Sideline Cut:England just cannot bear to let go of David Beckham. It was inevitable that Blighty's celebrity-in-chief should star in the victory over Estonia that keeps the country's European championship ambitions on course and prolongs the blundering reign of Steve McClaren, writes  Keith Duggan.

Annexing Beckham from his first ever squad was a declaration of independence by McClaren to the effect that he was his own man and that Beckham belonged to the era of Sven Goran Eriksson, the last man who failed to return England to glory. Fleet Street came down vengefully on the Swede after his departure, lampooning his bloodless Nordic cool, the reptilian stare and inscrutable smile and pillorying his almost creepy loyalty to Beckham.

It did not matter that under his guidance, England qualified regularly for the major tournaments and exited at the last eight stage, a just enough reflection of their standing in the world game. Rightly or wrongly, England's critics believed that the Swede had been placed in charge of a truly rare generation of home-grown players, capable of taking on the cream of European and South American talent and of emulating the greying heroes of 1966.

It was widely assumed that despair at the haplessness of the Eriksson regime had driven Paul Scholes into early retirement, the better to concentrate on dedicating himself to winning trophies with Manchester United. And it was easy to lay the blame for the decline of Wayne Rooney's performances for England - from his first irresistible dalliance when he threatened to take over the European championships in Portugal four years ago to the petulant figure that would snarl in disgust at Beckham during the ignominious defeat to Northern Ireland two winters on.

Eriksson spoke of a diamond formation which baffled and amused the Match of the Day old boys, he suffered the English rites of passage humiliation of a News of the World stitch up, chatting earnestly to a fake Sheikh about his plans, he worked on his reputation as a ladies man and he smiled a lot.

He lacked the streetwise conviction of Terry Venables, the single-mindedness and menace of Alex Ferguson, the manic energy of Martin O'Neill or the lofty brilliance of Arsene Wenger - he lacked the attributes to which the kingmakers of the English game could relate to. The English felt that Eriksson stood for nothing other than feeding the vanities of David Beckham.

When McClaren dropped Beckham from his plans, the epitaphs appeared on his England career. Out of favour at Real Madrid, his decision to sign for the Los Angeles Galaxy was regarded by many as an apt last act to a career founded more on image than substance.

Real appointed a new broom in Fabio Capello and the no-nonsense Italian publicly vowed that, as far as he was concerned, Beckham could founder in the reserves. That was the final denunciation, a bona fide football man with no time for the tomfoolery of modern celebrity, denouncing England's most famous football player as not even worthy of his consideration.

Indirectly, it seemed like a validation of Ferguson's decision to get rid of Beckham at the very point when his fame and his football ability had become inversely related. Beckham's England career had ended in tears of disappointment in Germany, a vitriolic backlash from the tabloids and now, in a weird retrospective tint of Georgie Best, he was destined to play out his career in the irrelevancy and sunshine of America. Only his intuitive knack for spotting a business deal, his consistent talent for selling himself as an icon, kept Beckham in the news.

And yet again, he has proven people wrong.

A few months after using Beckham to establish himself as the man who would smash Real's obsession with the superstar names, Capello was forced to renege on his Beckham vow through a combination of injuries and the Englishman's stubbornly committed shows on the training field.

Beckham scored a goal on his return, arguably saving Capello's job.

And, since then, Beckham has featured on what looks like being be a successful league season for Madrid. With that run of form, the beleaguered McClaren, who has inherited Sven's policy of smiling through the worst of times, has been forced to look again to the discarded fashion icon. All sports people are burdened with easily bruised egos and it would have been easy for Beckham to gloat a little upon his return to the England squad.

Instead, he showed up pleasant as ever, vowed to do his best for queen and country and, given inexplicable time and space by the possibly star-struck Estonian midfield, proceeded to sweep his specialised crosses so England's parched strikers could go to town.

It was enough to suggest that Beckham might have another couple of years wearing the Three Lions on his chest. For the Fleet Street headline writers, his return was greeted like the end of prohibition. Steven Gerrard may have scored the goals that saved McClaren's bacon in the last few matches, but the Scouser will never sell as many papers as Beckham. The return means that McClaren may be forced to engage in far flung scouting expeditions in America. And it means that Beckham can hold court on both sides of the Atlantic.

There is something undeniably absurd about the remorseless manner in which Beckham and his wife Posh continue to scale the celebrity Everest, as though they are terrified they will cease to exist if the cameras ever stop flashing in their direction. The Beckhams' desire to eat dinner in swanky restaurants with Tom Cruise or Paris Hilton - unless they electrocute her first - or Steven Spielberg is unquestionably bizarre. And the strain of England football fans old enough to remember the stuff of Bobby Moore and Nobby Stiles groan aloud at the pointlessness of it all. The expectation is that Beckham will get a knighthood sooner or later, making the headlines even juicier.

The thing is, though, underneath the pouting camera face and the pleasant demeanour lurks a tough old Tommy. It is almost 10 years since they burnt effigies of Beckham in Blighty for the sin of getting sent off against Argentina. He came bounding back from that setback, he endured taunts and spits and he has had countless people question his intelligence in print and on television.

Along with old Posh, he plays the terrifying game of paparazzi life with adroitness, ringing the cash cow for all it is worth. And he remains, it would seem, indispensable to Blighty's ailing football factory.

The English love him, despite themselves. Beckham is England's sun king. God knows how and when it is going to end. But it is just more fun when he is around.