Keith Duggan/Sideline Cut: It seems to have escaped everyone's attention that in a mere matter of weeks, England might well be world champions at something. Maybe it is the fact all the rugger buggers have decamped to Australia that has created this false sense of security.

At some level it registered with all of us that Clive Woodward recently packed a suitcase and an assortment of baseball caps, boarded a Concorde and flew to the other end of the world and, however vaguely, we would have acknowledged this as a good thing.

But the fear is we have not given due consideration to the inevitability of Clive's return, followed by a bombastic chorus lustily imploring a chariot to swing in a low and decidedly sweet fashion.

I don't know what it is about Clive. Whenever I see him celebrating, jumping up and down in the stand at Fortress Twickers, a small part of my soul withers. He is just too eager. He wants it too much. And those caps. It is like watching Harry Potter grown old.

It does not matter that people close to him will attest to his fine humanitarian spirit, his ceaseless sense of fun and the sharpness of his mind.

It does not matter the couple of times I encountered him he was bright and personable and courteous and disconcertingly athletic - he still carries himself with the unbearable lightness of the former outhalf.

It would not matter had I heard he spends his free weeks nursing to full health newly hatched bird life in the Outer Hebrides or doing a grocery round for his elderly neighbours. Nothing he can ever do or say will ever change anything because when he is at his Clive-est, dancing inanely in the stands as Wilks romps home for try number eight against whoever, you just think: geek.

As the Rugby World Cup warms up about as sexily as a saucepan of milk destined for a mug of powdered Ovaltine, England expects. Hot on the Six Nations Grand Slam, much has been made about Clive's unprecedented levels of meticulous preparation.

Word of England's travel arrangements to the World Cup have made it around the globe faster than the flashy Concorde that delivered Clive's heroes Down Under.

The message is clear: no slumming it for our chaps. The image of Matt Dawson reclining on Concorde's revolutionary flatbeds, nibbling at his smoked breast of duck and lime chutney, languidly offering a hand for manicure as he flicks through his personalised cinema selection with the other, will certainly evoke a strong response in many people.

It will definitely help to crystallise the embarrassing poverty line that has thus far been the main story in the build-up the World Cup. Nations like Fiji and Samoa, whose players traditionally managed to interpret rugby as an expression of joy and adventure, enter this year's competition without their best players as their boards cannot afford the basic wage.

It will be of great consolation to them that Martin Johnson's arduous trip Down Under was made easier by hot-towel neck massages and comforting feathered pillows.

You scan the list of contenders for this year's World Cup and it doesn't take a Nigel Starmer-Smith to see that there is not much standing between humanity and the prospect of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot being number one for Christmas.

There is simply not enough classic architecture, or art galleries, in Australia for the French to thrive properly. They will suffer from indifferently prepared moules marinières and from partisan wine lists and their Gallic spirit will pine.

They will be a disappointment. Poor old South Africa have been distracted by the trifling matter of rampant racism but will hopefully get things right for the World Cup of 2040. Australia may rally and get their selection policy in order before the tournament gets serious at semi-final stage but they have been second-guessing themselves for over a year now.

All commentators seem to reckon the best hope is, as always, New Zealand. I, for one, have reservations about the All-Blacks, though, based mainly on the English translation to the words of the Haka that have been circulating of late. It will be impossible to look at the Maori war dance in the same way now we know the fearsome fighting men are actually inviting us to "Slap the hands against the thighs/Puff out the chest/Bend the knees/Let the hips follow".

Can you imagine Peter Clohessy's reaction if you were to walk up to him on the street and suggest he bend his knees, permitting the hips to follow? In fairness, the chant does recover a good degree of dignity in the second stanza, which translates, "It is death/It is death/It is life, It is life/ This is the hairy man/Who causes the sun to shine again for me." Haven't the foggiest what it means but it is definitely preferable to the image of a roman people-carrier swinging at high, low or median levels.

But the point is there might be little to stop the England juggernaut. Already it is anticipated that outhalf Jonny Wilkinson will become the sport's first truly global star after the tournament, netting sponsorship deals that could revive the fortunes of Fiji, Samoa and Tonga put together. He presents himself like a fiercely modest and likeable young man and his game echoes that of England in that he seems to be pushing for a performance that simply allows no flaws, no weaknesses, no breach of concentration.

But as a poster boy for a World Cup, Wilkinson is hardly as inspiring as previous incarnations like Serge Blanco, David Campese or Jonah Lomu. Campese's message was to try the impossible and have fun doing it. The abiding lesson of young Jonny's meteoric rise is you should practise kicking for six straight hours.

With the numbers playing the game in England reportedly dropping at a worrying rate and an increasingly litigious and disharmonious atmosphere creeping into the Premiership, capturing the Webb Ellis trophy would be a perfect tonic. As the luxurious travel arrangements testify, no expense has been spared; it has been Woodward's basic philosophy that his players should have no conceivable excuse for losing outside of their own performances, hence the pampering.

And this just may be their time. It can only be a matter of weeks before Tony Blair is pictured wearing the white and red rose shirt. The funny thing is that, despite what Andrew Mehrtens reckons, England are okay to lose to. There was not much grandstanding in Lansdowne Road last spring when they clinically disabused Ireland of our own Grand Slam ambitions.

But maybe we just weren't worth it. Perhaps they always had one eye on the big show Down Under. And now that the hour is upon us, it may be time to reconcile ourselves to the notion that our neighbours, the Saxons, the Auld Enemy, will soon be better at a given pursuit than anybody else in the world.

You have two options. Smile and be gracious about it. Or puff out your chest and slap your thighs for all they are worth.