My quadrennial pledge to watch every single match, no matter how shit the game in question, lasted as far as Day Three, when a fairly significant hangover (the downside of diligent abstinence: I never used to get hangovers when I drank every night) dissuaded me from jumping out of bed to savour the delights of Algeria versus Slovenia, with the result that I missed almost all of the first-half. I'd missed nothing, by all accounts, and it probably wouldn't have ruined my summer unduly if I'd given the second-half a skip. The game was staggeringly dull, by any measure. But I still couldn't take my eyes off it. By the time I reached the day's third espresso, with Ghana and Serbia testing one another out in a slow-burning but thoroughly intriguing battle, the world once again seemed a truly wonderful place. And remained that way until I flicked the channels and reeled at the sight of 'WEX 0-10 DUB 0-3'festering like a cancer atop the screen, shattering my equilibrium somewhat. But even that one turned out OK in the end. Which is a whole other story. Back to the World Cup.
At the time of writing, I've seen six-and-a-half of the seven games, and the overall impression is a positive one. The atmosphere is enchanting: I personally don't mind the vuvuzelas at all, though I'm aware that their deafening din is driving everyone else slowly mad. The incessant drone reminds you there's a war on, and acts as a valuable safeguard against torpor. The football's been OK; and indeed it's been spectacularly good in the case of Germany, Argentina, Holland and (for long stretches) Mexico. The ball itself is a bit of a joke: preposterously light and insubstantial, it has been flying through the air at a ridiculous speed, with 80% of goalies'kick-outs landing deep into enemy territory, back-passes being inadvertently over-hit to potentially catastrophic effect, speculative pot-shots at goal veering off in the general direction of the corner flag, and of course, goalkeepers encountering no end of grief. Obviously it's theoretically the same for all 32 teams, but the thing's volatility might serve to randomise the outcome somewhat and make shock results more, rather than less, likely.
Rob Green's moment of madness for England (arriving about an hour after I'd described him as their least unsafe pair of hands in a heated office debate about the merits of England's three keepers) continued the Three Lions'tradition of unimpressive World Cup starts, and ensured that the nastier Fleet Street tabloids have plenty of venom to spew for the next few days at least. Normal service will surely resume against Algeria and Slovenia - has there ever been an easier group in the tournament's entire history? - and the apocalyptic rush to judgement is surely a tad premature. It wasn't England's finest hour, but nor were they hideously awful. They looked one-dimensional, for sure, with occasional echoes of Watford circa 1983, and they do themselves no favours by playing Luther Blissett's spiritual heir (the lumbering Emile Heskey) in preference to Peter Crouch, whose deceptively Lurch-like dimensions belie a formidable versatility and deftness of touch. If I were England manager, I would in fact overlook both of them and let loose the predatory appetite of Jermaine Defoe, who has eyes for only one thing. Greed and selfishness are priceless assets in a striker, whose primary function should be to rattle the back of the net as often as possible, and to hell with this nebulous nonsense about Heskey's oft-exaggerated virtues in 'bringing other players into the game'(he certainly does, but so can Crouch, and the wider point is that midfielders as good as Gerrard and Lampard shouldn't need a big target-man to 'bring them into the game'.)
Mad Diego and his Argentine troops looked extremely potent in their opening game: the man himself cut a relatively restrained figure on the sideline, though it would be stretching a point to say he exudes serenity, and the bats in his belfry will surely start flapping in earnest before the month is out. They still strike me as the sort of team who will sail through the group, banging in anything up to a dozen goals, and then crash and burn against the first major heavyweight they come up against. I will revise my forecast of two weeks ago and endorse the delightfully direct South Koreans to accompany the Argies through at the expense of Nigeria, who looked pretty underwhelming. The Greeks were a tragedy. France's group is anyone's for the taking, but I thought the tricky Mexicans sprayed it around brilliantly for long stretches against the exuberant hosts, showed plenty of nerve in retrieving the situation when time was running out, and may well go a very long way as the month unfolds.
Germany were blood-curdling. True, they were assisted no end by an unbelievably awful tour de force of staggering defensive incompetence from the Aussies, who were hugely flattered by the eventual 4-0 scoreline. But good God, they were merciless. The 'ruthlessness', 'efficiency'and 'clinical precision'of time-honoured stereotype was certainly evident, but they were also genuinely a joy to watch: inventive, exhilarating, spontaneous and all manner of quintessentially un-German qualities, orchestrated by a half-Turk (the mesmerising Ozil) and spearheaded up front by a pair of half-Poles. The world may yet learn to love them. As for Holland, I've kept one eye on them for the last hour-and-a-half while cranking out this column, and they couldn't have been much more impressive, running the by no means insubstantial Danes ragged, displaying a breathtaking appreciation of geometry and space. They'll surely crack the last eight, but one suspects that as with Arsenal, there may not be a Plan B when the going gets tough, as it most certainly will.
Foul Play's money, meanwhile, is still on the Brazilians, who I haven't seen yet. They seem to have pretty much everything in their favour, apart from Foul Play's endorsement, which no doubt will prove to be a crippling handicap of Mount Everest proportions.
Lunch time: I am off to imbibe Cornetto and black coffee and feast on Japan versus Cameroon. The evening will bring Italy and Paraguay, and perchance a refreshing cold beer or two in the open air, perched in front of a big screen. The billion supermodels may not materialise, but one or two pretty Italians wouldn't be unwelcome. Summertime rocks, especially in even-numbered years. I trust you will all enjoy the month to the absolute max, unencumbered by fears over the latest fitness bulletins from the Irish camp, since we aren't actually there. In the wise, wise words of Prince Buster: Enjoy yourself.