NOT long to go now – on Friday afternoon the 2010 World Cup kicks off in South Africa with the hosts taking on the might of Mexico.

And am I excited? Well, um, no. Not really.

I know I should be; after all, the shops would never stock that much red and white bunting if the tournament wasn’t something to jump up and down about.

And the BBC have spent a not inconsiderable amount of licence fee cash on housing a small army of presenters, technicians, and freeloading ex-footballers out in the host nation, so I should at least get a bit exercised.

I should be dusting off my St George’s flag, wearing a ridiculous hat, and clipping pennants to my car in the sure knowledge that any speed over 14mph will leave them ragged and downcast.

I should be poring over colour-coded wallcharts, and arranging days off for any possible dates when England might be kicking off at 3pm instead of a more work-friendly 7.30pm.

It’s just that I can’t.

Let me say at once, in case you were wondering, that this apathy has nothing to do with England’s prospects of winning the thing, which – no matter what you might feel after eight pints of lager and a 4-0 win over Algeria – are slimmer than John Terry’s hopes of being best man at Wayne Bridge’s wedding.

And it’s not a sudden lack of patriotism either. After all, I’ll still be watching the matches and willing the team to do well.

It’s just that somehow the magic of this world sport’s party is gone. And I blame the players.

It doesn’t help, of course, that the inscrutable Fabio Capello has picked pretty much the same squad that failed to make much of a dent on the 2006 tourney.

But also, they’re a pretty unlikeable bunch, aren’t they?

It’s always been easy in the past to cheer on even players from hated rivals once they’re wearing an England shirt. I’ve never had a problem supporting Tony Adams or Ian Wright, for instance, despite their unfortunate club background.

But some of the current crop of spoiled multi-millionaires are difficult to warm to.

I know it’s a purely personal thing – some of the chaps I most disdain most will be idols to others – and often it’s no deeper than not liking the look of them.

John Terry, for instance. Even ignoring the Bridge allegations and the 2008 claims he parked his Bentley in a disabled bay, even if he was a paragon of virtue, he has the most punchable face in Christendom.

And when Steven Gerrard’s in the same squad, that’s quite a claim.

Ashley Cole is another all-too-obvious target. Never mind the contract wranglings that led to his “Cashley” nickname, this is also the man who squandered his marriage to Official National Treasure Cheryl whatevershescallednow by sending blonde hairdressers running to the tabloids.

Of course, being ever-predictable, I’ll be happy to cheer on the Spurs boys, even if it’s only likely to be Aaron Lennon in the starting eleven.

But even then I realise they’re not without their flaws.

If the unthinkable happens (and despite what I said, it might – worse teams than the current England set-up have won the World Cup before with luck and good tactics), then how will we view Capello’s 23?

Will they be remembered in the same way as the heroes of 1966?

Somehow I doubt it, even though their achievement, so far from home, would be the greater.

Is there anyone in South Africa to compare to Hurst, Ball, Charlton, and most of all, Moore?

These are people who still stand up today as fine examples not only of footballers, but of Englishmen.

While he is, at least, not Terry or Ferdinand, somehow images of Steven Gerard lifting the trophy won’t be quite so iconic.

So that’s why I won’t be decking the halls with red and white this month.

I know it’s a party, but it feels like one I haven’t been invited to – and besides, I’m just not keen on some of the other guests Sorry England, this time, it’s personal.

Anyway, whatever happened to the England squad from 1986? I liked them...