England celebrate their victory.

By Neal Collins, Sydney

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Seven unforgettable weeks on England's topsy-turvy World Cup bandwagon come to an end on Saturday morning.

Has there ever been a greater tournament? Or a braver bunch of players?

A lifetime ago, England arrived in Perth to take the first step - admittedly a tiny one, against germinating Georgia - on the road to global domination.

We left on October 1 now, 53 days later, it's time to reflect on an incredible journey, one that has ended at the the very pinnacle.

These men have put 37 years of hurt to rest, ending a run of rugby, cricket and hockey World Cup final defeats against the cocky Aussies. And no matter what they say here, it was won with style and panache by the greatest player in the world.

The highpoint? Victory over South Africa at the throbbing Subiaco Oval wasn't bad. That come-from-behind quarter-final triumph over a reborn Wales was better. But last Sunday's sodden crushing of France in the semi was on ly surpassed by last night's Jonny Wilkinson spectacular.

The low? Unquestionably that week in gloomy Melbourne, which culminated in a deeply uncomfortable win over Samoa on the last Sunday in October. At 10-0 down, the sky was falling in. Sydney seemed beyond us.

Yup Melbourne, the city of trams and fruit machines, were pensioners throw away their pensions in the southern hemisphere's largest casino.

I'd better not mention the night we saw Matt Dawson and his syndicate - Mike Catt, Paul Grayson, Jason Leonard, Lawrence Dallaglio - putting huge towers of chips on the roulette wheel.

Best to forget scenes like that.

And I can't possibly reveal which player finally gave me the intimate details of the spat between England's conditioning coach Dave Reddin and Kiwi referee Steve Walsh after the Dan Luger "16th man" mystery.

England were fined, Reddin was cleared, Walsh was supended for three days. Yes, a banned referee. And nobody batted an eyelid when the 31-year-old referee-cum-rock-star whistled Scotland to death against Australia.

I can tell you about the good times. Out-driving big Ben Kay at the Zurich Golf Day with the players, racing him in the caddy cart with the satellite system.

Singing that wonderful anthem "Don't go breaking my heart" with an RFU official in Brisbane... he was Elton John, naturally.

Then the night a British journalist took a wrong turning and locked himself out of his hotel room naked and keyless, a story picked up and run in several Australian newspapers. Bloody Pom bashers.

They didn't want to know when a Sun photographer helped me drag a fallen fellow journalist out of the harbour after a near-disastrous accident on a Water Taxi at Fort Denison in Sydney harbour.

But what about the players. How they managed to survive seven weeks under such huge pressure is beyond me.

For 52 days, we asked them a never-ending stream of questions. As the press gang increased from 25ish in Perth, through Melbourne, the Gold Coast, Brisbane and finally Sydney, were were up to 250 media men.

The Barmy Army grew and grew too. How many shirts were signed? How many pictures were posed for? How many bodyparts did they have to make their mark on?

But never once did the 30 players - 31 if you count the unfortunate Danny Grewcock - or the 20-strong coaching staff lose their patience.

When Martin Johnson was doing his warm downs in the pool, he probably didn't want me swimming lengths next to him. When Neil Back was sunbathing, he simply grinned when the skylarking photographers kicked a wayward beachball neatly on to his head.

These are, as Clive Woodward has so often said, "a very special group of players".

Unlike our cricketers and footballers, there was no restriction on when and where their families could go. The French journalists constantly remarked about the number of women and children in the England camp... before, chastened, they made their semi-final exit.

Despite this terribly lax attitude to discipline, somehow they managed to get through seven weeks under the spotlight without a major incident.

Okay, two good mates came to blows at a behind-closed-doors training session.

And after the semi-final, there were murmurings between the senior players and management over training procedures... Woodward accepted the advice of his thirtysomethings, crisis averted.

Woodward believes his players are mature superstars. They believe in him. None of your soccer-star antics here. No late night drinking, no womanising, no turning up late for training.

Surfing? Gambling? Popping out for a coffee? Sure.

But never once did I see an England player who was less than focussed on the task at hand. Winning the World Cup.

When this tournament, so well supported, so brilliantly run, fades in to history, we shall look back with immense pride.

We will never see this particular bunch of players in a World Cup again. We may never see a side quite as good as this again.