SEVEN hours of excruciating tension, a Saturday that was more soul-shredding than super.

Nerves were put in a blender, switched to turbo and left to be minced and rinsed as neither Italy, nor Scotland nor France had the wherewithal to switch it off and stop the torture. And at the end of it all? The reward for somehow, someway finding oneself still standing at 7 o'clock? Neil Diamond.

In its 90 years of existence, Murrayfield has witnessed a myriad of occasions; some unforgettable, some instantly forgettable, some it would love to be able to forget. Saturday night, though, was one that will never leave the memory of those who hung around the old place until day became night. When darkness had all but enveloped that corner of Edinburgh, Murrayfield came as close as it ever will to hosting an Irish wedding.

There were levels of sobriety that one usually associates with such an occasion. There were sharply dressed men beaming with wide smiles as they approached the altar. And there was even a bit of Neil Diamond, the crowd wearing out whatever vocal chords that remained to the strains of Sweet Caroline. It was a track selection that made little or no sense. It was a scene that made little or no sense. But then nothing made sense at this wedding, most of all the setting. Murrayfield has been if not quite a graveyard, then at the very least a place where Ireland were much more used to being bridesmaids.

"An incredible day," said Paul O'Connell, the Ireland captain, holding the Six Nations trophy by his side while the DJ moved on to Bon Jovi. "The most strange, bizarre way to win a trophy."

Bizarre, strange, incredible. All of the above, and a whole pile more besides. On a day when arithmetic was a constant, logic never even hinted at entering the equation.

It was barely afternoon as supporters stopped to strain their eyes into pub windows on Roseburn Street. Wales were beginning to crank up and had broken 40 points, the messenger relayed. But Italy had 13 of their own so the numbers were still well within reach. Within the ten minutes it took to get into the ground though, George North had had way too much fun and 40-odd had become 60-odd.

A target had been set. Win by more than 20 points or it was all over. O'Connell began the run chase himself, crashing over and sprinting back to half-way with the match clock yet to find five minutes. Belief flickered, then thanks to Sean O'Brien, Jonathan Sexton and the rest took flame. A record win at Murrayfield and a fresh target, 26 points, set for the English, a total which, in spite of some missed kicks, felt like being more than enough.

After all it was France on the other side. France were not Italy. That was the consensus as Ireland fans and those Scottish who, God knows, needed a drink, headed for the stadium bars and big screens to take in the final installment. England got things going early and hearts began to flutter but Les Bleus retaliated and led 15-7 as a group of men from Kilkenny, whose grasp of French could be generously labelled as rusty, kicked off a woeful rendition of Les Marseillaise with faintly Gallic-sounding words.

The music died down though as England roared back and the contest descended into something that seemed half rugby league, half basketball but mostly total bedlam. The chaos was matched in Murrayfield. Maths were more difficult now. Why the hell couldn't the BBC put the table up more often? Why the hell couldn't France defend a little bit? The gap down was down to six, the clock was down to seconds but hearts rates were only going up. And then all of a sudden it was over.

England spilled, France recovered, and for the first time in 80 minutes, Ireland exhaled. In the Edinburgh night, green hordes re-invaded the stands. Fireworks and spotlights lit up the darkness. No more arithmetic and still no sign of logic. "It was just such a bizarre day," added O'Connell. "Even the crowd afterwards and the music, it was like Robbie Henshaw's 21st birthday, all the Eighties hits coming out."

Maybe Neil Diamond wasn't the worst call after all. For Ireland, here at Murrayfield of all places, good times never seemed so good.