So, as I say, that’s what I’d normally be doing. But not this past Sunday. This week I was late. Very late. But I had a good excuse.

I slept in. Sort of.

Let me explain.

Like most followers of the round ball code, what with my English upbringing and all that, I have been following the Euro 24 soccer championships on telly. And even though the team of my homeland tortures me with yet another demoralising performance every time they take part, I have to subject myself to the torture. It’s the law.

Luckily, for the past 38 years, I have been joined in this endeavour by The Scottish Plumber. Occasionally Scotland makes it through qualifying to the main event so he has something to cheer about but more often than not I think he just enjoys seeing the cursed English fail miserably.

Regardless, it has become a bit of a tradition that we watch it all and, without fail, he will prepare a good old-fashioned cooked breakfast for the occasion.

Sunday was no exception.

It was England’s fifth game of the tournament. We’ve watched each one and so far worked our way through 172 kilos of bacon, 187 eggs, 106 slices of toast, 52 kilos of mushrooms, 237 sausages, 345 hash browns and 16 bottles of tomato sauce.

At least that’s what it feels like.

So there we were patting our bellies, having just finished a mammoth feast about 7am on Sunday – the game started at 4am – when his phone rang.

After struggling up from his seat and waddling over to the bench, The Scottish Plumber entered into a conversation with the caller, a Dutch mutual friend.

In short, his team was about to play Turkey in the event and it was on telly. He fancied some company. Would we like to come round?

Long story short, we said “yes” and went round to watch a Dutch victory. That’s when things got a bit complicated.

Such was the joy in the household of our host, his good lady had made herself busy in the kitchen as we watched the game draw to its conclusion. And so, as we got up and prepared to leave, still full from our earlier feed, we were ushered to the kitchen table where all manner of fine breakfast foods awaited.

I looked at The Scottish Plumber who responded with a look which suggested it would be extremely rude to just leave so we sat down for Breakfast No 2.

Now, at this point, I should point out that in my crowd I have a bit of a reputation for being a big eater.

Very simply, I like food. And lots of it.

To give you an example, a few years back my golf mates and I went to a nice steak restaurant where everyone ordered a good-sized hunk of meat – 500-odd grams, that sort of thing.

I’m not sure what happened but, in the confusion of ordering, with a few of those at the table shall we say, er, well lubricated, I’ve managed to order a kilo of steak with chips, two eggs and a big bowl of extra mushrooms on the side.

Naturally, I immersed myself in the task at hand and only realised everybody at the table had stopped talking and was staring at me as I polished off the last morsel. So, as I say, reputation made.

Thankfully, that was/is not a common occurrence and, while my weight used to go up and down like the Sky City elevators, these days I’m a lot more measured in what I scoff, thanks mainly to Mrs P who is a human calculator when it comes to my calorific intake.

But, if the mood takes me, I can still put it away, as long as I pace myself.

And that’s why, after finishing a gargantuan Breakfast No 2 at the Dutchy’s windmill, I was still able to stroll to the car.

The Scottish Plumber, however, was a beaten man.

Sweat was pouring from his forehead. He looked heavily pregnant. In fact, when he asked if I could drive quickly, I wasn’t sure whether he meant to home or the hospital.

Luckily it was home and I bade him farewell, pushed him out of the car and watched him roll up the footpath with a promise to catch up soon for the next game.

For me, I had another pressing appointment to get to.

I was meeting Mrs P and some friends for a coffee at a cafe in town.

By the time I got there, I have to say I was feeling a little uncomfortable in the mid-region. I figured I’d eaten enough for the day so I’d skip anything further till tea time and see how I felt then.

Unfortunately, Mrs P and our friends had had a chat while I was out watching football, and eating the town down, and they’d decided the coffee catch-up would be upgraded – to breakfast/brunch.

Which would actually be Breakfast No 3 for me.

At this juncture, I am sure you are saying “Why didn’t he just decline?” Well, the thing is, I’m not really supposed to be having a big scoff at the moment so I couldn’t really tell Mrs P I’d already eaten. Lots.

I’ve given Mrs P a commitment I’ll change my ways when it comes to my eating habits and ensure I will be around for another 100 years, that sort of thing. Of course, she knows I’ve had a little bit of brekkie, ahem, but definitely not the nutritional small bowl of porridge she had. I just fell off the wagon on Sunday morning. Twice.

I get to the cafe to find our party already seated. They’ve already ordered and, as a special treat, Mrs P has ordered me The Big Breakfast. Gulp.

I’m not quite sure how I managed it but I did.

I even managed a walk and another coffee as our brunch date extended into the early afternoon before we farewelled our friends.

Eventually, Mrs P and I made it back to home base and I casually mentioned some interest in having a lay down. Possibly a little snooze. I’d had an early start so a few minutes slumber wouldn’t hurt, would it?

Thankfully Mrs P agreed and, before she could say “I’ll wake you at 4pm”, I was dead to the world.

She didn’t wake me at 4pm. She tried but apparently I couldn’t be budged. It was closer to 6pm, way past my deadline, before I could open my eyes and move the anchor from around my belly to get in position to write this.

Luckily I’ve been able to complete it.

Now all I have to do is try and get through the roast dinner Mrs P says she has put aside for me.