30 surreal hours in Limerick

This column was shaped on the flight from Shannon to Paris last Saturday night. There were several moments over the course of a surreal 30 hours in Limerick when I wasn’t sure if I was coming or going.

I wasn’t even sure I would make the flight back with my Racing 92 colleagues. The implication if I hadn’t, at least in my head, was that I’d be deserting my defeated team-mates for an old lover.

Solidarity was called for, but when Claw rings around 9pm, encouraging you to stay around for the chat over old times, to slip away for a few quiet pints, it’s a dangerously seductive proposition.