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Sunny Saturday, south-western Paris. God is in his heaven. And he’s on the pitch at Jean Bouin Stadium, too. He’s wearing his stunning blue jersey with pink roses, bearing the images (in Andy Warhol/Marilyn Monroe style) of Blanche de Castille, a consort of Louis VIII.

This item doesn’t work unless I force myself to admit that it’s never been entirely unknown for me to gild the lily of critical acclaim or denunciation and wind up the good old Kiwis and their refusal to believe that they ever lost a match or that anyone wearing a black jersey (apart from Neath) is the greatest player ever born anywhere in the world, even if actually he isn’t the greatest player in Lower Bloggs Street, Waikato, that minute.

So I am not saying this to wind up Kiwis. I am saying it because it is true and because actually it is no contest. Juan Martin Hernandez versus Dan Carter as a fly half and all-round rugby player? The Argentinian is different class, on a different planet. To open your mouth or charge your laptop to argue is to waste breath and electricity.

Recently, I suggested that the jury is back out on Carter, who may or may not be the player he once was and may or may not be again. I hasten to add that Carter is not the only superb player who suffers cruelly by comparison – so does Jonny Wilkinson, Danny Cipriani (at least, so far), Barry John, Phil Bennett, Hugo Porta, Jonathan Davies, David Watkins, Tom Lewis and the whole gorgeous, glittering panoply of them.

For a few periods last Saturday of their Heineken Cup match against Llanelli, Stade played. They actually stopped preening and bloody well played. Then, for around 12 minutes in the second half, they shot for the moon. They accelerated, expanded and in that glorious period of the best rugby I have seen for ages, they scored three tries and could easily have scored five.

Hernandez bestrode the match like a colossus. Yes, too much occasionally revolves around him. Yes, he drop-kicks too often. Who cares? His running skills and his exocet passing were sumptuous. Not only is he quick and incisive enough to make breaks and space, but he is big and hard enough to beast the ball up and storm through tackles.

His kicking was extraordinary – booming 80 metre diagonals which died inches from the Llanelli line or touch-line, giving them no space to counter and no way not to concede the next line-out. He delivered amazing banana kicks, deliberately sliced off the outside of his foot which landed softly just inside the lines, and cleared from near his line into the Llanelli half.

His generalship and choices of play in the blessed burst of Stade scoring was astonishing. He was standing flat, playing in the traffic, bringing his centres or blindside wing or flankers on to the ball. Dan Carter is terrific. But by comparison with all of this, he is just a rugby player.

In December, Stade are taking their Heineken pool match against Harlequins to the Stade de France. They have already sold 72,000 tickets. Frankly, I’d pay just to watch one man. Thanks for the thrill, Juan Martin.

Scroll down to see Stephen Jones’s top ten fly halves of all time

A happy pride