And so it begins. The office sweepstakes have been organised, the wall charts are up, the sticker albums are almost complete and a solid month of football lies ahead.
Despite the fact the game’s world governing body, FIFA, has about as much credibility as the elections in Syria, that didn’t matter last night when hosts Brazil kicked off the World Cup against Croatia.
The suits were out in force, amid all the pomp and ceremony, as the first match provided a welcome distraction for the embattled charisma vacuum that is Sepp Blatter.
The internal strife of the South American nation has been forgotten. The furore surrounding FIFA’s dubious decision to award the 2022 tournament to a country which is hotter than the sun has been conveniently parked.
As much as the World Cup is an inspirational event, we must accept that it’s also the poster boy for corporate largesse and hyperbole.
Here in England, the Spirit of ‘66 lives on – well at least it does in supermarkets up and down the country where you can buy flags of St George and T-shirts showing the late, great Bobby Moore OBE which will be worn by people of all ages – many of whom have no idea who he was.
England play their first game on Saturday night in a brand new stadium in Manaus – a place more suited to a location shoot for Raiders of the Lost Ark than top flight football.
The pitch is of a standard that many pub teams would baulk at and the stadium itself will only be used for four World Cup games because no major team in Brazil wants to base themselves in, well… the jungle.
But the lunacy that accompanies the tournament will be overlooked by fans of England and Italy because all that matters on Saturday night is the result.
I suppose it’s easy to understand why your average fan isn’t too bothered by what happens off the field or the domestic problems of the host nation.
The World Cup is one of those rare events – a sporting occasion which brings nations together, united in hope for an improbable dream.
Club allegiances are set aside (we’re all England now) and the only debates take place over matters such as whether Wellbeck or Sterling should start a game and the fitness or otherwise of Wayne Rooney.
For the millions of supporters of lower league clubs, like myself, the World Cup gives us – albeit briefly – a seat at the top table.
Whether you’re Port Vale or Rotherham, Crewe Alex or Yeovil, the multi-million pound Premier League superstars are now yours to support.
Even if it’s only for the group stages.
I was born in 1972 – by which time the glow of England’s only World Cup triumph was already fading.
Even so, I dare say few people who were around to see Geoff Hurst’s heroics would have thought that almost 50 years later the Three Lions would still be waiting to appear in another World Cup Final.
For as long as I’ve been watching England, they’ve been hugely disappointing.
Glorious and not-so-glorious failures are all I can remember.
We cling on to Bryan Robson’s lightning-quick goal, Lineker’s Golden Boot, David Platt’s sublime volley and Gazza’s tears.
We have recurring nightmares about penalty shoot-outs and still feel aggrieved that the greatest footballer of his generation used his hand to knock us out of the tournament.
We’ve seen a so-called ‘golden generation’ under-achieve hugely and been left questioning whether or not Champions League football perhaps matters more to overpaid Premier League stars than representing their country.
If I sound cynical I am. But it doesn’t mean I won’t enjoy the World Cup.
The one saving grace this time is that I can’t find anyone who thinks England are a force to be reckoned with.
Like Germany in 2010, we have an interesting mix of experience and youngsters with potential. We have no superstars. None.
No-one expects us to tear up any trees and that may just be Roy Hodgson’s greatest weapon.
I don’t expect miracles. I don’t expect beautiful football. But I do expect the national anthem to be sung with gusto and for the players representing our country to give their all. To show some passion.
Come on England. Do us proud.
Read my Personally Speaking columns every Friday in The Sentinel