Literally Hours To Go Til Kick Off. Hours.

The flags of the Saint who was christened George flutter atop each corner of the off-white van's roof. And the small hatchback's passenger window. Chancers cash in by putting hastily drawn red crosses on white t-shirts in the hope to make a sale.

The fans of 32 nations await in eager anticipation. Is it our turn? Will we lift the cup for the first time, or the first time in ages (or the first time since the last time if you're Italian).

There's a buzz in the pubs. Invites to barbecues are accepted. Or rejected, as sorry, I'm busy - going to another barbecue, don't you know. How the cows will suffer this footballing summer. How those 'strange ones' who don't follow the game in any capacity will take pride when they show disinterest and answer 'what game?' when asked 'did you see the game?'

How the footballing part-timers will become experts for a month, getting sucked in and pulled along by the fervour. How the pubs and supermarkets will stock up on their supplies, especially when the home nation's in action.

Workers will be drawn away from their tasks at twelve thirty and three pm each day as a group stage game kicks off. New Zealand v Slovakia can't be missed. South Korea v Greece could be a classic.

Welcome back World Cup. How eagerly we await your drama, your tension, the agony you will put us through, the fleeting joy you may bring.