This weekend the final whistle will blow on Euro 2012.
A team will lift a trophy, hands will be shaken and confetti cannons will go off.
Grown men will probably cry.
Leaving a lot of the nation wondering how they used to spend their evenings.
And how to get face-paint off.
Don’t get me wrong, I like football.
Most of the time.
I just like it more in the flesh and on a local level.
Where the focus is on the game – not the characters.
Where you can hear the players shout and the referee can tell when you think he is a plonker.
But stuck on the sofa I do find it hard work.
Either my heart is pounding, my hands are clammy and I’m holding on to a pillow or person for dear life, or, I am doing battle to keep my eyelids open.
Sadly this tournament has been more of the latter. Despite good draws and plenty of promise.
The rumble of commentary as it is passed backwards and forwards and backwards and forwards is like a lullaby.
By half-time at least one eye is ‘resting’ to the point I often find my family watching me in amusement rather than the game.
“I’m still here,” I protest, determined to make it to full time.