Here goes. . . I (steady). . . want (go on). . . England. . . to. . . (spit it out lad). . .win the World Cup.

There, I have written it and, as anyone who has confronted their biggest fear will testify, it feels better now that I've got it out in the open. I will outline my reasons for my Damascene conversion later, but first a little history.

Like many of my fellow citizens, I have generally gloried in England's continued failures at big tournaments.

Ireland may have made it to finals only sporadically but at least we could count on ol' Blighty for some amusement. Forty years of pain for England never stopped me dreaming that it would continue forever.

Even as a child I delighted in reading about Sir Alf Ramsey's disastrous decision to take off Bobby Charlton in the 1970 World Cup quarter-final that helped Germany overturn a 2-0 lead to win 3-2 and how Jan 'The Clown' Tomaszewski famously denied England a place at the 1974 World Cup.

Years later, I revelled in England's misery when it lost two key players . . . Kevin Keegan and Trevor Brooking . . . to injury at the 1982 World Cup finals and failed to make it past the second stage. I sniggered at their outrage at Maradona's 'Hand of God' goal in 1986 and, two years later, I spent a summer in Boston proudly wearing a top with a photo of Ray Houghton 'putting the ball in the English net'.

Italia '90 was a nervous time for us ABEs (anybody but England) as Bobby Robson's team came within a penalty shoot out of a World Cup final, which they would probably have won.

In contrast, the Graham 'Do I not like that' Taylor era was glorious. There was the not-sosmall matter of England pipping Ireland for a place in the 1992 European Championships in Sweden. But significant consolation came when the host nation sent England packing . . . 'Swedes 2-Turnips 1' was the next day's tabloid heading . . . while Gary Lineker sat glumly on the bench.

How we laughed in our flat as we re-enacted . . . bottle of beer in hand, of course . . . Sweden's Tomas Brolin's mid-air pirouetted celebration.

The qualifiers for USA '94 were even better. The defeats to Norway and Netherlands were topped only by the immortal moment when complete minnows, San Marino, scored against England after just 10 seconds in the redundant final qualifier. Since then, England's ongoing failure in penalty shoot-outs provided some degree of satisfaction. But only some. The reality is that, while I still find recounting tales of those past inglorious moments amusing (hence the number listed above), I have for some time been reconsidering my attitude towards the old enemy.

Guilt is certainly a factor. I can recall watching BBC during the last World Cup on the day that Ireland scored a crucial last minute equaliser against Germany. Gary Lineker finished off the programme by saying words to the effect that it "didn't get any better than seeing Irish eyes smiling". His genuine warmth towards us left me feeling ashamed and petty. I compared his goodwill with how I would cheer for pretty much anyone bar Hitler's Third Reich in a football game against England.

I knew then that my ABE position was untenable. I started to examine my reasons for always cheering for England's opposition. Eight hundred years of oppression certainly had a lot to do with it . . . I can remember watching an England game in Smyth's of Haddington Road and being asked by a young English woman why everybody in the bar was cheering for some far flung land against her country and our nearest neighbours. I don't remember my answer but I do recall that, Basil Fawlty-like, I kept repeating in my head 'Don't mention the war'.

The hooligan element that followed the English team was a factor. As was the thought of listening to John Motson and Jimmy Hill . . . if England did win the World Cup, we'd never hear the end of it.

Slowly, I began to come to the conclusion that the reasons just didn't stack up. It was plainly ridiculous to tar everyone because of the violence of a mindless minority that didn't care about football. I also realised it was a bit rich for a nation which celebrated four draws and a defeat in Italia '90 like we had each won the lottery to complain about other countries going over the top. Imagine if we had lost to a 'Hand of God' goal . . . we'd never shut up about it.

Of course, there has been bad history between the two countries, but that is in the past. And surely, as a successful and modern state, we have moved beyond defining ourselves by English failures.

England is our closest neighbour. We have more in common with English people than any other nation in the world. We watch and enjoy British TV. We listen to and love British music and we admire the open mindedness of British society.

In 1986, when I cheered for Argentina against England, the English team had four players from Everton, the club I supported. In 1994, when I delighted in Norway making it to the World Cup ahead of England, my closest friend from college married an English girl. I didn't, and still don't, know anyone from Norway.

I just think I'm getting a bit long in the tooth to continue to ignore such ridiculous contradictions. So . . . deep breath now . . .

Come on Ing-er-land!