Grand Slam 2008. A personal recollection.

Sickly sweet and pungent, the heavy scent of Gaulloises taints the air, as, with cloudy eyes, the grim, grey skies of Cardiff watch over the gathering tribes of Wales and France, as they move in unison and harmony toward the place where the ' The Chosen Ones ' in a game of rugby, will decide the fate of The Six Nations Championship.

Mingling with the gently jostling crowds, I have a sense that everyone is carnival-happy.The streets and thoroughfares near to the Millennium Stadium are filled with colour, the 'Reds' with their comic inflatable daffodils and proudly sporting silver-threaded 'fleurs-de-lys' and the 'Blues', some luxuriantly moustachioed, topped with their black berets and emblazoned with golden cockerels. Animated speech is all-present as these welcome visitors converse in the body language that is 'la Francais.'

Around each rain-damp corner I see small bands of French trumpeters and horn players, huddling together in the fine drizzle, playing traditional 'chansons' to the delight of all.Here, brilliantly shiny brass reflects the street scene contrasting with the dull navy blue of their plastic mac uniforms.Across the square, an impromptu choir sings the beautiful poetry of 'Cymraeg' in answer to the French triple-tonguing. At that moment I can't think of anywhere else on earth that I'd rather be.

And so, onward, following the crowds past the ticket-touts, speaking in the accent of a capital city lying to the East, along the M4, ready to buy or sell at the right price, past the hot-dog stalls, whose aromatic assault can't possibly remind anyone of home and the stalls of many colours selling scarves and pointy Jester hats with bells on. Here and there, are face-painters, who, for a few pounds, will anoint the cheeks of the devout with a red dragon or a 'tricoleur'. For my part, I feel tribal enough in my Welsh jersey, scarf and hat. No-one could possibly mistake where my loyalties lie today!

The stadium looms in front of me, a great edifice of concrete and steel with high gates of steel bars, guarded jealously by another tribe, the 'yellow jackets'. Their walkie-talkies crackle and hiss as I get closer to the entrance. At the head of the queue, a 'yellow jacket' inspects my ticket and points ahead, ' Into the tunnel and to the right.' he says, knowingly, a phrase, no doubt, that he will use countless times today. Thanking him, I wonder if he 's ever tempted to mis-direct, in a bid to, mischievously, relieve some of the monotony!

Inside the building now, my eyes peer at my ticket in the semi-darkness, then scan the walls ahead for the correct gang-way number, as the sea of souls now filling the passageway from the many entrances, peel off through the gates leading to their seats, like the life-blood of some enormous leviathan pumping into its blood vessels.

I take my seat, over-awed by the size of this sporting colossus. Tiered seating reaches skyward to the Welsh weather, which, today, can do no harm, thanks to the ingenious mechanical roof being, as it is, shut firm against the elements. Such is the enormity of this place that the visual detail of those people seated at the opposite end of the ground are blurred and barely discernible, seeming to meld into a vast homogenous mass! A military band, complete with mascot goat, bedecked in its full mascot goat regalia, moves slowly around the pitch, accompanied by several Welsh choirs, providing pre-match musical entertainment, whilst a number of players, from both sides, wisely use the time to practice kicks and passes on the hallowed turf.

Time ticks away and I realise, suddenly, that no-one now is left on the pitch and only stewards and officials can be seen on the perimeter track.The public address system bursts into life and all eyes turn to the player's entrance, straining to catch a first glimpse of their favoured team.Explosions from the fire-bins, strategically placed near to the entrance send gouts of yellow-orange flame, like dragon's breath, high into the air, announcing the arrival of the combatants. Anthems swiftly follow and my heart bursts with pride as I lend my voice, with perhaps 70,000 others, to the tune of 'Land of my Fathers', the only Welsh I know, but, boy, did I make it count!

I witness,then, a rugby match that will live in my memory always. the game itself will be written about,discussed and analysed for years to come and will take its place in sporting history as a matter of record. Yet, it is the emotion of that afternoon that I will remember with equal clarity.The anticipation at Welsh possession, building to fervent hope of a score if ground is gained or the ball is retained for a significant period, interspersed with gleeful ecstasy and painful anguish, as the score favours first one side, then the other.

The second half, however, brings forth mad, almost delirious Welsh cheering and flag-waving, as two tries are scored and converted, putting the game well out of the reach of France.At the final whistle, the crowd is euphoric in victory as the triumphant team parades the trophy around the ground to the delight of the thousands of Welshman present and those watching at home.As the team draw ever closer,holding aloft the Six Nations prize, I cannot be the only one there, whose eyes fill with proud tears as they gaze in awe upon these magnificent red- jerseyed 'Princes of Wales'!