I FIRST contracted World Cup fever a few months ago when those wonderful people at Panini launched their commemorative sticker album.

Early symptoms included an inexplicable desire to waste large portions of my income, in 50p increments, trying to find a grinning mugshot of North Korea striker Kim Myong-won, interspersed with moments of pure elation when I realised there were two shiny stickers in my packet of five.

Thankfully, my habit was curbed somewhat when my wife intervened – hiding my pile of swaps in the boot of her car, and muttering something about unpaid council tax.

The condition is a progressive one, however, and it wasn’t long before another flare up.

About three weeks ago, every newspaper in the land began to issue World Cup wallcharts, of which I now own one for every single room in my house. Then came the World Cup songs. And the flags. And the adverts.

By the time Fabio Capello announced his squad last Tuesday amidst a glorious glut of rumour and speculation, there was no way back for me.

I am no longer contactable, unless you happen to cleverly weave your question into a discussion about James Milner’s relative merits on the right side of England’s midfield.

I even thought about buying a DVD entitled ‘One Night in Turin,’ which details the behind-thescenes story of the Three Lions at Italia 90, until I noticed they had somehow mis-spelled Gary Lineker’s name on the cover, causing me to thrust the item back on the shelf in disgust.

That brief moment of clarity aside, I have now fully surrendered myself to another five weeks of World Cup fever, which will only be cured when my hyperinflated hopes of success for England are savagely destroyed by a penalty shootout and/or a dodgy refereeing decision.

I pray for a swift and decisive conclusion.