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The World Cup has started and England has collectively lost the plot.

The greatest sporting nation on earth is, and is pains me to say it, Australia. A land of convicts and sheep-shaggers is world champion in more than 50 different sports.

But the greatest sport-supporting nation on earth is England. At the Athens Olympics the biggest group of supporters there was, of course, the Greeks. The second biggest was the British. In Rugby Union, when the British Lions played Australia, in Australia, there were more red jerseys than gold in the crowd. When the English cricket team tour in the West Indies the England fans outnumber the locals.

Home field advantage counts for a lot in sport and the English have exported the concept. When truly playing at home the impact is magnified - pity the poor Australians (for once) who played eleven men against 50 million in the cricket last summer.

And so on to the World Cup, the greatest show on earth. England is awash with flags, banners and football shirts. Even dogs are being dressed in the cross of St George.

The English don't normally do patriotism, certainly not overtly - it is all rather undignified. But sport is the glorious exception; the excuse. It is now okay to say it proud and say it loud - England, our England. Dressing head to toe in red and white is perfectly fine, and all the better if you can have a dozen flags attached to your car.

And now, on the quiet morning of a white-hot day, is the time of greatest expectation - the hours before our opening game. The time when people are daring to whisper that we can win this year. The time for buying beer, barbecue supplies and St George sun hats. The time to stop worrying about Wayne's foot, Stevie's back and Sven's taste for the ladies.

This is the time for faith to conquer nerves, for love to conquer fear, for nation to conquer individual.

This is the time.