THE alarm rang at five to nine on Saturday, and my immediate reaction was to swear at myself for setting it on a weekend, and roll over back to sleep. But I'm smarter than that - I had reckoned on myself reacting like that to loud noises at an unearthly hour, so just as I rolled over, a pink neon-painted rugby ball glared out at me from my bedroom wall.

Of course, the rugby! Just about the only reason that I can think of good enough to get me out of bed at that time on the weekend.

I'm not a rugby lover, you understand. As with the football, rugby's more my dad and sisters' scene, but since the World Cup has brought the sport (and Jonny Wilkinson) into the spotlight, I've been following the ridiculously-early games (honestly, I don't see why they can't play at the crack of dawn in Australia - these sport people are more energetic in the morning anyway).

So anyway, once I'd realised the reason for my early start, I put the toast in, ready for a lull in the game and perched on the sofa, a pint in hand ready for the big match (I'm an early starter - on the orange juice, I mean).

And what a match! I was so rapt that I almost began to tell the difference between one huge, sweaty and bloody bloke and another (except for Jonny, of course to my sister's disgust I could tell him apart because I thought he bore a strong resemblance to the blond one from Robson and Jerome).

I felt absolutely privileged to have watched the first English World Cup winners - I just hope it won't be the only winning year.

So good on our boys for bringing some victory back to England - but now they're all big stars I'd like to plead with them for a new toaster, it nearly burnt our kitchen down. Exciting matches are a bit of a problem when you've put in a piece of bread to eat in the boring bits...

Updated: 11:37 Wednesday, November 26, 2003