson Browne CD covers, well . . . I won’t be responsible.

I made it in the end. Thanks to the constabulary on Shannonside, they helped me out.

And it’s Buttevant.

Buttevant! Buttevant! Buttevant! Buttevant! Buttevant!