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I'm a firm believer in the principle that seven thirty should feature only once per day - especially on a Saturday - but here we are, up at stupid o'clock and mumbling negro spirituals into our breakfast Guinness. Come, sweet chariots, and carry me home to bed.
Still, it's not every weekend that you get the chance to be in the pub before the sparrows have passed their first wind, and can watch fifteen muscle bound oafs engaged in patriotic GBH. Raised jars, raised spirits. Now we're talking. Now we're singing. Bring me a Fosters of burning gold. I ask the big chap next to me which aspects of modern-day Jerusalem we could incorporate into England's green and pleasant land without putting the army on permanent alert. He tells me to shut up. I finish my second pint.
But now they're on the pitch. At Martin's command, unleash hell. Lots of lycra; lots of noise. The convict goes over in the corner. Bastard. Another pint to steady the nerves. Ben Kay, you fcuking donkey, Neil Back's daughter could have scored from there. Eat pizza, you (19 stone) swine. Go Jonny go, hands out, channel, channel, arse in the air, squeeze it out, laxatives on the shopping list and over the posts it goes. Robinson, you little beauty. Try that, Sydney Morning Herald, you bunch of boring, unfit old men.
Whistle, and it's heads down and drive to the bar for some half-time "oranges". Back on the pitch, and we're giving away penalties like shrimps at a barbie. One minute to go and the referee gives them a penalty for being worse than us. Must look that one up. Is he a convict too? We know where your kangaroo is.
But sod a wallaby, it's over, and we're into extra time. No golden goal, but we've got a golden left foot. Golden right foot, too. Wazaaa, we've beaten you at home and away. Arise Sir Clive, Earl of Twickenham. You are our favourite provincial solicitor. Hic. Arise Sir Jonny, Lord of the Sun newspaper. If I had a sister, I would sell her to you.
They think it's all over, but it's not yet. Waltz on home, Matilda. We're going for a proper boogie. Aussie bar - wise choice - but they're even better at losing than they are at winning. So this is how it feels. Come on Eileen, come on Ing-er-land. It's lunchtime, but we've just beaten seven other countries at a game we invented, so let's dance the day away until we're back among spit-roasting footballers, curling champions and Tim Henman.