Aboard the bus to glory

At Oxford Circus itself - and what did you expect ? - a soaring chorus of Swing Low Sweet Chariot. And still the crowds followed us, whistles, horns, klaxons. Twenty feet deep, on the pavement, each one with arms aloft, an unforgettable and exhilarating sight on traffic lights, on scaffolding, on bollards, and bus-stop roofs, on anything that gave them a better view, they stood and roared.

Top Shop, Benetton, French Connection, the high street names inched by, every plate glass window full of St George's flags and yet more people. Two small boys held up a homemade cardboard sign: "We bunked off school to be here."

On Regent Street you couldn't see the road or pavement such was the throng of people. From the first floor of Liberty a plume of red tape fired into the sky as coach Clive Woodward took a bow. On the team bus in front, Wilkinson just stood for a second and stared.

Two nubile girls tried to get his attention. Their poster: "I only want sex if it's with a Jonny." Wilkinson himself stifled a small yawn. Towards Piccadilly we went, and still they came, on window sills, dangerously leaning out and waving furiously, a maelstrom of applause. Men in suits, secretaries, shop girls, schoolkids, all with cameras flashing as brightly as their smiles. And of course a few bewildered tourists. Plus, actor Stephen Fry lost amid the crowd but waving nonetheless.

Then by the Café Royal we stalled, such was the crush. Sweet Chariot erupted again, louder and deeper this time, this spectacle becoming more and more frenzied by the minute, and deeply moving.

Into Trafalgar Square we crept and then, on board the bus, there was an embarrassed intake of breath. What a scene it was which opened up in front of us. For a moment, almost everyone on the two buses went quiet as the sheer, mad spectacle was flung open before us: to our left and right, the hordes were hoarse with their welcome. Tissue time again.

On our victory pageant went and we inched through the throng. In the midst of paper fireworks, Nelson stood on his pillar, like a goalpost, and peered down amongst the tickertape. Wilkinson, just a flick of the eye, furtively looked up at him.

Captain Martin Johnson just roared with laughter. Victory, indeed. Somehow, we had made it in sight of the Christmas tree. Sweet Chariot louder and even louder.

When Ken Livingstone was introduced to the team, his grinning features projected on a large TV screen, the crowd booed and booed. When he tried to speak, they shouted him down.

When the two buses left the square, four huge plumes of smoke and yet more cheers. When they held the trophy aloft, the pavements vibrated from the noise.

Forget Mayor Livingstone, all Burtonsuit muscling in on the action. (Fat chance with Johnson beside him). Forget Tony Blair, pirouetting for his "pass-it-to-me" Downing Street stunt later today.

No, forget that. For 90 or so perambulating minutes, between lunch breaks and late trains and parents lifting offspring on to shoulders, all in full voice, we came to watch these modest conquerors descend on to Trafalgar Square and London.

Two open-topped buses and us openmouthed. Simply bloody marvellous.