This is the first and only time you’ll ever catch me writing about football, I promise.

Let’s put the cards on the table. I’m not interested in football. Regional/local games and teams just leave me cold - perhaps because I’ve never really strongly identified with a particular part of the country (hence no local loyalty), perhaps because I come from a completely non-footballing family - I think my dad once had a magpies mug in the kitchen cupboard, because of his family roots, but I’m sure you’d never see him getting up at seven to watch a pivotal match.

It’s easier to summon up a modicum of interest in national teams - such as have been playing in the world cup - but mostly because it’s strangely satisfying to watch something (anything) done well. When you see real professionals doing something brilliantly (skiing, driving, swimming, running, kicking a ball around) you can be stirred by the result a bit more, oddly.

But when I say I’ve been getting interested in the world cup, don’t get me wrong: I certainly haven’t been waking up at the crack of dawn to catch the matches. Likewise, I’ve been mostly ignorant about the proceedings of the tournament, and quietly amused at the passion is has inspired in our neighbourhood - flags hanging from balconies, and on car aerials, and red sticky-tape crosses on every passing white van.

During last week’s match against Denmark, with all the windows on the street open because of the muggy weather, we could hear the shouts and heavy sighs of those watching the game, which meant we didn’t need to tune in. The same was true on Sunday, when the tennis began in earnest at the Queen’s Club, which is within crowd-roaring-and-applause distance of our open window. Who needs to watch the match when you can watch the audience reaction to it instead?

But I’m interested in key England matches the same way I’m interested in the results of the Oscars or the Wimbledon final, or the winner of Big Brother. I won’t go out of my way to watch the event (and certainly not at the expense of sleep) but I know it’s something that the whole country will be aware of and potentially talking about, and so I’ll ensure that I know the result and basically what happened, so I can contribute vaguely to post-punditry, or at least not be completely in the dark and clueless.

So this morning, I woke up early and enjoyed a long, lazy lie-in before popping the radio on just as I hopped into the shower. One-nil to England. Then as I put on my shoes, I switched on the telly for a brief glimpse. Two-one to Brazil.

Walking to work, I tuned into a radio station broadcasting live commentary from the game, and wandered through the deserted (or female-dominated) streets as a man shouted nonsense into my ears. It’s a game of two halves, men against boys, early doors, at the end of the day, in all fairness, over the moon, all that.

Around me, others were huddled around pub doorways, peering at the tellies within, or parked up and listening in their vans, or wandering with radios on, like me.

The odd bit of action, relayed to me through my earphones, was complimented in superwide stereo surround sound by the people of London, shouting encouragment and comment, oblivious and enthralled in the match going on between their ears. Random shouts into the balmy morning, nonsensical unless you happen to be listening to the same broadcast.

Man in my ear: Beckham goes for the cross….Nicky Butt goes in for the kill…oh no, he’s gone wide…
Fat man in bomber jacket wearing headphones at the bus stop: Oh for fuck’s sake

Man in my ear: With three minutes left to play, Rivaldo’s on the floor again…
Bloke in suit having a fag in the doorway of an office building: You fucking cheat, get up!

Man in my ear: Well into stoppage time now, the Brazilians are taking an unbelievable amount of time with this free kick…that’s twenty-three seconds so far…
Man in jeans with money in his outstreched hand, ready to pay for his coffee at the Armenian deli but distracted by the telly on top of the fridge: Come on you bastards! Stop wasting time!

It’s like being there, but without the jetlag, and the bloke with a trombone in the stands behind you.