So I rolled out of bed at 6am - which was an interesting experience in itself, no-one ever told me there was such a thing as 6am on a Saturday morning - and had a coffee. And a fag. And a bath. Brushed me teeth. Stood on the balcony and looked out over London. And I thought to meself; "Y'know what? I could just murder a pint right about now".

This World Cup, you see, is an odd one. On one hand, the time difference between Asia and Britain means that all the games start dead early, and it's totally concievable that you could go out on the batter over the weekend, sleep in, and miss an entire day of live footy on the telly. And that's wrong. Oh, so wrong.

On the other hand, the pubs are open.

And that's a good thing.

Day 5:

GET UP, GO PUB, DRINK BEER

June 1st 2002

When I learned of the news that, after initially putting the mockers on it, the authorities were going to let the pubs open for certain World Cup games, I rubbed myself against a bus shelter with glee. Now then, if you've just come across this Diary and had a delve, you'd not be blamed for thinking I was a pisshead of Shane McGowan-proportions, but this is simply not true. Like most people, I feel that alcohol is a most agreeable staff with which to pick one's way through the stony path of Life, particularly when watching the football, and I do it to moderation more times than not.

Yes, there was the time when England beat Columbia four years ago and I celebrated by pinching my bare nipples in the middle of a pub and singing I'm A Little Teapot. Yes, there was also that time when England lost to Romania and I assailed an American tourist on the Tube who was trying to take the piss by getting up in his face, whacking myself on the head and screaming "AYATOLLLLAAAHHHHHH!" (it was the day after Iran beat the US, you see).

And yes, there was that time I hijacked an open-top bus with a sound system and naked women, demanded to be driven to my previous job, called my hateful ex-boss a 'Ginger Ponce' and asked him to come outside so I could slap his forehead red raw. But incidents like this only happen every now and then. No, the main reason I was so chuffed was because I realised the implications it would have on the social history of the country I hold dear-ish.

If you've never been to Britain before, you won't be aware of this fact - but our licensing laws are the shittiest in the non-fundamentalist Arabic world. Whilst virtually everyone else in the world has a relaxed pub culture, it wasn't that long ago when Parliament believed theat letting our pubs open all day would result in people not going to work and choosing instead to get pissed, ram pint glasses into each other's faces, and pissing on nuns in the street.

And as for closing time, it's ridiculously early over here. If you want to carry on socialising after 11, you have to fork out extra for the privilege of sitting in some fucking awful club and having to bellow in each other's ears. No wonder some of the more Neanderthal members of our race act the cunt when they go abroad - they're so used to necking as many pints as possible that by the time they remember where they are and that they can drink all night, they get even more pissed up.

So, we're living in strange times, my friends. When else will I be able to neck a pint at such an ungodly hour whilst watching footy? On holiday on the other side of the world, sure - but that would be cheating. At home in me pants with a few cans? Obviously, but that doesn't count, either. What am I supposed to do years from now, when my Grandchildren look at me and say "Did you go drinking that early in the morning when the World Cup was on, Grandpa, or were you a big Jessie girly-man?" Lie to them? No way. I was off to the pub. And anyway, my telly was fucked, remember?

By the time I got to the pub, ready to make history, I realised that only a mere handful of others had done likewise. Shit. I live in an Irish part of town, so I expected it to be full, but it was like being in the Breakfast Club, but with postal workers just off their night shift and old blokes who always get up at this time of day instead of Matthew Broderick and all those other fuckers I can't remember.

Being in a pub at 7am is weird. It's like being in a shop at Midnight. You can hear every belch and fart, you're not rammed up against the bar, and as for bellowing "NAAARRGGGHHH! CROP THE BASTARD!", you daren't. Add to this the fact that the Japanese fans are so quiet that you can hear almost every comment by the 3,000 or so Irish fans, and it just didn't seem like proper football.

Still, a very interesting game. Ireland have had the worst build-up of all, due to Roy Keane - star midfielder, All-Star petulant twat - walking out on them after stropping out and refusing to attend a barbecue held for the benefit of the press. Oh, and then he went on to say to his boss Mick McCarthy...

"You were a crap player and you are a crap manager. The only reason I have any dealings with you is that somehow you are the manager of my country, and you’re not even Irish, you English cunt. You can stick that up your bollocks"

Obviously, he then walked. Or was sent home, depending on what newspaper you read. But that wasn't the end of it. Ireland, who have gone mental for the World Cup ever since they made it to the quarter-final at the first attempt in 1990, was plunged into a despair that can only be recreated by listening to a Cranberries box set 12 times over. Even the Prime Minister of Ireland started begging Mick and Roy to kiss and make up, but Roy was having none of it, refusing to apologise (oh, and he also blamed the media before signing a deal with a newspaper for £150,000.

Certain people believe that Roy's strop-out is a battle for the soul of Ireland. Put simply, the Irish have developed an image of happy-go-lucky battlers who don't really care all that much about winning as long as they do their best and have a good craic along the way (a reputation that the English would kill for incidentally). Roy, on the other hand, is representative of a new breed of Irishman called the Celtic Tiger. Ireland's entry into the European Union has paid off big style and the country is booming - and Roy is one of those driven types who will not settle for anything but total success (playing for Man United, he's won virtually everything available in the European club set-up). Pissed off at the training conditions and the less-than-disciplined attitude of his teammates, he couldn't tale it any longer.

But that's only certain people. The rest of us all think he's a mardy cunt. As Ireland roared back from being 1-0 down in the first half to equalise with a killer Matt Holland goal, and were a bit unlucky not to win it, Roy must have been bashing his head against the kitchen table with rage. What a shame he wasn't there, though - he's renowned for playing like Taz after overdoing it on the steroids and would have provided marvellous entertainment.

Anyway, Day 2 is already over with a whopping 13 goals (and it's only half past two, for Christ's sake), and I'm going away to watch England - Sweden tomorrow morn. Sadly, no diary entry tomorrow as my twat of a mate doesn't have a laptop - but when I return, we'll know what England are like. Scary.

PS: Saudi Arabia are shit, aren't they?