It won’t surprise those who know me when I say that I hate football. This isn’t something new, I’ve always felt this way. To clarify a little, it’s not the actual game that I detest, more all the fuss and hype that surrounds it. Is it really that important who wins? Will your life never be the same again? Even at my most sports-fanatical I’d never claim that Valentino Rossi crashing out of a race could force me to take to my bed and spend the rest of the weekend wallowing in misery, so why do so many football fans behave as if their sport matters so much?

Anyway, the point of this ramble is that despite my loathing of the national sport and the consequent dreading of the World Cup that was my initial reaction, a thought has occurred to me. While the England matches are on, especially if the team make it through to the later stages of the competition, the streets will be blessedly, delightfully empty. I shall be able to amble around London without having to keep stopping or changing direction suddenly. I shall be able to get a seat on the Tube. As long as I’m safely off the streets by chucking out time I’ll be able to pretend that some sort of ghastly, Survivors-like plague has struck and I’m one of the lucky few who’s still around.

So, unlike my behaviour in previous years, I shall be cheering the home side on (mentally, at least) with as much gusto as the most excitable enthusiast can manage. And if they make the final I shall be utterly delighted.