Four long, barren, empty, World Cup finals-less years are about to come to a glorious end, but some people just don't understand. A simple, " 'Bye everyone, see you all on July 13th," and all hell breaks loose.

"What do you mean, `See you on July 13th'?"

"That's the day after the World Cup ends."

"But your brother, Seamus Edson Arantes do Nascimento, is getting married on June 12th."

"Oh. What time?"

"2.0."

"2.0! Sorry, can't make it."

"What!"

"Clashes with Paraguay v Bulgaria. He probably won't turn up either."

"And what about your beloved coochie-coo nephew's christening?"

"You mean Eric Ole Gunnar Keano Giggsie?"

"Yes."

"When's that?"

"June 15th."

"Time?"

"1.30."

"What, you expect me to miss England v Tunisia? Huh. There'll be other christenings, there'll never be another 1998 World Cup, first round clash between England and Tunisia. Be reason able."

Then she says Granny's 100th birthday party is on the afternoon of June 23rd (just when Italy kick-off against Austria), and there's that court appearance in London (for sending obscene letters to Arsene Wenger) on June 26th (Argentina v Croatia and Japan v Jamaica). She really doesn't understand. If you miss even one World Cup game you lose your rhythm, and, while technically, you might still be in good shape, you're no longer match fit.

"There aren't any matches in the mornings, are there," she asks. Well no, there aren't, but that's limbering up time. Any PE teacher worth their salt will tell you that if you don't warm up properly before the action commences you could do yourself irreparable damage. So if, for example, on the morning of June 24th, you don't warm up in front of the telly, then the thumb on your right hand could seize up later in the day as you try to press the buttons on your remote control to switch between South Africa v Saudi Arabia (Eurosport, 3.0) and France v Denmark (RTE and BBC, 3.0). That's when you're in real trouble, because, by then, the thumb on your right hand is the only part of you that will still work.

Any self-respecting football fan will refuse to abandon their post in front of the telly before July 13th, even if it means losing their job/marriage/failing their Leaving. "Life and death aren't a matter of football, they're 110 per cent less important than that," as the former Keadue Rovers' manager, Bill Sharkey, once put it.

So, set yourself up with a drip over your armchair that will feed you Slimfast, or any other low fat liquidy food (it's best to avoid kebabs), at regular intervals over the five weeks, and stock up in high-energy drinks so you can join in in all those Mexican Waves during the boring games.

First, place your bets, so that you have an emotional involvement in the competition. I've narrowed my picks down to Argentina, Brazil, Germany, Holland, Italy and Spain, with Chile, Croatia, Denmark, Colombia, England and France my dark horses. And I haven't yet ruled out Belgium, Bulgaria, Nigeria, Norway, Romania and Yugoslavia - who knows what they might do, if everything goes right on the day, Brian.

Paraguay might surprise a few people too. And Mexico. Maybe even Scotland and Austria. Then there's the USA and their funny 36-1 formation - that should baffle a few opponents. And what if Cameroon recapture their 1990 form? And Saudi Arabia were a bit useful in 1994. Remember the goal yer man Owairan scored? Yep, I've narrowed it down to 25, and somewhere in there I reckon I've picked the winner. (Hang on, what about Jamaica, Japan, Iran, South Africa, Tunisia, South Korea and Morocco . . . no, I've made my choices, I'll stick with them).

Granted, we were all gutted when the Republic failed to qualify, but at least the next five weeks will be relatively stress free, not least because Bill O'Herlihy might not feel the need to wear that shocking green jacket that always made him look like a Masters' winner.

Out of loyalty to our Celtic cousins we should all be rooting for Scotland today when they take on Brazil. And praying for Jim Leighton when Roberto Carlos steps up to take one of those curly-wurly free-kicks. And Colin Hendry when Ronaldo comes charging at him. And John Collins when Dunga takes him on in a 5050 challenge. Uh oh. All together now: "O flower of Scotland, when will we see your like again, that fought and died at Le Stade de France, and stood against him, Ronaldo's army, and got sent homeward, before the postcards."

(In years to come Eric Ole Gunnar Keano Giggsie will understand why only his Granny was at his christening. You have to get your priorities right in life. World Cup '98 - let battle commence).