CLINICAL, comprehensive and classy. Sale are the Champions of England by the length of one of Charlie Hodgson's towering goal kicks.

Everyone connected with English rugby be they player, administrator or fan should today offer thanks to Brian Kennedy's vision, Philippe Saint-Andre's coaching and the mental strength of the Tiger-eating Sharks.

Morally of course this is a game that should never have been played.

Having been hit hardest by international call-ups yet headed the Guinness Premiership from the starting pistol, Sale's gruelling eight months of magnificence and their domination of the opposition by a minimum of six points had already made them the best beyond any argument.

Justice was done at Twickenham and what's more was seen to be done.

No one who watched the swatting of title holders London Wasps in the semi-final and then this humiliation of the once mighty Leicester could argue that the crown belonged anywhere but the Greater Manchester side's trophy cabinet.

Deserved

They were devastating in the semi and even better in the decider. A first major trophy could never have been more deserved.

Unlike some champions to have gone before them, they are a friendly, inclusive lot at Edgeley Park and everyone from Carlisle to Cornwall should be celebrating their arrival at the head of rugby's top table.

The image of the 15-man game being a clique-ridden southern monopoly has surely been blown away forever by Kennedy's é14m investment and the Sharks' brilliance.

Back in the dark days when Union circles regarded aftershave as a thirst-quenching aperitif and not something to accompany the Armani when greeting the corporate big cheeses, the north was struggling manfully for its rugby identity up against the well-heeled southern battalions.

There was without doubt a patronising attitude to those clubs located on the chillier side of Birmingham. Should any of the far-flung outposts reach a Cup final it was nearly always passed off as `a nice day out for those oop north'.

It would of course always be assumed that the flat-capped hordes having piled into their rusting, smoke-churning charabancs and put their whippets in kennels for the weekend, would return to their cobbled thoroughfares and gas street lamps empty-handed save for the empties they would return to the off-licence.

Not anymore. This wonderful, eye-opening 80-minute dismantling of one of Union's aristocracy has changed the face of the game.

Rugby Union's followers should be rejoicing at Sale's victory that provided further evidence, if it was needed, that talent, ambition and hard work can thrive in the severe climate of the football daft north-west.

They should also be grateful that as No1 seeds in the flawed play-off system that rewards teams who can peak for two afternoons in a season rather than 22 exhausting 80 minutes week-in week-out, Sale made Twickenham their own.

Having performed one near marvel, Kennedy and his club will now seek to pull off another by burrowing further into the mindset of the footballing legions that still hold sway in Manchester and its environs.

Refreshing

The uplifting sight of inflated Sharks and deflated Leicester egos is a decent start and this total triumph can only help Sale grow further and their roots reach deeper into the sporting conscience of our city.

That is no easy thing to achieve but certainly the experience of watching Union is a refreshing change from omnipresent football and that is mainly down to the paying customers.

There is still a wonderful contrast between the ultra-professional approach and preparation of rugby's players and the local fete atmosphere, free of prejudiced bile and animosity, created by the supporters.

The world has its global village; rugby union has its Guinness village, a meeting ground at the Premiership final for fans bearing the shirts not only of both protagonists but also of clubs from throughout the world.

While soccer laments the effects of alcohol on its patrons, a drop of the `black stuff' - or other tipples - is actually encouraged at Twickers where sellers pump it from transportable barrels on their backs. It is felt it not only boosts profits but also oils the wheels of conviviality.

On the terraces Union is still charmingly amateur - in the best sense of the word.

Pre-match picnics and barbeques are still the order of the day in the car parks; the opposition are clapped, admired and even lauded not spat at ceaselessly with a stream of meaningless, insulting and unpleasant invective.

Entertainment

If it's family entertainment you want then rugby is the place to be as more and more sponsors are coming to realise. Sale took 20,000 to Twickers on Saturday and the great thing was that the vast majority of them knew their lineout from line dancing.

They were even allowed the opportunity - for é3 extra - to listen by miniature radio to the referee throughout the game. Can anyone seriously imagine that in football? The swear box for one Premier League match would have to be the size of the new Wembley.

Rugby as a whole should hope victories like this epic one for Sale are repeated on a regular basis because it cannot help but broaden the game's appeal to kids at one end of the spectrum and to millionaires at the other.

Most Sale fans travelled to Twickenham in hope as much as expectation but all with the names of `Let's Go (it should be don't go)' Hodgson and Sebastien Chabal on their lips.

Hodgson stole the headlines in terms of points scored but both he and the chateau-sized Frenchman were outshone by one of the smallest men on the pitch Blackpool's less than towering Richard Wigglesworth - all 5' 9" of him.

Wigglesworth, wiggled, kicked and passed his way into the forefront of the thoughts of the England selectors with a masterful performance at No9 that was applauded loudly by the backs who couldn't have been better fed in the conditions had Gordon Ramsey been at the base of the scrum.

By comparison England's more established star Andy Goode looked more like Tom (or even Barbara) on occasions as he spilled the ball willy-nilly, kicked erratically and was caught in possession too many times. For Leicester on this occasion it was a case of the grate and the Goode!

An ebullient Sale owner Kennedy sat next to his coach through most of this flattening of Leicester and he joined the lap on honour too. No one should bet against a repeat in 12 months time. Rugby's old rulers are dead - long live the new Kings!

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