France win the World Cup and a nation celebrates.

France win the World Cup and a nation celebrates.

Phew! After three weeks of Robbie Williams, Russian president Vladimir Putin shaking hands with Arab oil sheikhs, blaring horns, gloriously atmospheric football matches and global entente cordiale, it somehow seemed fitting that France should claim that golden trophy at the end of an almost relentless onslaught of joyous, gorgeous football that fully restored your faith in human nature.

And so it was that France took the Jules Rimet trophy to Paris where 20 years earlier they'd won their first World Cup in their own country and on their own terms. Maybe this is a poetic justice for a country where terrorism on its streets and neighbourhoods in recent years threatened to destroy and destabilise France where once a petit dejeuner with baguettes in the morning seemed the perfect introduction to their day.

France have done it again and they've done with that joie de vivre and innately expressive joy and zest for life that the French love to think of as one of their essential characteristics. 'Les Bleus' have allowed history to strike up the same narrative as the one which accompanied them when Emmanuel Petit, Thierry Henry, Lauren Blanc, Zinedine Zidane and now Didier Deschamps once indulged themselves.

Then they flaunted their finest finery, revealing that peacock plumage to a stunned world and then demonstrating all of the virtues that announced to the rest of the world that the French had a football team to reckon with, never knowingly dismissed as some burlesque cabaret at the Moulin Rouges. This was a France that wanted to be recognised, applauded, eulogised and finally accepted amongst the footballing intelligentsia, the cream of the crop, the ruling elites of the footballing community.

Last night though, the current French incarnation dipped into the richest Proustian lyricism with some of the most colourfully illustrative, richly decorative and mind blowingly picturesque football. In a stupendous and highly enjoyable 4-2 victory against Croatia, France, although briefly rocked back by the lightning speed with which the Croatians had begun the World Cup Final, roared back into contention in a second half of outstanding counter attacking football  that swept their opponents out on to some lonely rock.

Now is the time to pay homage to a French team who, perhaps for the first time, came together in a stunning show of unity where once discord existed. It was a France who may well have plodded their way through this World Cup but then moved much closer together because they knew that if they didn't the consequences may have been severe. This was not the France of the enfant terrible era where the players in blue stormed out of playing camps, sulking and sneering disdainfully at anybody who came anywhere them.

France are now back on the top of the world and at the end of their World Cup winning display manager Didier Deschamps, all suited and booted, was lifted high up into the Russian air. Over and over again Deschamps was thrown high into the night sky in a massive outpouring of appreciation, respect and fervent acknowledgement of everything he'd done for them since taking over as a manager. At times it must have felt like some religious ritual where a football manager is briefly worshipped just for 90 minutes.

Perhaps the French will be chiefly remembered for the way in which they flattened Argentina in the second round of matches. In quite the most extraordinary performance the France of Griezmann, Mbappe, Pogba and Kante stripped open an Argentina defence that were led the ultimate tango by a French team of slick flicks, subtle skills, explosive pace, tantalising tricks, beautiful first time football and soulful sentimentality. It almost felt as if the whole of the French team had been released from captivity and allowed to play in their playground.

When this World Cup exploded it did so with a vengeance. Completely against the run of the play France broke forward in a rare attack. A cross from the right caught out the whole of the Croatian defence and Mario Mandzukic accidentally got in the way of the ball before allowing it to glance off the side of his head for the opening first French goal. It must have felt like the ultimate punch in the stomach for a Croatia side whose tails were definitely up and were certainly in the ascendancy.

Then, within the space of an amazing couple of minutes, Croatia were back on level terms. After a well worked free kick, Marcos Brozovic, an immense footballing figure, headed the ball back firmly into the box where Ivan Perisic stole in forcefully like the fastest of steam train to drill the ball past Hugo Lloris in the French goal.

 It was quite the most unbelievable start to a World Cup Final since Johan Cruyff danced through a static West German defence to earn a penalty for Holland in 1974 which was promptly converted. That penalty took mere seconds but France and Croatia were just as eager to score yesterday. Now we had a World Cup Final that would top the billing, live up to everything we expected of it and a football match that turned into a carnival, fiesta, a parade, a thrilling cornucopia of one and two touch football and a game that left most of us excessively spoiled. How privileged we were.

It was now that controversy took hold of this game. World Cup Finals do like to gorge
themselves  on their moments of drama and melodrama. Now it sparked one of the most hotly disputed goals for ages. From a French corner the ball was played back towards goal and a Croatian hand was alleged to have been responsible for the most debatable penalty for quite some time. The referee, temporarily caught out for a minute, was surrounded by furious French players insisting that a handball should have been punished with a penalty. After a brief VAR consultation France were given their penalty and Griezmann slotted home France's second.

The second half though gave us the kind of intelligent and vastly cultured football that we've come to expect from France. It was almost as if somebody had flicked a switch in the French and somebody had forgotten to turn it off. This was France at their most magnifique, a stately blue galleon, surging and sweeping forward into attack, breaking out of defence like a marauding French Legion attacking on all fronts.

 Now the French were in full flight, quite the irresistible force against an immovable object. Croatia could hardly believe what they were witnessing because the scales of justice had swung back in France's favour. What had happened to that quarter of an hour when Croatia were cutting open and dissecting the French defence with forensic efficiency? Had they mislaid their scissors or maybe mislaid the scalpels? There was very little evidence to prove that Croatia had been anywhere near the scene of any French crime because something had gone missing and they were clueless?

The World Cup  loves to throw up its wonderkids, its prodigies, its superstar teenagers who suddenly appear from nowhere and leave us breathless. It's hard to believe that exactly 60 years have now passed since the inimitable Pele alerted us to his superlative brilliance when he scored for Brazil against Sweden in the 1958 World Cup Final. 60 years later it happened all over again.

Kylian Mbappe, still learning his apprenticeship, became a wondrous sorcerer for France. A vast majority of French supporters must have thought they'd seen it all when Thierry Henry, Raymond Kopa and Just Fontaine scored goals for fun. Mbappe would now give the French a sharp injection of goal scoring genius that perhaps they'd privately thought they'd never see again. All over again France have been given a reason to believe, believing confidently that they've produced a gem.

Last night Mbappe was here, there and everywhere, running with the ball and sprinting over the pitch with all the majesty of a Usain Bolt, eating up the ground, leaving defenders with an air of astonishment on their faces. In a couple of seconds this World Cup Final was over because Mbappe had said it was quite emphatically. It was arguably one of the finest goals scored by a teenager in recent times. Even Pele, you suspect, must have been smiling.

With a blistering, burning burst of pace, Mbappe turned on the afterburners once again, pressed his foot on the accelerator and charged forward like a stallion striding across a beach. He burst forward into open space then checked himself momentarily. It seemed the moment had gone. But there was a wonderful surprise in store for us as he twisted and turned in the penalty area before laying the ball off cleverly and almost succinctly. In fact it reminded of you an author finishing off a sentence or a violinist completing a classical overture.

Paul Pogba, who has once again emerged as one of the most dominant defenders in world football, strode forward in anticipation of Mbappe's trickery. Pogba, in one movement, adjusted his body, quickly shifted his body before thundering home a shot that nestled in the Croatian net before anybody had had time to come up for air.

Minutes later Mbappe completed an unforgettable evening for France with the goal he was fated to get. Griezmann, now blossoming as an attacking force after a slow and sluggish start to recent games, came of age again. We knew that he would find centre stage but there is an undoubted goal scoring talent. He ventured forward toward into the attack and Mbappe somehow sensing that his colleague was somewhere in the vicinity, picked up Griezmann's perceptive ball across the area and blasted the ball home for France's World Cup winning clincher.

But that wasn't quite the end because there had to be that football and comedy join forces, thereby reducing us to gales of laughter. Hugo Lloris, the Spurs keeper, who'd had little to upset an otherwise quite and uneventful evening for France, put on his court jester's clothes. Grabbing hold of the ball for a goal kick from a harmless position, Lloris, perhaps assuming that his team mates had done the job, fumbling his kick and presenting Mario Mandzuvic with the easiest of chances for Croatia's second and consolation goal.

And so it was that the referee blew his final whistle and France were back on top of their Eiffel Tower of happiness, reliving the romance of a World Cup Final victory. There may well be some cynics who wrongfully think that the French have bluffed their way through this World Cup without performing at their best. But art and artistic appreciation has to be a personal thing, totally subjective as it always has been. Cezanne must have had plenty of doubters at the beginning of his career but then Cezanne would never have met Didier Deschamps. France have won the World Cup. It was the right time and place and on careful reflection it had to be France. Vive La France, a nation of bon vivants.