Ah, it was a day of bliss all right and one aspect of the occasion stood alone. Sure, David Humphreys' chip and run made for a peerless moment of blinding opportunism and (as usual) led to the premature sharpening of bayonets as thoughts turned to Eric Elwood and the number 10 jersey.

Naturally, Sheldon Coulter's thundering first-half tackle tapped the latent athleticism lurking deep in Irishmen across the land, provoking them into dragging their youngsters away from the Nintendo and sending them off to the park with a boot in the backside.

Too right, the sight of Jimmy Davidson lapsing into misty-eyed and indecipherable French made you go want to go out and hug your neighbour.

And definitely, there was something indescribably intoxicating about witnessing thousands of chirpy wee Ulster folk standing in one area without having any grievance to air.

But for those of us marvelling at the spectacle on television, the beauty of Ulster's win over Stade Francais on Saturday was communicated best not through the images but through the dulcet tones of one Tony Ward.

Those given to commentating on such matters often allow that as well as having been a player nonpareil (it's contagious, Jimmy), Wardy is also an analyst who pulls his stuff from the top drawer.

This may be so but for the simple TV fan, it ain't what he says so much as the way in which he says it. Often, it is possible to gauge how Ireland's Five Nations season will go by watching the first game and measuring the density of melancholia defining the cadence of each Wardy utterance.

A few seasons ago, when we were hockeyed in Murrayfield, it is thought that several rugby men were so overcome by the despair which resonated through Wardy's heavyhearted account that they quit the financial lark altogether and retired west to write poetry in a cottage. Even the best of us have been given to weeks of bleak outlook after encountering the darker side of Wardy's reasoning.

But not this week, not at Ravenhill. The flip side of Wardy's gloom is expressed mainly through the stress he puts on his adjectives. Hence, our hearts soared when he spoke of Simon Mason's drop at goal in terms of "sweet" and "magnificent."

We flitted giddily towards rapture as every Ulster play led to overtures sprinkled with "absolutely tremendous" . . . "particularly brilliant" . . . "quite superb" and "a joy of a" kick/tackle/pass.

Any source of happiness is received gladly in January and to hear our man re-live the plays with such optimism was to have our very faith in life restored. But in the first half Jim Sherwin, his partner, was worried.

Jim is one of the great survivors of Irish rugby and knows better than most the perilous nature of the "false dawns" which are spoken of annually on RTE. Damned if he couldn't see one on the horizon at Ravenhill after Juillet was bundled over for a try close on half-time.

"Er, there is a rumour going around that Stade Francais did not produce a team-sheet . . . it is only a rumour but if it turns out to be true . . . they could be disqualfied."

This was not the sort of chat to compliment the feel-good atmosphere generated so brilliantly by Wardy.

In fact, Jim might well have said, "Er, as you can see, we're probably going to be pasted in the second half so the best we do is pin our hopes to this flimsy rumour about a teamsheet."

This, much more so than Coulter's tackle, was a pivotal moment in the game. It being Ulster, we wondered if the rumour wouldn't lead to crowd demands that the document be produced immediately, with all the correct signatories in evidence. Was that Sammy Wilson in the big woolly hat?

But all fears were, for once, unfounded and the glory continued, fittingly accompanied by Wardy's glowing praise. Roll on, the rugger season.

Meanwhile, in the world of darts, we were sad to see Andy Fordham depart the BBC 2 championships. Officially entitled the world championships, a similar event run by Sky has led to something of a dispute for global rights and so the contests are most readily identifiable by their station of origin.

In the semi-finals, Andy came undone against steady Ronnie Baxter. Andy is one of those disappearing breed of athletes who brings colour and individuality to his sport. He is a throw-back to the old school, the antithesis of the psychotically skinny and serious new breed like Co Stompe, who really shouldn't be allowed on TV until after 9pm.

Andy wears his hair in luxuriant locks which run down his all-black ensemble. He grins at you behind a great thatch of black beard. He wears a tattoo. And Andy is big. Even standing in socks, he is the front row that the Japanese rugby coach fantasises about. His size serves to accentuate the dainty sleight of hand which directs his darts to the precise area of cork on which he wishes them to arrive. Well, most of the time.

Andy has a weakness when it comes to nailing down doubles, a bit of a serious flaw in any would-be darts player. Time and time again we winced as he grinned ruefully at his failure to close a leg with a double top or double four. He knew he was done and it was the devil-may care way in which he took his defeat that endeared him to us. Hell, he even did a little disconsolate jig at the end. His might be an attitude worth embracing the next time Wardy does his Percy Bysshe Shelley bit across the airwaves.