We're now into the final furlong of the World Cup and I can confidently claim to be on first-name terms with every player involved. This has not been easy. Prolonged hours of viewing have been required to attain my new-found familiarity.
It is reasonable to presume that, come tomorrow, I will know what every player had for breakfast.
Much forward planning was necessary to achieve this knowledge. New house rules were drawn up under the threat of death. Half-an-hour before each game children were banished, visitors absolutely forbidden, all phone calls barred and food and drink was to be pushed under the door. With three games each day to watch initially, total concentration and stamina were essential. This was going to be a marathon in spades.
Of course there would be problems. A constant dilemma concerned which station to watch. Viewing the actual game did not present a difficult choice - it was the pre- and post-match discussions by the so-called experts which caused the torment. Occasionally the collective views of one station differed so much from another that I wondered if they had been watching the same game, especially when England played. The boys from the Beeb and ITV were always happier than our own darlings on RTÉ who seemed to be having a bad day every day. Little excited, them with the glorious exception of Argentina at first, but they were lukewarm by the time Argentina was sent packing. Loosen up lads: it will be another four years before we see the likes again.
Having officiated at a number of under-10 boys' matches in our local park, I can categorically state that the standard of the refereeing has been abysmal. If a player bumps into another or picks his nose, the whistle goes. In one game there were 39 fouls in the first half alone (I'm razor sharp on stats). That's almost a free every minute (I'm equally good at the maths). One pundit thought the referees were appointed for geographical or political reasons. Perhaps he has a point, for some of them seemed all at sea with soccer.
I drew Togo in our office sweep. At first I thought this was a joke as I was certain no such team had qualified. I even had trouble finding Togo in the Atlas - though, even in these times, Togoans must have trouble finding Ireland. I was sure I was the only Irish soccer fan rooting for Togo until I saw a café proprietor offering the underdogs some support with signs reading "Coffee Togo".
As we have come to expect from the Germans, the tournament was run with clockwork precision. The pitches were manicured and everything was exactly as it should be, though I did once notice a paper bag blowing across the pitch and it took a full seven seconds before it was retrieved. Tut tut. Each game had it own set of footballs (about 50 per game it seems) with, believe it or not, the names of the two teams and the day's date stitched into every ball. There was even a young girl assigned to carry the toss-up coin and hand it to the referee. There also appeared to be at least 50 TV cameras at each game, one to follow every player and one permanently fixed on the manager. And they miss nothing - the cameras, that is, not the managers. Poor Master Rooney's fit of temper when he and his metatarsal were ignominiously sent ashore was a delightful distraction from England's pedestrian performance.
We are now at the business end of the tournament. It's a pity we had four European teams in the semi-finals - my favourites, Brazil, have sadly departed and I miss their saucy Samba supporters, especially the women, who always seemed so happy, beautiful and somewhat short of clothes. (Reminder to self: get a holiday brochure for Ipenema and the Copa Cabana soonest.)
Ireland's absence from the tournament has deprived viewers of a chance to hear the world's outstanding massed choir. In our former glory days their stirring rendition of Olé Olé was especially beautiful, while their encore of The Fields of Athenry could melt a stone. England supporters try valiantly with their own version of God Save the Team but their singing has more booze than brio about it. Pride of place for national singing undoubtedly goes to the South Koreans for their 90-minute, non-stop, stirring rendition of the Ode to Joy from Beethoven's Ninth. They brought a touch of class to the tournament.
It was also sad to see Spain sent home if only for the sake of poor old Nostradamus who, according to the Spanish newspaper 20 Minutos, had predicted that "in the sixth month of 2006 the King of Spain will cross the Pyrenees with his troops. The legions of Beelzebub will battle him in central Europe and suffer doom and destruction. The Holy Grail will then come to Spain." So much for prophecy.
After tomorrow it will be time to remove the "Do not disturb" sign from the door, pull back the curtains to welcome the daylight, fumigate the room and visit my doctor regarding severe withdrawal symptoms. Four long, Samba-less years to the next World Cup.