An (almost) Minute by Minute recap of England's victorious victory over the great football nation of Paraguay.

Minute 4:
Oh heck, here we go. England begin their march to their righteous place as world champions. After all we invented the game, conquered the world, had the World's bestest ever Empire, are the only nation to have invented a useful language and after we'd done all that we even had time to play a quick game of croquet with the Deputy Prime Minister.

Minute 15:
Is there a giant spider sitting on the roof of the stadium? Will Peter Crouch get his head caught in the web?

Minute 22:
There are two flies buzzing around my light. It is hard to tell if they are fighting or if they are trying to shag. It looks like they're dancing. Or they could be in a "C'mon then!" like stance.

Minute 34:
Atishooo! My hayfever is really bad today. I am one of those people who actually suffer from an allergy to pollen and not one of those Johnny-come-latelys who just pretend they are allergic so they can get high on Clarityn. I've even had two super drowsy rhino tranquiliser antihistermine pills today. Should I have a third?

Minute 40:
Where did those Mars Ice Creams go? I'm sure there were 4 this morning and I only remember having a few of them. Surely the only explanation is that the mystery ice cream fairy came in and ate them all. Unless Doc had one.

Half Time:
Like most blokes, I like to get up and stretch my legs during half time. However, unlike most blokes I also spent his half time making some Puff Pastry. My Canadian Girlfriend is over for her special romantic Birthday dinner - which I plan to fit in between the Sweeden game and the Argentina game.

Minute 50:
It's getting hot here. I'm starting to wilt. I wish I was a footballer who was paid £100,000 a week, could do fitness training 7 days a week and has spent a month or so aclimatising in Portugal. If I was one of those then they'd be no excuse for getting tired would there?

Minute 62:
There are more flies in the room now. I must invest in some bug spray to poison the bastards. Either that or take the bin out on a more regular occasion.

Minute 72:
I think I'll have a little lie down. I can still watch the match from my recumbent position.

Minute 100 and something:
Oooops - I seem to have had a "Rio Ferdinand" moment and I drifted off in the middle of a game.

Now all I need is to get suspended on full pay for 8 months and negotiate a contract for £110,000 a week and then come up with a classic TV show like "World Cup Wind-ups". Give the guy a Bafta. Then maybe he'll fuck off.