I am about to commit heresy, or treason, or blasphemy. Or all three.
I don't want England to progress any further in this world cup.
For those of you not lucky enough to reside in this green, and usually pleasant land, that may not sound like too controversial a statement.
However, to huge swathes of this population football is not only a game.
Every four years, for a month (or at least a few weeks until we get knocked out), every street in England is festooned with the red and white of the Cross of St George. Productivity plummets as work colleagues spend their days furtively watching matches on their computers, checking scores on their i-phones and telling anyone who will listen exactly how they would sort out our team if only they'd got the job rather than Fabio Cappello.
Wimbledon, which usually provokes a rush of national hysteria around the only British player to attempt a victory, is ignored. Ascot's column inches devoted to the hats and horses are eaten up by sports journalists discussing the role of the four-four-two formation in the modern football game. And Big Brother becomes a mere annoyance rather than a cultural phenomenon, OK that is the same every year, but you get my point.
This year I might well be the only English person in the world who is loudly cheering for the other side.
The reason for this unpatriotic stance isn't because I can't stand the unrealistic, jingoistic headlines spewed out by the tabloid press. It isn't because I am fed up with the sport being deemed the last bastion of the Empire. Or because I never want to hear another vuvuzela again. Admittedly these are all good reasons in their own right.
It is because with every game we win, nine months later there will be a glut of babies. And if we win the entire World Cup there won't be a fertile woman between here and Berwick-Upon-Tweed who doesn't get knocked up. Because we all know that nothing makes the English male more horny than watching men in tight white shorts running around a field and scoring. (I'm talking about football not dogging, although ...)
And my reasons for not wanting a baby-boom are purely, and unashamedly, selfish. The way I see it the rest of my year is going to go one of three ways:
1) I have IVF and it fails. In which case I won't want to be surrounded by pregnant women rubbing their tummies in my face. (Metaphorically, but literally would suck too).
2) I don't have IVF for a combination of never being able to get an appointment and problems with the results from my hysteroscopy (as above).
3) I have a successful IVF / a shock conception. My child will be born just after the World Cup kids by which time all the nursery places are taken and for the whole of its life the fruit of my decrepit loins will find itself struggling in a saturated market whether it is for school or university places, jobs or romance. (Yeah I'm thinking long term here).
Luckily for me there is one person who wants England to win even less than me; the Scottish husband. So domestic harmony is assured. And tomorrow afternoon we'll be cheering for Slovenia.