SO that's that then. All done for another four years, but don't worry. This won't be another piece moaning about our national team's failure yet again to produce a result in a major tournament.

There'll be hardly a mention of the former manager's suspect squad selection, loyalty to fading superstars and bizarre tactics and formations.

No space devoted to spewing more vitriolic comments on Cristiano The Cheat' Ronaldo. After all, our new bon amis the French turfed the Portuguese out nicely the other night. No, no moans like that at all. I've got something entirely different to moan about: the amateur commentators and entertainers that have packed our nation's pubs for the last three weeks.

Now I've been going to the pub to watch the footy for years, and there's always been that person that gets right up everyone's noses by insisting they can do a better job than the ones on the telly.

Granted, these days most people can do a better job than Motty or Clive that night in Barcelona' Tyldesley, but on the whole they were nothing more than a minor irritation.

This World Cup however, I almost reached breaking point.

For the opening game, a trip to a large town centre pub with three massive screens, dozens of smaller ones and a sound system that could cause a brain haemorrhage at 90 paces was no match for the numpty in front of me and my mates. As if the dire performance against Paraguay wasn't bad enough, having this moron turning round every 30 seconds to slur that he was England til he died' and hugging his equally clownish mate every time a girl brushed by affected me so much that for the second game I avoided the pub altogether.

Choosing the safer confines of my local for the remaining games was a wise choice.

A boisterous but mostly well-informed crowd shared their concerns that while we had qualified for the knock-out stages, we weren't quite ready to cancel our plans for July 9. All good things must come to an end though.

The further England progress in a tournament, the more fair-weather supporters are drawn to the next game.

Now this isn't always a bad thing. I think it's amazing that football seems to be the only thing that can unite the nation.

Even people who usually can't stand football, such as my wife, were arranging their social calendars in favour of a night down the juicer watching England.

But so too were the armchair pundits which brings me to last Saturday afternoon. Sitting down at the same table we'd occupied for the previous couple of games, our little group enjoyed a spot of lunch, speculating on the outcome over a couple of pre-match sharpeners and generally soaking up the atmosphere. As usual, as kick-off crept closer, the pub gradually filled up. By the time the match was under way, he'd arrived. Officially, the most irritating creature next to a wasp in a beer garden.

Every kick of the ball was worthy of a comment. Such gems as, Don't lose it there Nev lad' when Gary Neville had the ball just outside the Portuguese box, Go on son', when England had a throw in, and Break his' expletive deleted legs' whenever Portugal touched the ball were all delivered at full volume while gripping on to the back of my chair.

When England got close enough to unleash have a shot, the scream of DIG IT SON!!!!!' was accompanied by a refreshing shower of his saliva, which landed not only on my shoulder, but the edge of my glass as well.

Now whether he saw the veins standing out in my neck and my knuckles turning white as I clenched my gob-covered glass, by the second half he'd disappeared from sight, and thankfully earshot.

Unfortunately I know that in two years time, he'll pop up again, possibly in another guise, at Euro 2008. I wonder if they'll sell George Cross cagoules by then?