Unless you dislike sport so much that you've been living under the sea in an attempt to avoid it, you'll be aware that the World Cup is imminent.
It's that time of the year to say, "It's this time of the year, so bring on the awards of the season."
Messi or Rooney, who is better, which would you have? Come on, chop chop. Both names sound like adjectives. A rooney room is one with lots of space and little inscriptions and messages hidden in corners.
For the football fan who has everything, how about a football funeral? I never knew there were such things, until last week.
I leaned forward, my Pilot felt-tip pen at the ready, wondering if I should write "KICK ME" on the shiny, bald pate of Nicolas Anelka. Or I could stretch and perhaps reach Ray Wilkins.
In the age of the Indian Premier League, it is hard to believe that the English distinction between gentlemen and players was abolished only in 1962. That is staggeringly recently. Bob Dylan released his first album in 1962.
Just met by friend and neighbour Claudia at the shops and she seemed ever so excited. Had her husband, a barrister, been made a QC? Had they just had a really excellent Easter in Greece?
The other evening I saw Eddie Izzard, the celebrated Jack-and-Jill of all theatrical trades, complete 43 nearly consecutive marathon runs.
I ran round the house looking for my sheep. "Who's stolen it?" I cried, which is what I always say when I lose anything. "Think, where did you last put it?" asks my wife, in that irritating manner.
With the World Cup just a few months away, football-haters from Dubai to Dudley are braced for a summer of misery.
Rich people are mean. That's how they got rich. Keeping an eye on the coppers.
Nature intended kick-off to be at three on Saturday afternoons, so I still can't get my head and my ass and my tum around a 12.45 start. Such as on 13 March, Spurs v Blackburn. What to eat, followed by when?
I'm still in a deep depression over England. I was so pissed off by their display against Egypt, and even more so by the under-21s against Greece.
There's this old joke, credited to some old literary gent; forgotten who first supposedly said it. Each morning on waking up, he opens the newspaper and turns to the obituary pages.
I was in the lavatory at Arsenal, trying to have a pee. At this time of the year, I take my flask of coffee. At half-time, at Arsenal or Spurs, I drink two cups.
What can poor fans do? I mean poor in the sense of sad, pathetic, useless, hopeless, not poor in the sense of having no money.
Wouldn't you like to be a footballer today? It's not just the obvious stuff - all the money and girls you can eat, all the Ferraris and Bentleys you can crash - but the fact that life, generally, is so comfy, nay luxurious.
While in St Barts, on my hols - yes thanks, had a lovely time - I was returning one day to my hotel, Eden Rock, when I noticed this rather nice little football stadium, with a decent-looking stand, handsome entrance.
I enjoyed Nowhere Boy, the film about the early life of John Lennon, but came away pretty worried. As if I haven't got enough to worry about.
Are footballers knobs? That's what the distinguished football philosopher Joey Barton suggested on the Today programme. First, we have to define a knob. Is it the same as a dickhead, twat, wanker or arse?
Every New Year's Eve since we moved into this house in 1965, we have sat down by the log fire and made our predictions for the year ahead.
Half a season, half a season onward, into the valley of the World Cup come the round-up and awards and the story so far.