SIDELINE CUT:To win a World Cup in a state of unhappiness is a trick that only the French would dare to try, writes KEITH DUGGAN

ONLY THE French. What other nation could produce a team capable of making it all the way to a World Cup final under a hailstorm of mockery, unhappiness and general scorn emanating from their own country? “The French will only be united under the threat of danger,” old Charles de Gaulle said. “Nobody can simply bring together a country that has 265 kinds of cheese.”

The General was being self-deprecating, of course, but he was craftily making the point that when it comes to producing cheese, the French do it with more sophistication and imagination than all other nations – just as they do wine, fashion, literature, architecture and just about everything else – including sporting sulks.

Isn’t a small part of you secretly hoping that Marc Lièvremont and his band of disgruntled Frenchmen – the “spoilt brats” – go to town in Auckland tomorrow? It is hard not to have a sneaking admiration for a man who can take time to cultivate the most extravagant moustache (since Salvador Dali grew one for fun) in the midst of a World Cup tournament in which his French squad have been the most dysfunctional family going since the Osbournes were big on MTV.

It is sometimes forgotten Lièvremont inherited the French team from Bernard Laporte, whose bespectacled intensity sometimes made him appear as he were caught up in a private scientific experiment rather than coaching the national rugby team. Laporte had his inconsistencies and flights of fancy but, in comparison to Lièvremont, his time in charge is beginning to look bland and safe.

When Lièvremont took charge before the 2008 Six Nations campaign, he advertised his singular viewpoint by omitting decorated servants like Serge Betsen, Fabien Pelous, and Christophe Dominici from his squad. He picked six uncapped players for his first match, including Morgan Parra – an unmistakable sign that he had his ambitions fixed on this World Cup in New Zealand.

Through the highs and lows since, the French public and outside observers have given up trying to establish any pattern from Lièvremont’s play-book or team selection. The critiques of his behaviour during this World Cup have all but suggested the big man is an out-and-out eccentric. His response has been to fashion a ’tache that he might have borrowed from a Scott Fitzgerald novel and to look increasingly preoccupied by the world as his hapless team progressed despite itself.

It is generally recognised that rugby union “needs” New Zealand. The country has the passion for the game, it has an iconic brand in the All Blacks, it has the heritage and it consistently produces players who are either excellent or close to genius. (Although it has to be said, they are rarely a barrel of laughs).

Without a perennially strong New Zealand team, the global rugby balance would be lost. But in Europe, France is the country that rugby revolves around. England may have the tradition and the wintry charm of Twickenham and the Welsh may have the shimmering seventies to look back upon, the vintage years when the mines were busy and the valleys were singing and, in the Cardiff Arms, they played the game like no one else.

But the French had the ability to every so often turn up and to play the game in a way that seemed to float slightly above the normal rules and conventions – just as they did against New Zealand in that 1999 World Cup game.

If the South Africans were all about mental strength and power and the Australians about athleticism and wit and the All Blacks were forever finding a new methodology through which to perfect the game, then the French and only the French seemed capable of making it up as they went along.

During this World Cup, there has been none of that off-the-cuff inventiveness. Instead, France have looked laborious and dispirited and like a team waiting to be beaten. Through a bizarre run of circumstance and luck, they have remained in the knock-out stages.

At times, watching France has been like watching a drunk man stumble across a six -lane motorway oblivious to the juggernauts whizzing past him. They have been blessed. Lièvremont’s attitude through all of this has been fascinating. He is not trying to bluff his way through or make feeble defences about the form of his team. Sometimes, he has been their fiercest critic.

Now that France have made it to the final, he seems to have accepted it as one of those quirks of fate that sometimes happens.

Just how deep-rooted the mutiny in the French squad has become is something that will emerge after this World Cup is over. There are reports that Philippe Saint-Andre is poised to take the team. Lièvremont’s unhappiness with his players’ decision to go out and celebrate their unconvincing semi-final win over Wales prompted his “spoilt brats” comments and his subsequent admission that when he read his comments, they might have seemed somewhat harsh.

There is a certain element of madness involved in coaching any team.

Coaches have to be ruthless, inspirational, understanding and all of the usual guff. They have to prepare teams. They have to be lucky.

They have to be mentally tough. But most importantly, they have to delude themselves that they can somehow control what happens during the games on which their reputations and lives depend. They can strategise and make substitutions but so much of any game is down to the break of the ball.

In this tournament, life in general may be against Lièvremont but the capricious breaks of the ball have been on his side.

Lièvremont may not have the most consistent record in international sport but he has had his good days with France as well. Maybe he was trying too hard. Maybe he is dealing with an impossibly moody group of rugby players. Maybe the French are just never happy. But for whatever reason, it hasn’t worked out as he would have wished and the last few weeks have illustrated that there is no lonelier place to be in sport than that of a coach who is believed to have lost the faith of his team.

But the fascinating thing is Lièvremont is still the French coach for one more game and that game happens to be the World Cup final. The record books will show he took his team to the final. Who knows that he won’t give the speech of his life in that dressing room tomorrow morning?

After all, it is France against the world in this match. It stands against all reason and logic – and fairness – that a team which has looked so abject and bereft of interest for much of this tournament should be the one left to meet the hosts on their seemingly unstoppable quest to win the Webb Ellis trophy for the first time since 1987. France have lost two World Cup finals and New Zealand only now make it back to the big stage since David Kirk lifted the inaugural trophy.

In an odd way, this final is between the two great chokers of the tournament.

All form points to a convincing New Zealand victory and the curtains can come down on a perfect month of rugby for the hosts. But there is that glimmer of doubt that always comes into the mind when La Marseillaise sounds in rugby stadiums.

There has to be some part of all of New Zealand that looks at Lievremont, the man with nothing to lose, and fears that he may just have a dastardly and wonderful last say on the highest stage. To win a World Cup in a state of unhappiness is a trick that only the French would dare to try.