A mere four days later, it all went pear shaped (rotten) as a shadowy cloud rolled across the kingdom in the shape of the Argentine Black Knight (Diego Simeone). Blackie kissed our chivalrous knight and all at once turned him into a toad. A creature so slimy and loathsome that he was hated by all in England.

Oh, how we pillaged him (and loved every minute of it). It was all his fault we were out of the running for the holy grail (the fact that we were crap anyway was besides the point). Effigies were burned in the streets, vile abuse was hurled at him and his lovely wife, Lady Posh. Some even feared for his very sanity.

Luckily, the young knight had the caring 'Wizard of Ferg' to love and protect him through the dark and troubled times. Back home in the safety of Camelot, the 'Wizard of Ferg', using all his worldly experience and powers, spent three long years concocting a magic potion that would turn his prized toad back into a dashing knight. "Eureka" he finally cried as his bumbling assistant, 'The Spud', found the precious missing ingredient: Captaincy.

And so it was written that our handsome knight would return to guide his countrymen on a merry crusade across Europe.

First, build morale, for his men were at their lowest ebb. With verve and a single-minded dedication it was he who now gladly led the horses to water, it was he who would do the dirty work in the stables and his men loved him for it. Campaigns were won at Anfield, St. James', Tirana, Athens and the most famous of all, the Battle of Munich.

The country rejoiced. But, alas, there was one more battle to fight before the lads of England could partake of the Cup. The fates had construed that the final skirmish against the Athenians would be played out before the young knight's adoring public, right there at Camelot, in his own Theatre of Dreams.

For 92 minutes his comrades bumbled and stumbled, but not he. Never had there been a exhibition of such commitment to the cause. He was everywhere cajoling, urging, and exhorting them to the battle. To no avail.

And just at the last, when all seem lost -- an entire nation on its collective knees -- our young knight stepped to rip the sword from the stone, driving the free kick into the heart of the enemy. The metamorphosis was complete.

Arise Sir Beckham, brave knight, I now anoint thee Prince of Football.

Until then, forget the beers and give me a couple of valium.