His team may be the one many love to hate, but James Helmis relishing their unscripted success.

There is a wonderful symmetry to this great sporting comeback: 36 days on from the 36-0 slaughter comes the rematch. It's as perfect as Percy Montgomery's hair.

Of course, the heroics of an England team pronounced dead in September and now very much alive in October have been warmly applauded back here. Ahem.

Having sadly removed their French berets, many - though certainly not all - Irish rugby followers will now be checking local supplies of biltong and boerewors, stocking up on South African delicacies to help get them in the mood for shouting at the telly tonight.

After all, Ireland's premature departure from this World Cup allowed many to switch allegiances to their second-favourite team: whoever is playing England.

I watched the England-France semi-final with friends in a packed Dublin pub. The craic was mighty. So was the result. Not everyone was exultant, but as we punched the air, no one punched us.

There was friendliness, banter, and handshakes as the cries of "Allez les Bleus!" faded away.

It took me back to the atmosphere around a certain match at Croke Park late in February, which feels like a sporting lifetime ago. Match over, occasion enjoyed.

At the bar after last Saturday's epic, a familiar worry emerged: "I couldn't bear it if they won again," gasped a man beside me. "Imagine what Sky News would be like - an open-top bus round Trafalgar Square again!"

I've heard this before, and my reply consists of two words, though not the ones you might imagine: remote control. Switch over, watch something else.

Oh, and would an Irish World Cup victory really have been celebrated with a quiet night at home and a calm pat on the back for the players? For the answer, I'd better check the texts I received in the dizzy days after the Croke Park game.

At the final whistle of the Australia-England quarter-final, I found myself leaping about alone in a hotel bar in Dublin, having sneaked out of a christening lunch in the next room. A member of staff rushed up. "Australia won then?" he beamed.

On BBC Radio 5 Live last Saturday, previewing the England-France clash, presenter John Inverdale asked a few drinkers in a Parisian pub who they'd be cheering for. One, a Kiwi, answered charmingly.

"I don't want the effing Poms," he said. Or something approaching that.

I spoke to Inverdale as he headed back to London on a crowded Eurostar train. The other passengers in his carriages were New Zealanders and Australians, strangely becalmed, fans who had found themselves with tickets for an England-France game.

As for the comment, he said: "There's still an element of that sentiment about, largely because England are not playing the most attractive rugby. There is an underlying tone of disbelief from the Aussies and the Kiwis."

Good to hear, then, that at least the Wallabies team reduced their carbon footprint by getting dropped off by the All Blacks on their way home. Or was that one of the texts doing the rounds?

The night before, Inverdale had dinner in Paris with former Irish, Scots and Welsh internationals, who told him England had dragged the other teams down to their level.

On one Irish radio station I'm sure I heard a contributor demand that rugby's authorities look again at how "a team as bad as England" could reach the World Cup final. Come again?

Then it dawned on me: the rules should be changed so the final match score is, in fact, irrelevant. Instead, the teams should be rated on "artistic impression". Ice skating meets rugby union, if you like.

England, it seems, can't win. Except that they can, and, like it or not, in the last couple of weeks, they actually have won.

Frank O'Driscoll, Dublin GP, stalwart of Irish rugby, and father of a certain Brian, rejects the begrudgery.

"The style of rugby they (England) are playing may not be the greatest. But if Ireland could play 10-man rugby and win the World Cup, I would be the first there to cheer them on. If that's what it takes to win, then fair dues to them."

That day back in February, when Frank and his wife, Geraldine, welcomed Jonny Wilkinson's parents to a pre-match gathering at their home, I was lucky enough to go to the game.

The atmosphere inside Croke Park was electric, the anthems were respected, and England were thumped. It felt like a moment in time. My lot lost, but I was glad to have witnessed it.

For me, one of the many things that makes sport so worthwhile, so compelling, is that it defies logic. England's progress through France over the past few weeks has been faltering, to say the least, and illogical too. As the Guardian delicately put it after the demolition by South Africa on September 14th, "Root-canal surgery without the anaesthetic would have been marginally less painful for England's supporters."

After looking pretty toothless themselves, the team have somehow bitten back.

Watching it all unfold from a selection of Dublin watering holes, through English rose-tinted spectacles, has been hugely enjoyable.

This has been a sporting comeback to match them all. It brings to mind Lasse Viren's recovery from a fall to win the Olympic 10,000 metres gold in 1972. Or, much more recently, the incredible revival of Scotland's soccer team (until Georgia intervened this week).

One thing that even the begrudgers here seem to relent over is that Wilkinson is some guy. Comebacks, after all, are no big deal to a player who could so easily have given up and retired. You can argue over whether he's the player he once was (and who would be after so many serious injuries?) but, as one Irish friend put it this week, "He is a true superstar."

From zeroes to heroes in a few weeks, England's squad now resembles a bunch of 30 mates having a great time on holiday.

When it comes to motivation, the "effing Poms" stuff must help a bit. John O'Neill, Australia's rugby union boss, talked of hating England, which must have helped more than a bit.

As for the final, well, I can't see England beating a team that has already steamrollered them three times this year. After this World Cup though, who knows?

Having failed to scrounge a ticket, I'll be watching with mates in Dublin. Even if the sweet chariot is about to end its journey, viewing England's unlikely progress from here has been a lot of fun.

James Helm was BBC Dublin correspondent from 2002 to 2007. He now runs a media consultancy.