Stelling - Jelleymans thrown a wobbly: Saturday afternoons in front of the telly

But on the sixth day, God created Saturday.

Well, maybe, but during my more reflective moments, I'd like to think He designed it as a reward - something to look forward to during the working weekdays and those soulless evenings on the sofa in front of Corrie, Big Brother and Location, Location, Lo-bloody-cation. He stuffed it full of football, goals, drama, dodgy refereeing decisions and penalty appeals to cheer our souls and set our pulses racing. He gave us beer and pies as a refreshing accompaniment. And as an afterthought, He then gave us Sunday to deal with the hangovers and indigestion, while watching even more football and stuffing our faces with more food. Oh, and going to church, of course.

Minor blasphemy aside, though, I figured it would be a fitting way to begin this book by telling you exactly why Saturday is my favourite day of the week, mainly because I'm guessing it's yours, too, otherwise you wouldn't be reading these very pages. Unless you're a judge for the Pulitzer Prize, in which case you're permitted to hate Saturdays as much as you like as long as you look very favourably on these pages. But for most of us here, Saturdays represent a moment of weekly nirvana: twenty-four hours dedicated to superstition, strange rituals, long walks to the train station with siblings, friends and parents. It's about the little details: the rustling sports pages in the newspapers, the TV magazine shows (like my very own), listening to debate programmes on the radio, stumbling into drunken, post-match arguments in the pub, and engaging in long conversations during the late hours, all focused on one subject: football. Sweet, sweet football.

And god, it's great, isn't it? I remember that even as a kid, Saturday always held that extra special holiday quality from the minute I woke up in the morning to the moment my head hit the pillow in the evening. For years it was the bus to Hartlepool's Victoria Park ground, the short walk to the stadium, the smell of police-horse dung in the street, the whiff of frying onions, the first pint of the day in the local pub (after my 18th birthday of course), the first glimpse of the pitch, the ref's whistle, the shouting and the screaming and the ranting and the raving. Then there was the half-time pie and the half-time queue for the toilet. This was topped off with some more ranting and raving and screaming and shouting, before the shrill of the final whistle and the inevitable, crushing, demoralizing sting of defeat and the slow trudge home.

I wouldn't change it for anything else. Even now, the thrill of sitting in the hot seat in the Soccer Saturday studio is special. From the moment the first dab of make-up and guy-liner has been stroked onto my face, through to the final results and post-match interviews, I'm usually on the edge of my seat, reacting to every goal, gaffe, sending-off, penalty decision and moment of high drama. Of course, it's not quite the same as sitting at Victoria Park in the wind and the rain from the North Sea, but it's up there.

And, of course, I get to spend my Saturday afternoons with some pretty impressive figures in football (and Paul Merson), among them Matt Le Tissier, Charlie Nicholas, Phil Thompson, Clive Allen, George Best, Rodney Marsh, Paul Walsh, Alan Mullery, Frank McLintock and Tony Cottee. And let's not forget our roving reporter, cult (yes, cult) hero and giggling moustachioed friend, Chris Kammy Kamara. Who wouldn't want to shoulder this cast of football superheroes on a Saturday?

Over the years, the show has picked up quite a following. Hopefully, you're one of the lovely, lovely many who tune in every week. If you're not, the next 200-plus pages are going to be bloody confusing, though you should glean some joy from the nice illustrations. But if you're familiar with the show, hopefully the book will give you a little insight into the madness that goes into making your Saturday afternoons every bit as exciting as mine