So finally, Ireland have got to the rugby world cup final, and in the person of the real Irish star so far: Alain Colm Pierre Rolland, who is refereeing the final tomorrow.

This is impressive, even by New Zealand standards. One wonders about his mother's milk: is it commercially available?

I initially assumed that he would have been playing scrum-half, which was the position I first saw him play; but maybe at six months of age, he actually made his debut as the ball.

Did he have his nappy changed at half-time, and did Mrs Rolland give him a bit of nourishment in those brief periods before penalties were kicked?

I don't know, but I can't help feeling, with the dawn of professionalism, that some of the colour has gone out of the game.

I mean, when did you last see a six-month infant being whipped from the base of the scrum, or hurtling over the bar, or even a comely young woman scrambling around the pitch in order to give the little lad a top-up feed of mother's best?

Alas, I missed Alain's early days as a rugby ball, with mum in pursuit; but I remember him as a player -- elegant, slight, and shrewd, but lacking in the musculature that international rugby required, even then.

One day he vanished, and the next I saw of him, he was refereeing an international. He was superb.

He was magnificently prominent, though not as a whistle-blower, but as the 31st player on the pitch, advising, en couraging, warning, and finally penalising.

In one sense it was a little eerie, because though he didn't physically resemble Owen Doyle, to my mind one of the greatest Irish referees ever, his style of governance was almost identical.

Later I discovered that during Alain's early days as a referee, Owen had, to good effect, taken him under his wing.

Alain is now one of the best referees in the world, if not the very best, just as the role of referee has evolved dynamically towards the kind of positive role Alain (like Owen before him) has always favoured.

For more than anything else, he is on the pitch as the players' friend, a counsel and guide to ensure a good game, swift movement and fair play.

Finally, having made his debut at six months of age, Alain is now living up that early promise.

This has probably been the best and most unpredictable World Cup since the series began.

No-one foresaw New Zealand being knocked out by France, whom we should have beaten in Croke Park, nor Australia being defeated by England, whom we royally slaughtered in that same majestic venue.

I desperately wanted Fiji to beat South Africa, and my heart was broken by the eviction of Argentina, who not so much put to the sword, but fell on their own.

Who will give Argentina a regular tournament to play in, which is the least they now deserve?

Southern hemisphere countries are now (tentatively) proposing a four-nations rugby competition, but I repeat my modest suggestion of a couple of weeks ago, in the hope that the likes of Neil Francis (whose Setanta television analyses, by the way, were superb) will pursue it in influential rugby circles.

Argentina should be vigorously invited to play in Europe in a new seven-nation international championship, and be based in Spain.

All of Argentina's internationals (bar one, I think), play in Europe anyway. It is surely in the northern hemisphere's interest to absorb and benefit from the brilliance of Argentine rugby.

Rugby, clearly, is growing across the world. Where Argentina leads, Uruguay and Chile tend to follow.

In the US, rugby missionaries have started a huge programme to convert former American footballers -- who didn't quite make the cut to professional level -- into rugby players. Canada, the same.

But surely, the final lesson of this most enthralling world cup is, surely, that the IRFU plans for Lansdowne Roads are (to put it mildly) insane.

The proposed new stadium is so small as to be ideal for bullfights in Mandalay, but Ireland needs a large, modern, world-class football venue -- and we've got one: Croke Park.

Finally, though I detest the Anglophobia which so often passes for patriotism in this country, nonetheless I have to admit this morbid phobia, that causes me to start from my slumbers, shrieking; for if, God help us, the English win, we're doomed to yet more,and perhaps terminal, doses of that fell and revolting Twickers' affliction: smugby, or even worse, smugger.

- Kevin Myers