It was pre-dawn last Monday morning at Dublin Airport. As always, my game plan was to negotiate the passenger security screening with speed and efficiency but had forgotten the lesson that the US special forces preach: no battle plan survives first contact with the enemy.

As the Irish team learned 12 hours earlier, extreme circumstances force game plans to be adapted and tactics to be improvised. As Mike Tyson observed, “everybody has a plan until they get punched in the mouth”.

I was about to place my bag on to the X-ray machine belt, with sanctuary waiting only a few metres away beyond the metal detector. The wonderfully patient Dublin airport staff were politely asking us the usual questions including: “Are you carrying any fluids in your bag?”

The young woman immediately in front of me gave the security guard a look of alarm that was close to panic. “What do you mean?” she gasped. As fate would have it the one passenger in a thousand who had absolutely zero knowledge of the amount of fluids that you are permitted to carry on to a plane was the one standing between me and a cup of coffee.

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As she unzipped her carry-on bag, sighs of disbelief and horror sounded from the growing queue of frustrated passengers behind us. Her bag contained a vast array of cosmetics. Tiny coloured bottles and tubes, all bobbing around between hair straighteners and blow driers.

Houston, we have a problem!

This woman was carrying so much make-up, that if Max Factor was on her passport I would not have been surprised.

To the young passenger’s disbelief, the security guard then produced a tiny rectangular plastic bag. With the patience of Job, he explained that despite the number of products she had in her luggage only the ones that could fit inside this minuscule bag could be carried on to the plane.

The poor woman was mortified. She pleaded for mercy.

Suddenly I had a flashback to my playing days, recalling laying on my back after a tackle, imploring the referee to intervene while I was being unmercifully rucked by the boots of half a dozen opposition forwards. The referee simply looked at me, shrugged his shoulders and uttered the immortal words, “You know the rules, champ.” I was on the wrong side of the ruck, so I was fair game. “Them’s the rules.”

As I came back to reality, everyone at security was staring at me. Including Max Factor. Unconsciously, I must have muttered the referee’s advice. “You know the rules, champ.”

Well, that’s my story and I am sticking to it.

While I had her attention I continued my advice. “Prioritise, improvise and adapt.”

The security guard chipped in. “Just like Ireland at Murrayfield. They didn’t plan to lose Doris, Henderson, Sheehan and Kelleher.” I nodded in agreement. “Josh van der Flier throwing the ball into the lineout was not ideal, but he got the job done.”

A distinctly female Limerick accent from the patiently waiting mass behind us added: “Healy at hooker. Not a perfect situation but he was brilliant. Except when he missed the ball on that tap kick.” We all gave a stress-relieving chuckle. There is nothing like fresh air on a tap kick to create a laugh.

The young woman was obviously not a rugby fan as she had a bemused what-are-you-talking-about? look on her face.

“Any metal objects?” the security guard inquired. She was approaching tears as she produced a device that looked like a cross between a pair of scissors and a cookie cutter. She answered our quizzical looks with: “They are for putting on false eyelashes.” The security guard raised his eyebrows forming the “oh really?” expression. He then glanced at me, shook his head and threw them in the bin.

Max Factor’s game plan was now in tatters. The reality of her situation finally hit home. She could crumble or adapt. She was made of sterner stuff than her facial cleansers. She began to fight.

In her unexpected circumstances, tough decisions had to be made. Various shades of foundations were jettisoned. Several bottles of nail polish were tossed aside for the greater good. Multiple tubs, tubes and cylinders were all sacrificed on the altar of getting on the plane.

After much pain, the plastic bag was finally ready for the X-ray. With collective sighs of relief from the rest of us, she walked under the metal detector’s arch, only to be greeted by red flashing lights.

Boots with metal strips inside them had to be removed. Chains, rings, bracelets and several imaginative piercings were dislodged. Finally, a phone that was still in her pocket was dropped into the tray. “Sorry I forgot,” she whispered.

Here, the exasperation from her long-suffering fellow travellers boiled over. Our mate from Limerick reverted back to her basic training and shouted out loudly, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Will ye hurry up!” Max delivered a withering glare at the hordes behind her.

Head held high, shoulders squared and barefooted, yet fiercely undaunted, she finally cleared the metal detector. The security guard looked at me and sighed: “Winning at Murrayfield was easier than that!”

Unknowingly, Max had just followed the wonderful example set by Andy Farrell’s team. Faced with hugely challenging circumstances that would have defeated most teams on the planet, they had dug exceptionally deep and overcame many unexpected obstacles to eventually triumph against great odds.

Max’s reward for adapting her game plan was possibly a few weeks of Spanish sunshine. Ireland’s reward is the opportunity to win a first Grand Slam in Dublin.

The warmth from the glow of a win like that will last a lifetime.