"Remember Rodney Parad`' could well become Munster's blood-curdling catch-cry after the heroics of Saturday evening. All of last week, the Irish provincial side's journey into deepest Newport had been described in terms so weighty with foreboding that they were reminiscent of Joseph Conrad at his blackest.

Rodney Parade, a place that sounds peculiarly chilling in its own right, had proven a graveyard for even the most ambitious of teams. There was, we were assured, every reason to believe that the good ship Munster could founder right before our eyes, and as told by Ryle Nugent.

The swashbuckling tales of last season, would, came the warning, count for nothing in this grim corner (aren't they all?) of Wales. Our heroes, in other words, had their impressively sculpted backs pressed firmly against the wall. And not of any nightclub, either.

Bearing this in mind, our intrepid studio team dispensed with the breezy confidence and in-house jokes that broke the barriers of studio analysis last season. There was a solemnity to the aspects of Messrs McGurk, Pope and Hook that left one in no doubt that this was an occasion fraught with peril.

"We are being realistic and we've got to be realistic on this show," declared Brent Pope at the outset, throwing all cards on the table. Incidentally, the table itself was a disturbing prop, standing uselessly at all of one foot high and lending an eerie and retrospective touch of Shogun to the overall decor.

Popie's companion, in no mood to mince words, asserted that it would be Newport's day. His crestfallen visage left us in no doubt that Hookie took little pleasure in imparting this brief yet vital titbit of information.

So downcast were his team that front-man Tom McGurk hadn't the heart to probe and was content to let Ryle Nugent lead on with the words that all young sportscasters dream of saying: "Hello and welcome to Rodney Parade."

The mood of ill-ease had filtered through to the commentary box too and although Nugent and his companion Ralph Keyes tried valiantly to sound upbeat, their comments carried the poignancy of the last strains of music on the Titanic.

And as Newport battered relentlessly at Munster, the gloomy mood seemed fitting. With a neat touch of irony, the home team's first try was scored by sometime Irish player Matt Mostyn.

"Just the start that Newport was looking for," sighed Ryle Nugent.

Ralph Keyes was, one presumes, spot on when he added that it was precisely "not the start that Munster was looking for."

And then it really started to go down hill, with the affable looking Newport full back Matt Pini dashing over for a wonderful try. "We are at sixes and sevens here," gasped Keyes. But we weren't. We were stuck on zero.

Even when a little life was breathed into the team through a neat Ronan O'Gara try, it was hard to see how things could be turned around.

"It's still a long haul back," warned Brent Pope, even as Hookie embarked on an optimistic oration on "the innate thing" that was Munster's morale.

But how right he was proven over the next fantastic 40 minutes as the Munster men made magic in Newport. It became apparent that Ronan O'Gara had slipped into `the zone,' performing on a level of near incomprehensible excellence as the half progressed. His utter calm and authority seeped through the rest of the side and Newport, in turn fell into disarray.

Refereeing calls that had gone with the home side in the first half now fell against them.

"Eets a mool, eets a mool," explained French official Monsieur Jutge at one point as the Newport forwards despaired at another call against them.

"It's a maul" translated Ryle Nugent, whose mood was on the up.

As the game entered its last quarter, there were many portents that suggested Munster were on the verge of a magnificent win. Perhaps the most telling was the decision of Newport's outhalf Shane Howarth not to kick a penalty he would tap over on the training ground, his confidence disintegrating in the face of O'Gara's tour de force.

The young Corkonian was on fire, drilling penalties and two perfect dropped goals. That Mike Mullins came back from a broken jaw to scorch through for a gamebreaking try was pure Munster theatre.

"There's nothing wrong with that jaw," whooped Ralph Keyes as Mullins beamed brighter than the floodlights. It was all over bar a breakaway try from Anthony Horgan.

Back in the studio, the analysts were clearly delighted that they had been hexed by yet another show of Munster voodoo.

"On this show, we try to be realistic," insisted Brent Pope a bit sheepishly. Because this was yet another day when realism had no place. It was pure Munster.

One of the great things about Hookie is that we can switch from wake-house to samba mood in the blink of the eye. It was no surprise therefore, to see the fiery old ebullience in evidence once again as he assessed O'Gara's performance.

"He has put the Humphreys' decision to bed, given food for thought to (Lions coach) Graham Henry. Under all sorts of pressure, he puts the ball between the posts." His conviction was infectious and his moving tribute - "there was so many heroes" set the tone.

Was there not a tear in the eye of Brent Pope as Hook, in tones worthy of John Gielgud professed that "Munster rugby is about romance."

It was stirring stuff, all the more so given the black cloud under which the day had begun.

"They don't know how to lose," quivered Pope, in sheer wonderment, at the close of the show. Faith has been restored. Onwards, Christian soldiers . . .