And the end shall not come in the form of a nuclear war, a meteor strike or the end of the age of oil. The horsemen of the apocalypse will not coming bringing war, death and famine. Instead, they shall come wearing national football shirts, and blowing on claxons. In 2010 the human race will be overwhelmed by the most horrific pestilence imaginable. Bury your TV in a concrete bunker twenty meters beneath the Earth’s surface. Turn off your radio. World cup fever is coming.

It will begin with advertisements. The soccer boot ones are the worst. During the last epidemic conventions of advertising executives sat around and came up with adverts which always went somewhat along the line of ‘make it humorous and include a cast of international soccer stars’.

So, in due course, we were served up with numerous commercials which featured Ronaldo, Beckham or the like in some situation where humour was strongly implied, but never actually present. By the end epidemic millions of otherwise normal people had laughed at jokes without punch-lines, footballers with wry smiles and institutes that studied footballinitis. Some were so badly damaged they went on to laugh at the Ellen Degeneres show.

In the end the humour level of the soccer adverts will prove to be little more than an annoying and recurring metaphor for the excitement of the tournament itself. Excitement will be strongly implied but rarely present. And as people file into soccer stadiums in their tens of thousands and millions sit before their TV screens, you’ll be virtually forced to conclude that something momentous, dazzling and important is happening. And if you are not extremely strong willed and resilient you will cave in beneath the crushing wave of hype. And you will watch.

This will in turn have two possible outcomes. The first possibility is that you will spend a significant part of the next month watching twenty two experimental haircuts kicking a ball around a sports field in between soccer boot adverts. The second possibility is that you will realise within twenty minutes of the first half that what you are witnessing is as bewildering as watching fifty thousand people and dozens of television networks gathering to witness a cabbage soup cook-off. Such a realisation will hopefully result in your changing channels and/or turning your television off; in which case you’re virtually assured of being spared the half-time soccer boot adverts.

Those of you unable to wrestle the remote from a friend or family member who has succumbed to the fever are likely to confront the following scenarios during the course of a match:

If you are fortunate, one or more of the twenty-two experimental haircuts present on the field will be successful in directing a soccer ball into the back of the opposition’s goal. Should this happen you should feel extremely privileged.

It is far more likely that you will waste ninety minutes of your life sitting on the edge of your seat without anything of any consequence whatsoever occurring. This may lead to suicidal thoughts and a powerful urge to smash your television set.

At such times you should be patient, as possible compensation for the lack of action may come in the form of a riot as spectators respond to the lack of action by burning their seats and/or breaking their claxons over an opposition supporter’s head.

Should you choose or be forced to continue watching the tournament, the next month will offer many strange and disturbing sights. Previous examples have included individuals voluntarily dressing up as chickens in the national colours of Paraguay, as well as adult spectators being reduced to tears when teams of complete strangers from within the same geo-political boundaries exited the tournament.

Unless you are an individual of extraordinary psychological fortitude, or have access to Lithium Carbonate, you should try every means available to avoid watching the final. This epiphany of nationalism, mass hysteria and unequivocal boredom can shut down all higher cerebral functions with the efficiency of weapons grade crack cocaine.

The subsequent condition is incurable, and may render one a permanent football fan prone to watching foreign league games and investing in those ubiquitous and non-redeemable shares in foreign clubs known as official shirts.

The only benefit of this neurological meltdown is that you will be able to watch the conclusion of the tournament with the kissing of the trophy, the unprovoked folk dances and the hideously childish desolation of the losing side without actually screaming in agony.

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