Blackrock College were to contest the Junior Cup Final against Belvedere College . . . as a 14-year-old nothing else mattered. We decided it would be a good idea to walk the pitch prior to the final. The team got the train in and we hopped off at Lansdowne Road. As we zipped over the railway crossings the pram ladies were setting up their stalls just outside stiles 6, 7, 8 on the West Stand. They were in a hurry to get their stalls set up . . . another profitable day in D4 was about to unfold. As I approached I thought a Curly Wurly and a mint Toffo was required to keep me going.

As I proffered my 10p I noticed that the lady had her left breast exposed.

"Missus your left tit is hanging out."

"Mind your manners young fella."

"Seriously."

"He's bleedin' right Cepta, " said her mate.

"Jeeee-aaaayy-zus Monica!"

"Whhaaaaaaaaa?"

"I left de baby on de train!"

Our coach had arranged to have Hugo MacNeill explain to us the magic of Lansdowne Road. Hugo pitched up at 3pm . . . he had taken time off from being an extra in 'Brideshead Revisited' and had cycled a bike, which had to be over 45 years old, to get to the ground. I walked out onto the ground. From a 14-year-old perspective . . . it was a big old meadow from the middle of the halfway line. It was a long way to run to either touchline. Hugo explained the mysteries of the wind . . . it was blowing from the Havelock Square end . . . he actually had to tell us where the Havelock Square end was. One of my colleagues then asked why were the flags at the Lansdowne Road end blowing the other way and then we all noticed that the half way flags were blowing sideways . . . that took a bit of explaining.

Hugo mesmerized us in iambic pentameter and Faustian tones about the joy of Lansdowne . . . later on that night we were lucky to get the night watchman to let us out the side-door.

From my formative years my inclination was to spend the least amount of time that I had to in Lansdowne . . . it's a fearful kip. If the Sugarloaf exploded and Dublin was engulfed Pompeii-like in volcanic pumice lava and ash, they would have some fun trying to explain away 2,000 years later the edifice at Lansdowne Road.

Sometimes you never get a true sense of value or worth of something until you hear an opinion from outside the realm. Before the Leinster v Agen Heineken Cup game I was talking to one of the French correspondents.

"You know the wrecking crew are coming in January '07?"

"Yeah."

"How long have you been coming here?"

"30 years."

"What do you think of the place?"

Before he could answer Agen came out on to the field and there was applause and noise. I couldn't really hear his reply but he said something, which I interpreted as "L'Equipe".

"The team?" Maybe he said the teams are coming out.

"Non, non. . ."

"?"

"A keepe."

"? ?"

"It's a f***ing kip!"

Having played in the championship for 10 years there is no question that Dublin is the venue of choice from every perspective. But as the song goes 'nice legs, shame about the face' . . . Lansdowne Road was an embarrassment.

I sat back down on the wooden seats in the press box (oh me grapes) and reflected on what he'd said . . . he could have lied and gone heavy on the quaint, atmospheric and genial qualities . . . the noise and effect of the crowd, but he didn't. His opinion just re-informed my views . . . what a dump. Sheffield Wednesday in the English second division have a bigger and better stadium than this.

How long was time enough.

From a player's perspective, there was nothing within the campus, which I held dear or had a liking, affinity or an attachment to. Even though I was born in Dublin and this was my home ground . . . there was nothing mutual . . . no endearment.

The dressing rooms were a mix of MFI and Fossets. The changing rooms were two inter-connecting rooms with sliding doors but the team still had to huddle in one side or the other because the partition ceiling came down too low. There was never enough space to put all your gear and the rooms were either icy or sauna.

The showers were the worst. In a line of about 7 or 8 fonts only 3 or 4 would ever work. The rest spouted a polar experience. An eighty year old with a bad prostate would have had a better jet than the dribble which came from the warm ones. As surely as I never made it to the breakdown in time, I never got into the showers ahead of anyone else either. It must have been the smallest water tank in history. I often thought what Carling or Blanco were thinking on the opposite side of the wall.

The bogs were the worst though. As kick-off approached and the testosterone and adrenaline began to flow, Nature's way would come into play as your bowels loosened up. So you would rush to the throne room . . . there were only two . . . for a squad of 21 or 22. Sometimes you couldn't wait. But it was quite difficult to drop the children off at the pool because the bloody door latches were always broken . . . it was very hard to concentrate and hold the door shut at the same time.

I remember after a particularly heavy defeat . . . complaining about the lack of door latches to an IRFU official. He replied that door latches would be provided on one condition that the performance in the bog would not be repeated out on the field again.

The medical room was a scene from A Night at the Opera. Everyone wanted to get strapped, injected or treated at the same time. Hard to do it in a broom cupboard. I remember getting my ankle strapped before an England game. I stabbed myself in the arse by sitting on a scissors left there by one of my teammates . . . there were 3 or 4 of us on the treatment table at the time.

Even getting onto the pitch was dangerous. As you left the dressing rooms there was thick black indented rubber pads which took a stud . . . but as you went up the steps and the surrounding area, you had these tiles which were like an ice rink - 15 bambis on ice.

The pitch in Lansdowne is also the worst rugby-playing surface in the western world . . . apart from the Millennium . . . but the roof is the reason for that.

The pitch has had a couple of major re-soddings over the years . . . it's a pity you can't re-sod the sods who did it. It still cuts up too easily and retains water on the surface . . . drainage is key to a quality international pitch and they still haven't got it right . . . it impacts on the quality of performance and entertainment.

Because of the low-sided nature of the north and south terraces and the lack of a con-joined stand the wind plays a major part in most internationals at Lansdowne - in the professional era that should never be the case. The wind at Lansdowne is a meteorological erratic . . . there is sometimes no way of ascertaining which way the wind is blowing and whether it will be blowing that way in five minutes time.

Wind games aren't much fun to watch.

Of the two stands . . . the West Stand needed to be blown up 20 years ago.

This however would have presented problems.

In 1985 I went on a student working visa to the US for the summer. I went with a mate and had pre-arranged to meet up with Brendan Mullin, who would be returning from Ireland's drinking tour of Japan. I would be in Boston a week or so before he arrived so it was incumbent upon me to try and get digs and a job organized.

Tokyo Joe arrives in and asks what the story was on a job. No probs Brenny . . . all sorted, we start work next Monday at an asbestos removal company - $16 per hour and they even give us our own protective suits. We genuinely did think about it.

I am advised that the roof of the West Stand is made of asbestos. From time to time when I file a match report I have to get out of the press box. Somebody thinks that it's a good idea to pump rock music . . . bad rock music - around the ground after the match is over.

Being a technophobe, I call my match report in by mobile . . . I have to move away from the press box which is surrounded by speakers.

As I move up the stand I sometimes notice dead pigeons . . . maybe it's the IRFU kestrel. Maybe it's the asbestos.

If I die from a lung related illnessf It will be a lot of fun for the guys removing that roof when the planning finally comes through.

From a playing perspective the best and most memorable match that I played in Lansdowne was the 1991 World Cup quarter final against Australia.

Our driver took a short-cut through Kenmare from Finnstown House in Lucan, so we were late, very late.

Nobody walked the pitch and we had just enough time to get changed . . . maybe we weren't discouraged by the depressing surroundings and performed accordingly.

I have been lucky to score four tries in each corner at Lansdowne Road.

Against Fiji and Samoa left and right at the Havelock Square end and in a cup final and Irish trial (remember them) left and right on the Lansdowne Road end. Somehow I don't think any of those corners will be called Frano's corner in the near future.

I have no sentimental thoughts or attachments to the place . . . it is 10 to 15 years overdue and whatever they throw up will be a vast improvement on what is currently standing there. If there is a button to be pressed, I'll gladly do it.