Even the weather is glorious in Thomond Park now. As if to assure us that last year's crusade across provincial Europe was no Halley's Comet, the boys of Munster gave another spellbinding display at the high altar of Irish rugby on Saturday. On hand to tear up the auto cue were the three amigos of domestic sports broadcasting, Hookie (George Hook), Popie (Brent Pope) and Tom McGurk.

This team has evolved as smoothly and astonishingly as Ireland's new-found rugby style. Gone are dank days of studio post mortem, when McGurk, looking like a man who had gambled his house on Eircom shares, would glumly probe his colleagues about why this country was so desperately bad at rugger, a conversation that would generally end in petty bickering between the two analysts. Gone is the gloom.

On Saturday, the trio, in avant-garde mood, opted for an outdoor broadcast and positively glowed on an autumn day hand-delivered by God. The best of buddies, they complimented one another on sartorial taste, with McGurk a bit concerned that Pope, tough Kiwi that he is, had ventured out in shirt sleeves despite the sharp wind. Enthused by the conversation, Hook was moved to reveal that he was sensibly wearing "jacket and woolly underwear".

It was a frank if wholly disconcerting admission and one which, in truth, the country might have been better off not hearing. The Hookster in briefs, woolly or not, is not an image best dwelt on. But it did underline how comfortable the three have grown in one another's company, that they have bonded as only rugby men can and formed an easy alliance that is well suited to these times of great revival in the Irish game.

Now that Ireland has established itself as the finest rugby nation in the world, it was difficult not to feel sorry for Bath, thrown into the lion's den of Thomond Park, little more than raw meat for Peter Clohessy and the boys. Once upon a time the mighty English team would have strolled into Limerick and dissected the home side with speed and precision. But there was no fear of that on Saturday.

"Ah, we have heard it all before, the big guns from England coming over here," sniffed Popie. Still, the visitors weren't about to simply lie down. Fifteen minutes in and they took an early lead through a penalty kick and by half-time they trailed by just three. The main stumbling block, as far as the analysts were concerned, was the referee.

From the outset of the match, commentator Ryle Nugent referred to the match official as "Monsieur Dumas", leaving us in no doubt that the man was, inescapably, a Frog.

His lead was taken up by McGurk at half-time. He managed to insert a sinister inflection to his pronunciation of "Monsieur". The inference was unmistakable; we were being invited to view Dumas as one of those suave and infuriating continental types whose very existence is devoted to thwarting the scrummaging technique of earnest Irish prop forwards.

"He's just one of those referees that we hate," shrugged McGurk and by now we couldn't but see Monsieur Dumas as a thoroughly wicked figure, plotting our downfall from his simple but elegant cottage in Brittany, explaining his plans to his sombre and devastatingly beautiful actress wife.

"Like all French refs, he referees loosely," said Hook damningly.

The prediction, as the teams came out for the second half was that Munster would "hang in there". And hang in they did until the last 10 minutes, when they made the Bath 15 look like a Sunday park side. The Dumas factor just sort of melted away.

Indeed, by the last quarter of the game, it seemed as if our analysts had painted an unfair picture of the Frenchman, who was in very cordial mood.

"You wanz zoo play next week?" he asked Peter Clohessy at one stage after catching the Irishman at a bit of mischief, prompting the Claw to throw back his head and guffaw appreciatively, as if he lived only to encounter rare moments of dry Gallic humour.

Meantime, Munster piled on the points through the wonderful hands of Ronan O'Gara and the thundering crash-runs of Anthony Foley, who was less than fazed by the news that he had been declared man of the match.

Everybody went away happy, except of course for the Bath players, who will host what Nugent referred to as "the red machine" next Saturday in Bath. Needless to say, the RTE backroom boys will be there, briefs and all.

For every winner, of course, there have to be those whose dreams are dashed, and at Old Trafford on Saturday morning Leeds United failed to end a streak of misery that has lasted for two decades. The visitors were out-lucked, out-hustled and ultimately out-Beckhamed as they crashed miserably to the more famous red machine.

"I'd like to say a few things," sighed rueful Leeds manager Dave O'Leary before promptly saying a lot of things.

Never a man to put a gloss on a poor result, Davo admitted that his boys had been out played but he did feel moved enough to complain about some refereeing inconsistencies.

"Particularly with Alan Smith, I couldn't believe that decision," he gasped, referring to the youngster's booking for a phantom tackle on Fabien Barthez.

But all that was academic and for Davo, there was no getting away from the only pertinent aspect of the match.

"We got beat," he said thoughtfully, "on the day."

It was a perfect summary and one that will never lose its relevance.