Johnny Sexton’s father might present me with a severed finger for this, but here’s the truth about those tears

The man in the front passenger seat will be safety first. He will be issuing instructions, just like his son does for Ireland. The passenger probably wishes he had one of those duplicate sets of steering wheels and brakes that driving instructors use to keep learners from crashing.

The passenger’s son goes by the name of Jonathan and he’s our captain today. He’s my godson, the poor boy.

The passenger warned me never to write about him. He’s an unsung hero and a quiet man, mostly. We have been friends and neighbours since we were one. He’s our daughter Laura’s godfather. The passenger might present me with a cut-off finger for annoying him by writing this piece.

The passenger is the best rugby coach his son ever had.

It’s still Friday as I write. I’ll be heading off soon enough to be MC for the St Patrick’s Day parade in Listowel. I have my green shirt ready. As ever, I forgot to get the suit pressed, but the fake boobs will deflect attention from the creases.

I’m wondering now will people cop on to the fact I’ve been telling the same two jokes for 25 parades past. There are always a few St Patricks on view, and no doubt what with the rain and cold the impersonators will be wearing socks.

I’ll slag off the St Patricks by saying the man himself never wore socks up on the mountains when he was minding sheep. I’ll give out about the lack of accuracy and the lack of suffering that is such an integral part of Catholicism. It’s only 17 years now since an irate impersonator attacked me verbally in the pub and asked how I knew St Patrick didn’t wear socks. “Were you there in 432 AD?” I had no answer to that one.

The other joke may not be woke. When the Irish music started up, I used to always say: “I hope ye are wearing a good sports bra now girls.” I would hate to be cancelled over a stupid bra joke, but because of the match nerves I can’t think of any new gags.

The pop-up bra and blond wig will go on when The Dolly Parton Day trailer passes by. Dolly Day takes place here in Listowel on June 24. The plan is to break the world record for the most Dollies, all in the cause of Comfort for Chemo Kerry and our Kerry Hospice. (Is it OK to tell the bra joke when I’m wearing one myself?)

The parade nerves are fighting with the match nerves. The latter take over.

Did you know there are bits down there in the stomach that are brain cells in their own right? Right now mine are a harpsichord played by a yard brush.

We only ever won three Grand Slams over the last hundred and something years. The not-so-terrible beauty of it all is ours is an All-Ireland team. As Moss Keane famously said: “There are no borders in an Irish dressing room.”

This is the godson’s last Six Nations game. I wasn’t going to go because of the excitement.

Jonathan is a patriot who feeds off the enjoyment we as a nation get from big wins. That’s how he gets his kicks. He could break the record for the most points scored in the Six Nations. He’s just one kick away. As of last Saturday, the record is jointly held with Ronan O’Gara, who was one of the greatest players of all time. The ball nearly landed in my hands, at the back of the Taff end in Cardiff, when Ronan nailed the Grand Slam-winning drop goal in 2009.

Before we get back to the match, let us welcome England to Dublin today. The English rugby fans are the most gracious of tourists.

England fulfilled this fixture 50 years ago when Scotland and Wales refused to play in Dublin due to the Troubles. England voted for us to host the World Cup when Scotland and Wales took the French money. England are hurting. I still think our united team will win, but I was close to pyromania from lighting candles all this week.

Jonathan was very emotional when the anthems were played before the France game in Dublin. I asked him why he cried, thinking maybe it was because he was coming towards the end of his career.

Jonno cried because he knew then at the singing of the anthems that all of us are kin under the skin of an Irish jersey. There are some who have no respect for Ireland’s Call. “Why can’t we just sing our national anthem instead?” they ask. It’s called compromise.

I know how much the singing of Amhrán na bhFiann means to northern nationalists who were persecuted for their allegiance to our first anthem. The situation is different in a rugby context. There’s a good slice of Irish Ireland that considers itself to be part of Great Britain. In rugby we have two anthems because one plus one makes one.

Brian O’Driscoll and broadcaster Craig Doyle came to see the players in the week before the game. Their inspiring documentary Shoulder to Shoulder explained why Irish rugby stayed as one, even though the politics of exclusion tried to pull north and south apart.

GAA people were murdered in the North for no other reason than their love of football and hurling. Nigel Carr, the Triple Crown-winning Irish wing forward, was badly injured by an IRA bomb while he was on the way home from an Irish game in Dublin.

Jonathan’s Uncle Willie vied with Nigel for the open side wing-forward position. There were no subs allowed that time. If there were, Willie, who played for his country four times, would almost definitely have won a Triple Crown.

Good luck to Jonathan’s brother and the passenger’s son, Mark, who is one of the senior coaches on the U-20 Grand Slam bid in Cork. He knows his stuff and has the heart to go with it.

Let the kick-off come soon. This waiting is draining, but at tea time today our united team will sing for all of us.