The moment that made it all worthwhile.

By Neal Collins

The first pint of Spitfire in the White Hart, Chalfont St Peter after seven weeks of fizzy, bottled beer in Australia went down with no trouble. Bliss.

There's something very special about coming home with the World Cup winners: there are stories to be told, tee-shirts to be worn.

And it's a two-way thing. Here, where I'm a parish councillor, football coach and former cub leader, they regale me with tales of how it was when England won, how they celebrated, how Josh Lewsey used to play for local club Chiltern.

I respond with details of Jonny Wilkinson's girlfriend, Martin Johnson's lethal frown and Clive Woodward's all-seeing-eye.

Monday morning, despite two hours sleep in the last 72, I wandered to down to Mr Crusty's with my son Kriss. I saw local headmaster Johnn Underwood an offered to tell his middle school of England's exploits. Then up the hill to my mate Gary to discuss the finer points of England's victory.

And it was, to quote a worthier wordsmith, good to be back. Good to be back.

For seven weeks, we lived the high life on tour with England while, at home, White Hart landlord Rachel Bree tells me: "There's never been anything like it in the village. We were mobbed for the semi against Wales and the final was unbelievable."

The cricket club and the Merlins Cave in Chalfont St Giles report similar outbursts of hysteria.

Rachel says: "There were grown men crying when we won the World Cup. When the whistle went, one of my barmaids was wrapped around a 75 year-old. Afterwards he said this was better than any of the soccer World Cups. I think everyone agrees."

And of course, for most of us, that's too true.

For 37 long years of hurt, England have failed on all fronts to reach the zenith. The nation which gave the world football, cricket, both codes of rugby, tiddly-winks and bob-sleighing so rarely gets to conquer the globe.

But now the Johnny-come-latelys have been squashed by Jonny-too-good or Jonny Rotten, as the Sydney Daily Telegraph dubbed our two-footed scoring machine.

And what a World Cup it was. Three weeks in Perth where we destroyed Georgia and seething South Africa, a week in misty Melbourne, where Samoa unsettled us.

Then six days at Surfer's Paradise, in the same hotel as England, playing golf with Ben Kay and swimming with Martin Johnson before Uruguay were annihilated. Then a further week in boiling Brisbane for the quarter-final win over a rejuvenated Wales.

And finally two weeks in Sydney. I played touch rugby against Australia's most capped wing David Campese and their mouthy half-back Nick Farr-Jones as the Southern Hemisphere media drew with the North... luckily we had Rob Andrew.

Then semi-finals time: The French fried in the rain and six days later, the Wallabies walloped. Well, okay, beaten narrowly in extra-time.

I was right behind Elton Flatley when he booted the penalties which put Austraia back on level terms at 14-14 and 17-17 with seconds to play.

In any other game, the all-singing, all-dancing Aussie would have been heralded as a hero.

But thanks to our Jonny, plus unbelievable commitment from Mike Tindall, Jason Robinson and Lawrence Dallalgio among others, Flatley will have to accept his role as an also-ran.

Look, the Aussies are our distant, once-manacled relatives. But like everyone else from Ireland to Italy, they love to see us beaten on the sports field.

In fact, as I've just explained to the White Hart regulars, there are many Celts in the England press pack who would like to have seen us stumble. Welshmen and Scots who, by their nature, cannot enjoy English victory.

Fortunately, I have no such problems. My Welsh mum and Irish grand-dad nor 15 years in South Africa do not influence my loyalties.

This was the World Cup I longed for, the pinnacle we sought since Woodward's shock quarter-final failure in 1999.

And now I have the privilege of being able to say: "I was there when Jonny won the World Cup."

Part of me would like to have been in the White Hart or down the cricket club with family and friends.

But most of me longed to witness in person England's long-awaited return to the top of the sporting tree.

As long as I was back for the Christmas carols on the common next Friday, and the missus's 40th next week!

Let's get the priorities right!