Four years later I would discover Italia 90 through my friend’s Shoot! magazine (unfortunately it has long since sunk to the level of a condescending kiddies’ mag) collection. Panini’s magic was beginning to wane off at this point, though I do remember treasuring the silver hologram sticker of the tri-colored stick figure mascot of that tournament. More significantly, the lingering images of a tearful Stuart "Psycho" Pearce after England's brave semi-final penalty shoot-out exit at the hands of West Germany left such a strong impression that I would subconsciously hanker for more of such display of noble dignity in the face of glorious failure on the football field; hence began my love affair with the English league in the following season.

Fast forward to 1994, otherwise remembered by my peers as our O’levels year, and the global tournament had moved to the United States of America, a country in which ice hockey and baseball captured the public’s imagination more than "soccer" ever could. This was the first tournament that I followed right from the start, from a united Germany’s unconvincing opener against Bolivia through Roberto Baggio's last-gasp rescue acts for Italy right to the final, where the Italians met a Brazilian side inspired by the mercurial talents of Romario. What was supposed to be a ninety minute match that would end before seven in the morning dragged on into extra-time, then into a penalty shoot-out. As I stood transfixed in front of my television set, changing into my school uniform, Franco Baresi and Roberto Baggio ballooned their kicks over the bar to hand the crown to Brazil. Thereafter it was a mad dash to school; and I even saw a sad fan dancing and singing his heart out for Brazil on the streets. Surreal.

France 98 flashed by in my National Service days, but I followed the action as best as I could thanks to a friend’s smuggled portable television set tucked forcibly into a corner of a partition on the reception desk, though the horrendously long antennae were a bit of a give-away. The late night games were more studiously followed, though often to the detriment of my work performance the following day.

On to the Korea-Japan tournament in 2002, and I find myself imprisoned in a Japanese company in the name of Industrial Attachment as partial fulfillment of my University curriculum, wondering if Philip Neville would have made a difference to England’s campaign (probably not) and if I would be caught (will David May ever play for England?) for indulging in personal activity during office hours.

So it is in such clandestine manner that I present the armchair fan’s review of the 2002 World Cup matches, though I must stress that most of the pieces are written from the comfort of my home. As Andy Cole should know better than most. Enjoy.