England rugby union boys get their own back after Ashes defeat.

England rugby union boys get their own back after Ashes defeat.

We knew they could do it and they did. Sometimes the planets are so perfectly aligned and the stars shining in the right position that when England sporting teams walk onto their pitches, they somehow know it's going to be the right day. We had a sixth sense about this one, an inkling, a spine tingling premonition that grew stronger by the minute and the hour. When the English cricket team trooped off the field at the Oval, shoulders slumped and spirits drooping after reluctantly giving back the Ashes to Australia, we didn't think for a moment that a day such as this would ever arrive.

Well, here we are in the opening weeks of an autumnal October and an English rugby union team in the far off distant lands of the Far East have come up trumps. In the mystical splendour of a Japanese day, Eddie Jones freewheeling, cavalier England team quite literally threw caution to the wind and secured their place in a rugby union World Cup semi final. How about that one? We have to believe now that this could be one of the most successful years in English sporting history. The full blossom of English cricket burst into colour with an epic World Cup Final victory against New Zealand.

There were the illustrious likes of Ben Stokes, full of character and charisma, Joe Root, full of tough, unyielding Yorkshire grit and relentless endeavour, Jonny Bairstow busting a gut for his country without even the remotest thought of defeat on his mind. We knew in our heart of our hearts that Australia were there for the taking in that cliffhanger of a World Cup semi final. And of course we were not to be disappointed when all of the above went on thrillingly to beat New Zealand in the World Cup Final.

But after the deflating setback of the Ashes debacle, England were back on form but this time on a rugby pitch where chests were puffed out to their fullest and English patriotism was at its height. The critics, of whom there must have been few and far between, were probably skulking away in the corner waiting patiently for what they thought would prove England's last stand, a calamity that was about to happen at any minute.

Eddie Jones meticulously drilled England had other ideas, a white shirted battalion full of running that couldn't be held back, scurrying, scampering, dodging and burrowing a path through a rapidly backpedalling Australian back row. Across the wide open expanses of the pitch, England carried the ball with entrancing tenacity, ducking and diving deceptively, pushing and shoving through huge columns of a gold and yellow Australian team who, although full of streetwise intelligence themselves, simply couldn't cope with the English bombardment from the backs to those meaty props and hookers eating up the ground.

There was  the big, bold, bruising and belligerent Kyle Sinckler who picked up the ball and then ran with it as if he just wished he could keep the ball and take it home with him. Sinckler was the first to run in the first of the English tries, a barnstorming belter of a try that lit the English touch paper. Then with the game still finely poised, England drove their way back into the game and rammed home their technical superiority.

Henry Slade, the Exeter Chiefs fly half, with a breahtless interception, revved up the engines, pushed his feet on the accelerator, pelted at full speed with the ball, sprinted as if his life depended on it then offloaded perceptively to the galloping Anthony Watson. Watson it was who gladly grabbed Slade's feed before roaring over the try line and dunking the ball over for yet another pulsating try for England. What on earth would have been going through the minds of the folks back home for a country on the verge of a political history of their own?

With captain fantastic Owen Farrell leading from the back to the front and kicking shrewdly placed conversions of his own, England were in full flight, dashing, jinking and jiving, whipping passes across the centre of the pitch before winning judicious ball in the rucks and mauls. Then Jonny May weighed in with a magnificent try after some clever and inspirational handiwork, the ball fizzing from one hand to the other as if magnetised.

So it is that an English rugby union side is a tantalising step closer to emulating the class of 2003 when Jonnny Wilkinson lofted that drop kick cum penalty that went steepling into the Australian air and won England the World Cup 16 years ago. It only seems like yesterday of course but how we must be hoping that the brave red rose, white shirted men from England and its shires, counties and cities could do it all over again. The English sporting year is rapidly turning into a wondrous street carnival. Bring on those trumpets and drums. It may be the right time to party like we've never partied before.