World Cup: Dav-eed is the real reason they're tuning in

ZACK and FIONA'S world cup diary

CONTINUING the story of the World Cup as seen through the eyes of the 30-year- old freelance advertising copywriter Zack Beanstalk and his publishing editor partner, Fiona. Zack is a Spurs supporter of three years' standing but prefers to live in Highbury Fields.

IT'S all systems go for tomorrow's biggie. I will be ringing round all my pals who are still in a wage-slave situation to let them know that my bum is guaranteed to be on my rattan armchair in front of that telly at 1.30 prompt. They'll all be doing flexi time, or giving up their lunch break, or faking "sickies", the pathetic bastards, so they are going to get well reminded that I am now my own boss.

What I won't tell them about is the downside of working at home which is that I'll be watching England on my ownsome, talking to myself and urging Stuart Pearce and the lads on. ("Psycho" did get into the squad, didn't he - I'm sure he's in my sticker album?)

I thought Fiona would be able to wangle tomorrow off but her bosses are laying on a telly and a buffet. Who'd have thought it - an office full of dim birds all sitting down to watch England in a World Cup game. (NB: must remember to replace reference to "birds" with "dedicated publishing assistants" when I type this up on my laptop as I'm sure Fi has the odd nose round.)

Suppose I should blame my Arsenal buddy Nick Hornby for raising the female consciousness about footie, but I actually think Dav-eed Ginola is the real reason they're all tuning in. I don't really mind watching on my own especially now that the old lady upstairs has got used to my shouted expletives and cries of pain. During Euro 96 she called out the local vice squad because she thought there was a bit of S & M going on downstairs. "Only when we ******* lose!" I yelled into her deaf aid.

Still, at least I succeeded in finding a clay oven yesterday morning so that I can bake a typical Arabic lamb and apricot casserole for my solo lunch in honour of our doomed opponents Tunisia. Unfortunately, our cat, Darren, thought the oven was a new basket and spent the night in there so it was on with the Marigold gloves first thing for a scrub - can't have a repeat of last Sunday's barbecue when I half poisoned the neighbours with medium rare chicken kebabs.

Been a good week, though. Fi bought me an adult version of a "My First World Cup" kids' T-shirt and we watched the opening ceremony together. Talk about stylish. The French know how to put on a wacky show. Fi thought the giant flowers giving forth footballs was a symbol of our impending conception - well hers, technically speaking. Her predicting kit has Belgium v South Korea on 25 June as the time of maximum ovulation, which seems like a good game to miss. We had a laugh about calling the kid after the first goalscorer which narrows it down to Jean-Claude or Kim Bung. But we will probably stick with Nike cos it's good for a boy or a girl.

Some of the shine was taken off the first day by the match itself - not the fault of the Brazilians or the Jocks - but because I spotted Giles and Jarvis from my old agency, done up in kilts and "Braveheart" face paint in the crowd. What a pair of jammy tossers - English born and bred and they wind up with tickets. I suppose I could report them to the Commission for Racial Equality for impersonating Scots.

Still no news on my competition entries though I know I've blown one by putting down 1968 as the year England last won a World Cup. Skinner & Baddiel's song misled me cos I subtracted "30 years of hurt" from 1998. Hope our defence doesn't make any mistakes like that tomorrow otherwise it'll be "90 minutes of existential angst", which isn't easy to make a rhyme out of, let alone a chart-topping song.

Fi and I were both very impressed with Morocco and their guy with the red boots. If ever McDonald's has to get round to an ad for Halal McMuffins he's their man, and I'm their copywriter. And I'd cast Shearer as the lad behind the counter so he can see what life is like for the other half.

The next morning, Fi ululated in joy for our Moroccan cleaning lady Halima but it turned out she didn't even know her boys played football. But she's a great lady anyway. Fi and I made a pact that we would definitely honour the minimum wage for her when it gets through.

So now it's Yugoslavia and Iran this afternoon and I can't wait - not for the footie, which the Slavs will win by a street, but for my caviar and iced Slivovic afternoon tea, perfect for an English Sunday.

Fi has just wandered in with a fax in hand, from Gazza in Miami. Well, I think you can guess what the first page consists of and they are definitely the real things, not plastic. The second page is a more polite "no thanks" to the pounds 50K offer for his diary. "What about a Five Bellies diet book?" he writes. And like Posh and Beckham, Fi and I look at one another and just say "Pass".

Next week: A lunch date with the Reggae Boyz.