Tick, tock, tick, tock, toepoke

To me, at least, it’s all quite simple.

For the vast majority of us sane and well-adjusted global citizens, the next month will swell, contort and, finally, explode with among the most fascinating and thrilling days we've ever known.

For 24 years – since almost this exact moment before Spain ’82; that endless day and night immediately preceding the first match and four weeks of unadulterated joy stretching out long into the summer; the moment when my dad came home from work, woke me and gave me my first ball and scarf – I have been utterly besotted with the game of football and have learned, quite rightly, to savour weeks such as those that lie ahead.

I try to be a reasonable sort, but I cannot abide the endless whingeing of the non-footballing fraternity.

People will bleat about too much football on telly – while you and I both know that, while there is anything else on, there’s clearly room for more.

Frankly, I’m still disgusted our networks don’t televise each and every training session – a hangover from a time in the ‘80s when, so complete was my adoration of Kenny Dalglish, Dragan Stojković, then Marco Van Basten, that I was absolutely appalled by the notion that I could conceivably miss some never-to-be-repeated stroke of genius or sublime piece of skill, trotted out between the traffic cones for the benefit of no-one.

I, for one, am ill-prepared to put up with this shrill racket from arrant philistines who don't know fun when they see it.

This, finally, delivers me to my point. I don’t really like blogs, but – since my mate got a new job and left me surrounded by girls with a frankly unhealthy dislike for football for the best part of 12 hours every day – I fear I may do myself an injury if I’m not able to air my petty and ill-informed views somewhere. Here.

Right, so that’s us, then. Last one to spot a Mexican called El Loco is in goal.