Holland to win the World Cup! That’s Sam Snort’s confident prediction, as the football nations of the earth gather to do battle in the white heat of India and Pakistan for the coveted Jules Verne trophy.

It’s that 12 inches of sold gold that the whole world wants to get its hands on but, as always on these occasions, I’ll be swearing off sex for the duration of the tournament, so you’ll just have to sit on those sweaty palms for a couple of weeks until I get back and whip it out again for your delectation.

Meantime, you can distract yourself by gorging on a veritable fiesta of football, live from the sub-continent, and marveling at the delightful skills of such great Olympic athletes as Pele - who got his name, of course, from the gaelic for football - Sonia O’ Sullivan and Sacky Glen. Not forgetting the greatest player never to feature in a World Cup Finale, Jimmy ‘The Best’ White.

But this time, the hot favourites have to be the lads from the land of dope, hardcore porn, Focus of ‘Hocus Pocus’ fame and the player so world-renowned that they named a dog show after him, Johann Cruft. Away you orange bastards!

Fucking Bollocks

Frankly, I pity those of you who have yet to succumb to the lure of what the legendary Brazilian Maurice ‘Moninho’ Setters (all bow) dubbed “the gorgeous game”. Like the Taoiseach, I myself have been a true blue fan of the Manchesters team since as far back as the fabled Kanschelskis era, and these days hardly ever miss a Sunday afternoon in front of the box, unless I have something better to do, like napping.

But this time, there’ll be no sleep ‘till Islamabad, as all the leading “squaddies” from every country in the world play each other in a frenzy of top-class “footer”, the winners eventually to be crowned World Series Champions.

And when you look at the fucking size of the place, it’s hard to see past China. Talk about a wall “doing its job”, eh? C’mon you reds!

Of course, those of you who are less well acquainted with the intricacies of “the sport of kings”, will wonder what the hell I’m going on about. That’s right, ladies, I’m talking to you.

“Twenty-two grown men kicking a bag of wind around a field,” you complain, while we smile indulgently, knowing the correct number to be nearer a massive 442. (Or even, sometimes, 433. Why this is so, is far too complicated to explain unless you have some grounding in theoretical physics. And, frankly, ladies, with all that make-up and texting to be getting on with, I don’t think you do).

However, for those of you who want to get the most out of this month’s orgy of excellence, it is absolutely essential that I explain the rule governing “the offsides”.

For the football rookie, nothing seems quite so impenetrable as this ostensibly strange law, but for those of us who are passionate about what legendary Manchesters gaffer Matt Barmby called “the lovely game”, it is a source of endless satisfaction. But also, yes, occasionally, controversy.

Here’s how it works: Player A kicks the ball to Player B who kicks the ball to the back of the net. (Note, en passant, that the ball, or the “leathery spheroid” as we aficionados like to call it, never hits “the front of the net”. Even though it does. Because if it actually hit the back of the net it would be “a wide”. This is one of the much-loved anomalies of what legendary Norn Iron boss Bingham Crosby called “the garrison game” and us traditionalists wouldn’t have it any other way).

But back to “the offsides”. When player B kicks the ball to the back of the net, the crowd – or “paying spectators” – leap up and down shouting “the offsides, the offsides”. Then the flag man raises his flag and the referee ignores him. Or not. Depending. Sometimes, in the heat of the moment the referee – a very busy bald man from Italy – sends off someone for trying to punch him. Or the flag man. Depending. This is what soccer experts call “adding insult to injury”. Then the game resumes, to the sound of many people shouting “fuck”, “bollocks”, “baldy fucking bollocks” and so on. And that, broadly speaking, is “the offsides”.

Blue Riband

But there’s so much else to look forward to as the best football teams in the world ever play each other in pursuit of the so-called ‘Blue Riband’ of the sport, a cup that was once won six times in a row by the Shamrock Rovers, a feat unlikely ever to be equalled, except by themselves, it says here. I’m a great fan of them too, obviously, also Celtic, Liverpool, Boca Juniors, Stella Maris, Dublin United, Dawn Run and London Irish.

And, by the way, if you want an each way bet to give you a good run for your money this time, allow me to recommend Madrid who sort of have first call on all the best players in all the other teams, apart from Gary Breen. Up the Drids!

And what of our own lot? Well, like Ronan Keating before them, I think they’ll do well to get out of the group. And after that there’s no reason why they can’t at least avoid relegation.

So let’s hear it for Mick Martin and Munster. Stand shoulder to shoulder and sing the anthem with pride. Altogether now: “Hello, I like the fields of Athenry…”

Your ever lovin’ Samuel J. Snort Esq