Five minutes into the beginning of the World Cup, and the swearing had already begun.

"Fucking hell...come on! Come ON, you bastard! GET YOUR FUCKING ARSE IN GEAR! NO! RAT'S COCKS! ARGGGH! YOU FUCKING WANKER!"

The problem was, I wasn't at home. And I wasn't even in the pub, either. I was standing at a bus stop in South London, waiting for a bus into town and being stared at by people as I attempted to make a bus arrive by swearing.

"But why, Nishlord?" I hear you cry. "Why were you not watching France and Senegal in the first game of the World Cup, which is so ace and skill and pisses in the maw of every other sporting event in the world?

Day 4:

A SENEGALLING BLOW TO NISHLORD'S WORLD CUP

May 31st 2002

I'll tell you for why. Being off work, I fully intended to have a leisurely morning necking cans of lager, skinning up, laughing at the opening ceremony, and then taking in the first game, which is something I always do every four years. But disaster struck.

Today, of all days, was the day that my telly decided to die.

I'd only had the cunt three months, as it used to belong to me Dad. He gave it to me when I was bereft of one when I moved into me new gaff, because had a new widescreen one, which is pretty pointless as all he ever watches is Bronson films and fucking Taggart and The Bill. It was a very kind gesture, but it came at a price - I had to sit in a car with him for four hours as we took it back to London.

This is a bad, bad thing. If you think I'm a bit fruity with me language, you should hear me Dad - especially when he gets onto his favourite subject; that homosexuals are 'not fucking real' and if it was up to him, he would "round the bent cunts up, put 'em all on an island - and I'd gee 'em a fortnight to enjoy theirsen, cos I'm not a bastard - and then I would bomb the dirty fuckers. I would destroy the race". Seriously, I was watching the news with him last year and they were going on about how the Taliban used to push brick walls on homosexuals with a bulldozer, and he said "Well, they're not that bad, then".

It was a hellride. As soon as we hit London, the vitriol kicked in. "Fookin' London? What a fookin' shithole. I wouldn't fookin' live here if they paid me" I wouldn't have minded, but this was at Islington, where Tony Blair lives. By the time we got to Peckham, I nearly had a heart attack when me Dad nearly ran over a Rasta and proceeded to call him a 'Cockney cunt'. When the bloke started mouthing back, I tried to remind me Dad that we were in an area where people carried guns, and he should refrain. But then Rasta Twat started to kick at the headlights, so I leaned out the window and said "Fuck it, just run the cunt over, Dad". It was a touching moment of bonding twixt Dad and Lad, and it was like being in The Wonder Years.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah -in the living room, on me hands and knees, begging an inanimate hunk of television to work, with half an hour until kick-off. It was pathetic. There was only one place to go - a pub. And I was ever so glad I did...

When I got there, it was pretty empty. Well, nobody really gets that het up about opening games, they're usually pretty dour struggles. But in the pub were a few old blokes, a smattering of unemployed crusties - and four Senegalese builders, who had obviously nicked off work and were knocking the pints back like a fucker. I sat down, spread out the papers, pulled the fags out, sucked back me pint and thought; well, this is pretty fucking decent. Belgian beer in an Irish pub watching France and Senegal in South Korea. I'm so fucking cosmopolitan.

As I settled in, the unexpected happened; after half an hour of France teeing off on Senegal, Pape Bouba Diop - which sounds like something Bing Crosby probably said when he had that heart attack on the golf course - took advantage of the ball pinging around the French six-yard box and hooked it in. All of a sudden, a team that didn't even enter the World Cup last time round (because they forgot to - seriously) and were playing their first World Cup game ever - were beating the reigning World champions.

"The World Cup has begun with a BANG!" said the twat commentator on ITV, "And it's the BANG of an AFRICAN DRUM!"

"OOOOOOOOOOLEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGH! GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLL!" went the builders.

"FUCK MY EYES! YES! SUCK IT, FRENCHIE!" Said I. And when the team threw Diop's shirt on the floor and started dancing round it like I used to do to 'Too Much Too Young' by The Specials when I was a 12 year-old Mod at the youth club, I got me hand slapped so hard by one of these blokes that it still hurts to type with it, I realised that if France ballsed it up today and England finished second in their group behind Argentina - which is the most likely scenario - we wouldn't be facing the French in the next round and would have a much easier route to the final.

Second half, and the French are not having any of it. At all. Every time the chaps in blue had a chance, the builders stopped what they were doing (which usually consisted of sending mobile text messages to their French mates and ripping the piss) and bellowed at the telly like bulls in mid-castration. Then when the French missed (which was often) they would fling their arms in the air and bray "AAAAAHHHHHHGGGHH! YOU ARE FOOOOOOOOL! YOU ARE FUQUEING HOOWANQUER!" which was a nice touch that I could appreciate.

And at the end, when we all shook hands and bounced around the pub for a bit, I realised just what the World Cup actually meant. A chance for people from diverse cultures to appreciate and learn more about each other. An opportunity to savour the spirit of international brotherhood. An excellent excuse to get an skinful of ale on a Friday afternoon, getting pissed and giving your credit card a brain haemorrhage by forking out for a big fuck-off massive telly.

Sadly, I got that telly - but because of the fucking Jubilee weekend (we're all off work until Wednesday now), it won't arrive until next week, which leaves this Diary in a parlous state. It was going to be bad enough finding time to watch the matches when they're on so early in the bastard morning - but now I have nothing to watch them on but one of those mini-tellies that wipe out batteries in minutes that I got as backup.

This means I shall have to be at the pub every morning at 7am. Oh dear.

Right, fuck this - Ireland are up next, against Cameroon, and I need to go to bed in anticipation of a full morning of footy. Tomorrow, I'll tell you a bit more about how Ireland are already shagged due to an ill-timed barbecue (no, really), and get myself worked up about the true opening game of the World Cup - when England have at it with Sweden on Sunday. The World Cup has BEGUN, chaps, and it's so good to be back. Yessss! Get in!