IN the run-up to the World Cup, everything in England seems dominated by a football tournament which, thank God, only comes round every four years.

I am probably in a minority but I believe World Cup "overkill" alienates more people than it entertains.

Not everyone thinks that if "Ingerland" don't win it, or at least make some sort of show, it will be the end of the world.

Look to events in Indonesia, Kashmir or Iraq to put football into proper perspective. Yet if our brave lads don't return with the Jules Rimet Trophy or, horror of horrors, lose a penalty shoot-out in the final or semi-final, die-hard football fans and people fired by their four-yearly dose of nationalistic fervour will consider it a disaster.

Sorry, it won't be just another pothole on the highway of failure stretching from Wembley, 40 long, overblown years ago. I don't know how it is in other countries with teams heading for Germany.

Here we have the added ingredient of Wayne Rooney's foot, ex-professional footballers and media personalities involved in charity matches and the Beckhams throwing a Hollywood-style, pre-tournament party.

They even allowed TV cameras to film hubby David going about his everyday business.

Mr Beckham generates extremes of reaction.

eople for whom football is merely a game believe he is a nice guy who loves his wife and kids and should be left to live his life without 24/7 attention from paparazzi and tabloid dirt-diggers.

His critics dismiss him as a one-trick pony, pumped up by the media he now despises, who became a global brand and multi-millionaire by virtue of his matinee-idol looks and marriage to a member of agirl group.

Me? Well, I'm not qualified to comment on his football ability, though he does seem able to score with free kicks from difficult positions, something he perfected during endless hours of practice, hitting the ball over a line of dummies proper ones, that is, not other players.

The one segment of the David Beckham programme which had me choking on my sausage butty was when Mrs Beckham, coyly flapping her extended eyelashes, said: "People who know us find we're an ordinary couple, really".

Not really, love. We know what you meant but no, not really.

Still, in the great scheme of things which represents the build-up to the World Cup, it was yet another example of the lunacy which, somehow, we non-believers hope to survive.

There aren't many alternatives, with Big Brother exposing the idiosyncratic behaviour of another bunch of saddos and attention freaks; Graham Norton on Strictly Dance Fever urging viewers every few minutes to vote, via premium rate numbers, for dance couples of their choice; and D-list "celebs" butchering songs on The X Factor.

Has anyone got a spare cave I can rent for the next few weeks?