The business end of World Cup 2026

 The business end of the World Cup 2026.

So here we are at the coal face, the business end of World Cup 2026. In the blue and white corner are France,  Les Bleus who just happened to be playing in white shirts last night. Now France are almost blase and presumptuous about World Cup Finals. They've won the Jules Rimet Cup a number of times and you underestimate them at your peril. They are undoubtedly a world class side, a team of pedigree and stature, a team with a rich ancestral past and whose connection with modern World Cups can never be disputed. 

In 1998, France had home territory on their side, a team boasting the immensely visionary and far sighted Emmanual Petit, the glorious finished article who was Zinedine Zidane. Zidane was the man who scored those legendary goals which saw off the mighty Brazil in the World Cup Final. There was the irresistible, delightfully unstoppable Robert Pires, Laurent Blanc, the cooling, calming influence at the heart of their well marshalled defence, Christian Dugarry, thoughtful and scientific while not forgetting the inimitable Thierry Henry, a goal scoring sensation for Arsenal. 

Since then France have made gigantic strides in the world game and have become firmly established as overwhelming favourites to win the World Cup yet again. Four years Argentina engaged France in one of the most magical World Cup Final of all time, running out winners 4-2 in Qatar. But France have once again that regal grandeur about them which suggests that the butlers and servants will be hanging around in France's palatial playground for some time. France look immaculate, stunningly tailored and upholstered, a side with a definite air of the Moulin Rouge about them, a superb cabaret of natural talent. 

But you can't help but think that they still have a genuine but somewhat endearing snobbery and detached haughtiness about their football. France have been wearing their best chemises and gilets, a side occasionally betraying signs of pomposity and casual insouciance but always playing the kind of football that a vast majority of us can only aspire to, dream of emulating. It is football that is pure and principled, a Degas or Monet reincarnated on the most artistic of easels. 

During the 1980s, the French were indeed the ultimate Cavaliers, the show offs and exhibitionists, the troubadours and boulevardiers, the strutting revolutionaries who believed that their way was the right one. Both Michel Platini, Alain Giresse and Didier Six toyed with their opponents rather like children who love to tease and ridicule. The year of the Euro Championship Final in 1984 was rather like the foundation stone for future generations, a side of brilliance, instinct and impulse, equipped with a midfield that looked as though it had too many paint brushes at their disposal. 

But last night France met Morocco as they had four years ago in Qatar and the result was exactly the same. For long periods during the game, France looked like the masters of the footballing universe,  creating beautiful mosaics and frescos around the Morocco defence and just gingerly moving the ball around as if  in some secretive Morse Code. In and out of the red shirts of Morocco passed the ball around amongst each other rather like golden nuggets or precious bracelets and necklaces linked perfectly together. 

At times the defensive base of Jules Konde, Dayot Upemecano, Arsenal's William Saliba and Lucas Digne were like French guardsmen, firm and impregnable, never budging an inch and just shutting out the Morocco attack with an indomitable spirit about them. And then once again the French midfield, often their forte in the past, flourished gorgeously in a way we've come to expect.. Both Desire Doue, Bradley Barcola and Manu Kone were almost swapping friendly pleasantries with each other, tapping short passes between themselves almost conspiratorially and confidentially. It was a pleasure to watch. 

Then up front the striking boiler room of Ousmane Dembele, Michael Olise quite admirably at times, and the extraordinary magnificence of the immensely gifted Kyllian M'Bappe, just wiped out any lingering hopes Morocco may have harboured. But then M'Bappe, half way through the first half, committed the cardinal sin. He is human and flawed at times. France were awarded a penalty for which there was no doubt at all. M'Bappe, annoyingly so, adopted the recent trend for stuttering and pausing before taking the spot kick. This time, the Morocco goalkeeper Bono, knew exactly which way M'Bappe was going and saved the penalty quite comfortably. 

What followed was France at their most dominant, almost too authoritative for their own good. Their football had the cleanest of lines, the smoothest of surfaces. At times it was rather like watching a classical music concert where all the percussion and woodwind section were in splendid synchronicity with the accompaniment of some jazz trumpets and rippling piano keys just for good measure. The rest of the match became like a delectable exhibition at a famous French museum of art. 

With the minutes ticking away and Morocco just lumbering forward like men with huge rocks on their backs, France began to find M'Bappe like stumbling upon El Dorado or Shangri La. The relationship between Dembele, Olise and M'Bappe was just the most enthralling of them all. Now all three men started wedging open Morocco rather like a stiff door in need of a good shove. Suddenly M'Bappe explored his familiar ground around the edge of his opponents penalty area. After a swift exchange of passes, the exquisite French striker, jockeyed into position, shifted the ball delicately and around before curling a delicious shot wide of Bono in the Morocco goal. 

Minutes later, the game was over as a spectacle. The French cavalry had arrived with a vengeance. Another blistering, lightning break at speed from France took them racing up field in no time at all. Ousmane Dembele, gracefully gliding into space, switched into fourth gear, outpacing his defender before hammering a low, well driven shot into the back of the net. France were through to the second consecutive World Cup semi final. 

It would somehow seem appropriate if France win another World Cup a couple of days before Bastille Day. We may be guaranteed fireworks from the French if this is the case. From the country that once gave us the dictatorial Pompidou to those tempestuous times when Giscard D'Estaing was in charge, you somehow feel that another French revolution may be just around the corner. As long as they eat their croissants first followed by a fragrant cafe au lait. The French always did have a healthy appetite.