I really don't understand it, eleven grown men kicking about a bag of wind. That used to be a pig once, now it is some kid's toy that they never outgrew. And they get paid too much. One hundred thousand pounds a week! I barely get that in five years and I work more hours than them. They swan in for a couple of hours at the weekend, waste time playing a stupid game and are now somehow national heroes. What about those guys in the army or the police or firefighters? Don't those guys deserve even fifty thousand a week? And they don't act like spoilt brats, kids who can pick and choose what they want to do and when. You all know that annoying kid at school who has it all because Daddy is rich. That's them that is, that's footballers.

What about the endless discussion, it was bad enough on a Saturday afternoon. Every TV and radio channel blathering on about football. Now we get the World Cup, a whole month of rubbish taking over our screens. Not that they haven't been going on about it for months anyway. Should he play? Will he be injured? Who will win? Who even cares? Well for one I don't.

I bet my twitter and Facebook feeds will be full of rubbish about this waste of time competition. It doesn't seem like you can get away from it anywhere. Even walking down the street there are flags draped from windows, signs telling you which games pubs will show and unfit people wearing shirts a size too small.

But hey, I'll just grin and bare it. "Did you see the match last night?" they will ask.

"Missed it, I was busy," I will say to them.

"You should have seen it,” they will reply.

I will want to reply, "no I shouldn't," I will want to shout and scream in their face. Instead I will just listen to them tell me about this spectacular goal or that bad decision or another horrendous tackle. It's enough to make you sick!