Published: 01/07/2010 15:53 - Updated: 08/11/2011 16:42

WHEN it comes to football I’m absolutely useless. I don’t get it, I don’t enjoy it, and 99 per cent of the time I don’t watch it. 

 For example, I still don’t understand the off-side rule, despite the fact that just the other day I was given my 437th explanation of it. 

 For a brief moment during the first England World Cup match, when we played a country that can’t even get the name of the game right, I fell asleep. Though I’ve since learned this was more forgivable than I’d first thought.

 Worse still, When England played a team called Slovenia, I got all confused and nearly horribly embarrassed myself watching the match in the office with colleagues from the editorial department. 

 Nobody had thought to tell me, the football luddite, that, unlike the last England match I’d watched, we were now wearing a different-coloured uniform and I shouldn’t be supporting the players in white any more. 

 At first I was quite gutted when England scored, but then I saw close-ups of the players celebrating, read some names on the back of their red shirts, recognised them from the papers and put two and two together. How confusing. 

 But despite the fact I’d rather be drilling holes in the back of my hand than watch every match in the World Cup I have been enjoying watching England’s mixed fortunes. 

 But there’s still one problem for me - these silly flags waving everywhere. Why do we all suddenly become patriotic when there’s a spot of football on?

 We never see displays like this when the Brits do well at Formula One and there’s never this many flags when we’re contesting snooker or darts tournaments. 

 More importantly and, perhaps most distressingly, we never see such a bold display of patriotism at the one time it really is called for. St George’s Day.

 Over the years the lukewarm display this country has managed to put on in tribute to its Patron Saint has been absolutely shameful. Especially given the number of flags waved in honour of the eleven over-paid sex-pests that run around in a field for a few hours a week.  

 There’s still a few people in England, and I’m pleased to say a good few in Burton and South Derbyshire, that will give St George a good old “hoorah” when his day comes round, but shame on the rest of us.

 Now that everyone in the country seems to own a George Cross of some description, if they don’t all come out again on April 23 next year then I might just emigrate.

 So when you’re bored of the football, take you’re flag and store it away ready for next April. Enjoy waving it on a day when you can be happy, celebrate, and quaff a pleasant drink or two regardless of what happens “on the pitch”.

 Oh, and best of all, you can pretty much guarantee there won’t be a Vuvuzela in sight.