Look me in the eye and tell me: did you wish him ill? Were you actively willing Danny Cipriani to fail when he made his first start for England as fly half on Saturday? Were you hoping he would do poorly for the love you bear to Jonny Wilkinson, the World Cup-winning superstar he so shockingly replaced?

Or were you hoping he would fail because of the love you bear to the England team; because a defeat would clarify certain issues, not least that of Brian Ashton, the head coach, after this shambles of an RBS Six Nations Championship campaign?

Perhaps you didn't go as far as that. I'm not sure I did myself. But let's say that I could have taken failure in my stride. I could have coped. Ashton, by the nature of his selection, by making this solitary but earth-shattering change, would have been utterly exposed if Cipriani had messed it up. His position would have become untenable; perhaps a good thing.

But Cipriani did not fail. Perhaps he was aware of the tentative tide of ill-will flowing in his direction, but if so, it didn't seem to trouble him. Perhaps it inspired him, who's to say? You never can say for sure when it comes to the motivation for an utterly exceptional performance.

Cipriani was certainly aware of his contribution to the Six Nations so far. It can be summed up thus: a bit of a prat. He came on as a replacement against Wales and was the hapless intended receiver of Wilkinson's demented long pass as England collapsed.

Cipriani next came on as a replacement against Italy and had a kick charged down for a try as Italy gave England a serious fright. After that, he was picked to start as full back against Scotland, but was dropped because he delivered match tickets to friends in a nightclub.

All he had to do to overcome this faint but unmistakable aura of prattishness was to replace a national living treasure. He had to take over from the man who had just set a record for points scored in international rugby. A lot of problems, then; you'd have thought one or two of these might worry him.

But no. Not a bit of it. Cipriani strolled on to the field as if it were about bloody time, too. There was appetite in his stride and calmness in his face. And he proceeded to boss the game as if bossing international matches was something he had been doing all his life.

His kicking from hand was laser-guided. His place-kicking was merely perfect, seven from seven. With one of these kicks, the ball fell off the tee twice in quick succession and the referee told him to pull his finger out. Ten seconds later, he had whacked the ball over with a casual, rather stubby swing of the boot.

He ran, he passed, he marshalled the defence, all with an air not only of cool, but of command. It was a performance of quite astonishing self-confidence. There was no diffidence, no embarrassment, no feeling of deference towards his more experienced colleagues (that is to say, every England player on the pitch).

There were even elements - careful here! - of genius about the way he played. Now, we all know that the world of sport is filled with boys of the most marvellous promise who have failed to make it as men. But, on Saturday, there were movements when Cipriani looked well beyond the promising stage. I was reminded of the young George Best, the young Ian Botham: the same marrow-deep certainty that the big game was what they wanted and where they would give of their best.

Wilkinson came on as a replacement and played out of position; Cipriani stayed on as fly half and goalkicker, and continued utterly unembarrassed. It was as if taking over from one of the all-time greats was merely an inevitable chapter in the unfolding story of the life of Danny Cipriani.

This profoundly un-English lack of modesty was at the heart of it. In Cipriani, there was a total absence of all those virtues and vices of self-effacement and after-you-old-boy politeness. Not that this was a performance full of arrogance and posing: it is just that Cipriani was utterly comfortable with the idea of being centre stage and the focus of 164,000 not unhostile eyes.

It has to be said that the opposition was pretty awful. The Irish collapsed, more or less chucked it in, a strange thing for an Irish team. A better side would have exploited England's mistakes and some obvious weaknesses in selection. So let's not get carried away.

But let's not be too grudging, either. He's not Jonny, and he hasn't won a World Cup, or been part of team of utterly unstoppable world-beaters that put the fear of God into every side they played. But all the same, this was a performance of rare promise. If it is fulfilled, not just Cipriani but the entire England side will be playing with style and verve and self-certainty. What we have before us is a dizzying prospect.