Mike Rowbottom: Time to indulge in togetherness after end of phoney war

Everywhere you look, it seems, there are flags. Draped underneath windows, fastened to pub walls, fixed on to the roofs of passing white vans. (The latter, admittedly, may be a design feature).

As we enter upon Golden Jubilee weekend – rather puzzling in its way, because the Queen became Queen in February 1952, and was crowned the following year – the country appears united in its anticipation. Of the World Cup.

To be sure, there are Union Jacks about. Most of them round these parts appear to be fixed inside my children's school hall, crossed obediently beneath pictures of the monarch. From a traditionalist point of view, I suppose it must be some relief that daily assemblies are not taking place under England flags surmounted by portraits of David Beckham.

But for every Union flag, there are 20 bearing the colours of St George, which is probably not far off a proportional measure of national interest in the Royal and sporting events.

Admittedly, it's not so easy celebrating the Jubilee. Anyone trying to organise a street party these days faces a daunting list of challenges.

That list starts with a blizzard of red tape concerning road access, liability and insurance and involving district and county councils and absurdly early deadlines. It finishes with the sad but inescapable fact that most people can't be bothered. The nation no longer naturally expresses itself through street parties; it's like hauling one of your kids away from their Gameboy to fetch the old Monopoly board.(And in my experience if you ever do get your kids to play one of those old board games, whichever you choose it will always turn out to be the same one: Argument!) The World Cup is so much easier. It revolves around the telly, which is now, for better or worse, the main factor in our national sense of community.

Check the schedules. Sort out the England matches. Get some beer in. Invite round the neighbours. Or, by way of variation, get invited round by them. It's all so easy auntie.

Part of the jollification this weekend, certainly as far as I am concerned, will be a sense of relief that the phoney media war is over and the real event has begun.

I don't know about you, but I think if I see just one more interview with a Japanese football supporter about David Beckham ("He is great player, and he speak so well") I am likely to turn the television screen from something convex into something scattered.

And despite the many days spent taking in the latest speculation about Beckham's foot and Kieron Dyer's knee and David Seaman's groin, as provided by ITV's Mark Austin, I have been unable to shake the sense that the man who oversaw the last Survivor series will offer one of England's players the chance to win immunity by eating fish eyes, or fetching hidden treasure from the seabed.

As the World Cup gets properly under way, the fact is that it represents the best and biggest chance most people have to make a noise about their Englishness. And before the World Cup gets seriously into its stride is the time when everyone has a right to be optimistic. They may only be 16-1 with the bookies, but England's footballers still carry unblemished hope – at least until tomorrow morning.

History – other than the glorious blip that was 1966 – tells us that such hope is in vain. Even watching Ron Manager the other night was too much for me. I still wince when Chris Waddle's cross-shot against the Germans in the 1990 World Cup semi-final ricochettes off the inside of the post. I still get pointlessly agitated when their first goal loops freakishly over Peter Shilton after hitting the England wall.

When, however, that hope is sustained, it is a heady feeling to share in a surge of national joy. You don't even need to know what your fellow citizens are feeling – because as David Platt's winner against Belgium flies home, or Beckham bends the ball into the Colombian net, or Michael Owen brings his inspired foray to its logical conclusion against Argentina, you are feeling it yourself.

At such moments, football truly does bring people together.

Then what happens? All those flags, waving and fluttering. What will they mean when England have departed the World Cup? Or even if they depart with it? Is there any more to being English than wanting England's football team to win World Cup matches? Sadly, I wrote the answer to that question on a piece of paper which I forgot to remove from my trousers before putting them into the wash and now I can't make it out.