No ifs, no buts, no maybes. Even without Sonny Bill, the After Party rocked.
New Zealand has never known it as good as when our nation's first XV cruised down the metropolitan main streets with the Webb Ellis trophy polished to within an inch of its sparkling golden life.
Almost as sparkling and golden as the lives of those now sanctioned to carry it for the next four years.
But what happens after the After Party?
When the last bit of sacred Eden Park mud has been cleaned from the boots of the new darling of the nation, Stephen Donald, when the bruises have healed, the euphoria eased and real life in all its monotonous glory is reluctantly restarted?
If the hangover was bad on Monday morning, it's about to get a lot worse as New Zealand recovers not just from the biggest party we've seen in a generation, but from the unsustainable high that hits like a tonne of bricks then fades away slowly and sadly like youth and beauty so that all we are left with are worn-out stories to tell the grandkids.
Depressed yet?
Well, I am.
Six weeks ago, I just wanted to close my eyes and open them again when all the brouhaha was over and the grunting, rucking and testosterone that comes hand-in-hand with the Great Game was over.
Now that it is, I feel bereft.
The build-up and the ongoing painful politics of it all was annoying, like a little brother who wants to follow you everywhere, but you miss it all the same as soon as the nagging stops.
The images in the media of mortal men with the bodies of Greek gods have been replaced by weedy, insipid politicians who look like they all need a week in the sunshine without their shoes and socks.
Instead of national pride, it is the National Party dominating headlines and, quite frankly, I'm bored.
Which probably says more about me than the state of the nation, however, I'm no different from most of my generation who have been conditioned to always look for the next big thing, to be magpies searching for shiny objects and events to brighten up our lives, moths to the flame of excitement and stimulation and prone to irritate easily when none of this is provided.
Rugby brought the world to our doorstep, put us shoulder to shoulder with international accents and under the warm glow of the spotlight, but it was switched off as quickly as it was turned on and all I'm left asking is, now what?
For some sorry sods (the sort who really need to ditch the half-inch thick glasses in favour of contacts), yes, there will be a certain thrill derived from the political race about to unfold, especially since, due to the rugby, it is an especially short sprint to the finish line, and for others Christmas and the close of another year will create some sense of anticipation.
But, ever the grinch of the festive season, and with a seasonal job that sees me working seven days a week just as everyone else dusts off their bikinis, I had been relying on the rugby to be the sun peaking through the clouds of an otherwise overcast day.
I suppose hope lies in the fact that at any one time there is always someone, somewhere trying to be the best at something.
Quite by chance while waiting for my takeways the other night, I found myself watching the ping pong world finals. Somehow, though, it just wasn't the same.
*Eva Bradley is an award-winning columnist.