Look it's been a while but apart from the odd bit of play-off nonsense - meaningless without the Teesside terracists to swell the Wembley throng (and chance would be a fine thing) - the last couple of weeks have just been a waiting game.
Oh I know there's a couple of stories brewing about this n that. There's talk of Southampton FC being broken up and divided amongst Champions League competitors next season. And Manchester United too.
Frank Lampard has finished with Chelsea, which is a huge relief, Nice man, frequently 'orrible team. I've always thought that Lampard was a very, very good one trick pony. The equal of any goalscoring midfielder but without the adaptability of, say, Gerrard or Scholes. In my head there will always be a question mark over his England appearances as I always wanted to use him off the bench if Gerrard was being a bit shit, rather than wedge the two of them in the same place and pray that they could somehow work it out between them.
But good luck to him. A fine pro, and a top bloke from what I hear.
But I'm just itching for the World Cup to start. The TV roster is in place at home. The rules are the same as they are every World Cup. If the footy's on, shut your gob and watch.
I have a ban on the wife uttering the following phrases:
"Not more football!" (You never hear me say 'Not more police drama centring on a dysfunctional cop investigating a child murder' so I see no reason why a reciprocal arrangement can't exist once every four fucking years.)
"But why do you care who wins out of Colombia* or South Korea*?" (*insert random obscure football nations in here)
"Can't you just watch the highlights later?"
"What do you mean, the lads are coming round after closing time?"
"Where's David Beckham/Jose Mourinho/David Ginola?"
"Is this what my license fee is going on?"
"Why's Michael Owen allowed to say anything?" (Oh no, wait, I'm the one who says that.)
There are of course many things she's allowed to say, such as: "I don't think you spend enough time down the Blue Bell these days" or "What do you think about Brazilians?" But generally she understands the situation and stays away, except during the England games when she participates whole-heartedly. But annoyingly. Kind of like Robbie Savage really. But more perceptive. And less peroxide.
What's particularly good about this competition is that our boys haven't got a Joey Barton's chance on Question Time of coming across particularly brilliantly and therefore, much like Joey, I'll be giving them plenty of leeway to be a bit crap here and there as long as they manage to entertain.
The major dilemma for Hodgson - at least this is what the media are talking up in the ansence of anything genuine to discuss - is whether Rooney merits a starting place. Against Peru there was that familiar flat post-season air to him. Come June the lad looks light last night's unfinished lager. In contrast Sterling and Barkley look like they've just come out the fridge.
But as Scholes suggested, would the manager dare to leave Rooney out. I don't see why not, myself. He's not the only source of creativity in the squad and when we've made him the cornerstone of the side, there's been a distinct lack of corners. Let him sit a couple out. I would.
But it is really refreshing to be going to the World Cup with that level of expectation, i.e. nil. Just imagine being Belgian right now. They have a golden generation of talented players who have qualified comfortably against run-of-the-mill teams and haven't played anyone good since losing 3-1 to Germany four years ago.
They've got a brilliant playmaker, Eden Hazard, who's done sod-all in the national team. Yep, that's pretty much how golden generations work in our experience. Sorry my flat-landed friends but this is the sort of story that ends in the last 16 with a disappointing scrappy defeat against a petulant Portugal.
I've also been preparing by going out for some hot and humid training just so I don't underestimate the difficulties our boys face out there in the jungle. I tried doing keepy-uppies in the wife's sister's greenhouse the other day. Knackering, I can tell you. Until I smashed through the glass ceiling. If that's what working women keep complaining about then take a football to work, ladies.
Of course you'll be wanting to know who I'm tipping to lift the old trophy and it's always a tricky one. There a few more imponderables than usual this time.
Will any European team be left come the quarter-finals or will they have dissolved into a pool of their own perspiration by then?
Can Brazil conquer the demons of 1950 and get to win the whole caboodle for the sixth time? Or will some falling masonry from an unbuilt stadium take out Neymar and throw the whole tournament into confusion?
Will an African side make it to the final? And if it's Ivory Coast, will Yaya Toure get enough vehicles from his national football federation to convince him to play in it?
Has Sepp Blatter and his pals already decided who the winner is? You can just picture the FIFA HQ sweepstake where every one of them pulls out the name Argentina and they all celebrate together. And indeed will the football be so festive and freewheeling that we can for a short while forget that not a decision is made by its governing body without someone seeming to be inserting a finger in someone else's pie.
Blatter is still insisting his work is not done. I'm sure there'll be a vote which has all the integrity of a Syrian election and lo and behold the ancient Big Swiss Cheese will still be ballsing up the international game.
Any road, I'll be casting me eye in greater detail over the challengers in the next blog. And what I don't know about Algerian football isn't worth knowing. Then I'll tell you that Brazil win it. Okay?