I woke up on Saturday and the usual half-conscious process went through my head. What do I have to do today? What day is it? It’s Saturday. Great. No work. But there’s something else… It’s the World Cup. And… England are playing! Oh no! I sat bolt upright. I was going to a barbecue in the country with a number of good friends to watch the match and then camp in a field. And the idea filled me with dread. It was then that I realised I was sick of the whole ugly charade. It wasn’t just the unattractive way in which the team had conducted their campaign. I’d been positivist about that, I’d always believed they could do better. It was the hysterical national reaction to the efforts of the team that I was worried about. It was the way in which everybody would once again get out their George flags, raise up their hopes, inevitably have them dashed, then indulge in a two-day moan-fest. The England team and its fans were, in effect, in the throes of a messy domestic row, with the press stirring up the rancour. Sure enough the game was a disaster. Beckham’s tears, Rooney’s sending off, Lampard and Gerrard and Carragher’s penalty misses. I’d been looking forward to England playing in the World Cup for months, and suddenly it was over. My friends, inevitably, started on the post-mortem straight away. I steered clear. Because you know what? I was relieved. Tying your heart to the boot strings of your national football team isn’t much fun. Roll on the rest of the Eng-er-land-free summer. Enjoy the week.