Kings of the Parc Des Princes

Scotland completed an unimaginable reinvention against a French side consumed by their own vengeance. Alex McLeish, in his international fatigues, can do no wrong: the masterplan worked in a manner not even he could have envisaged.

Scotland, believe it or not, peer from the top of Group B, with Italy, the World Cup holders, nestled in second place.

Three personnel changes and a tactical switch were vindicated beyond wildest fantasy. McFadden spent the majority of his 75 minutes scavenging off scraps. In one sublime moment of ingenuity, he has given Scotland genuine reason to believe that the decade-long hiatus from a major championship finals could soon be over.

The result, and the richness of the performance, was far superior to the fortuitous 1-0 win at Hampden Park last October. There was nothing freakish about the manner in which Scotland dispirited the losing World Cup finalists.

McFadden's finish was sensational but heroes were to be found in abundance. David Weir, at 37, was majestic beside Stephen McManus. David Trezeguet and Nicolas Anelka were not given a moment's peace.

Graham Alexander belied his humble status as a Burnley player by neutering Florent Malouda and Franck Ribery. Craig Gordon saved Scotland twice and brought reassurance in the final moments.

Paul Hartley was the epitome of understated brilliance in the holding midfield role. Barry Ferguson puffed out his chest when injury claimed Darren Fletcher during the first half and led commandingly. Scott Brown was unplayable. There was simply not a failure to be had.

Scotland went on the march with Alex's army. Around a thousand of the most ardent members of the Tartan Army converged at the Eiffel Tower yesterday, whereupon they sang, danced and drank their way towards the Parc des Princes; their number swelling at every avenue en route.

It made for a stirring preamble and bemused the French corps. Kronenbourg fuelled the Tartan Army's optimism and while the brooding World Cup finalists represented a sobering prospect, Scotland's guts and gallus prevailed in a scintillating spectacle.

History did not augur well for McLeish - Scotland last savoured victory in France 57 years ago when Allan Brown, then of the mighty East Fife, scored the only goal in Colombes - but when has he been bogged down by the insignificances of yesteryear?

France are fearsome enough opposition without a grudge to harbour. Scotland might easily have been gobbled up in this enchantingly lived-in concrete bowl. Instead, they thrived on passion, belief and no shortage of technical endeavour.

So much for segregation. Saltires were draped around all four corners of the stadium and the visitors were the audible superiors in an amphitheatre with thrilling acoustics. Alien pitch markings were still visible but the surface showed none of the scarring from the rugby World Cup that had hacked off Raymond Domenech.

Around 20,000 Scots had crossed the Channel and claimed the stadium as their own, without much resistance from an impassive French posse. Having been reported by UEFA for disrespecting the Lithuanian national anthem at Hampden Park, the Tartan Army made a point of applauding the Marseillaise.

Scotland were disadvantaged before kick-off; forced to wear the hideous away kit with the sky-blue Saltire emblazoned across the chest.

France, inevitably, stroked the ball around with precision and almost telepathic understanding. Scotland defended stoutly and, encouragingly, did so before either Anelka or Trezeguet were engaged.

France's first attempt on goal, from Malouda, was struck from distance and it was the closest they got to Gordon in 45 minutes.

Scotland were comfortable with the anticipated absorption of pressure but the untimely departure of Fletcher was cruel. The Manchester United midfielder was an assured conductor but he could not recover from a clumsy scissors challenge from Patrick Vieira and was replaced by Stephen Pearson. It is a compliment to the Derby County player that the change was seamless.

As frustration grew in the French ranks, Scotland began to play with swagger. Brown relished every opportunity to introduce himself, forcefully, to Eric Abidal. The Barcelona full-back has presumably never encountered a player with the hyperactive excellence of the ubiquitous Celtic player. He was, first whistle to last, utterly compelling and a deserved inheritor of the No.10 jersey.

By the end of a pulsating first half, Alan Hutton had begun to motor, McFadden grew to embrace his chores and Anelka's sullenness and apparent lack of interest deepened.

Presumably chided by Domenech, France re-emerged for the second half with renewed purpose. Scotland had Gordon to thank for preserving parity. Ribery's right-foot shot, after a slick one-two with Trezeguet, cannoned off the imposing goalkeeper and the winger blazed a left-footed rebound over.

Anelka then finally awoke, menacingly at that, when he thumped a Ribery cut-back that had to be swatted away urgently by Gordon.

The game became stretched and despite a vain appeal for a Lassana Diarra handball inside the French penalty area, this fresh injection of urgency was to prove a very good sign.

McFadden's inclusion was inspired. Thirty yards from goal, the Everton striker cocked back his leg and sent a most audacious effort swerving past a shell-shocked Mickael Landreau and into the top right-hand corner of the net. The goalkeeper got a hand to it but could not keep it out.

The value of that goal may prove immeasurable. When the talismanic Vieira made way for youngster Samir Nasri, Scotland sensed for the first time that this might be their moment of glory. Magnifique is only the half of it.