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I’m unable to function this week. And it’s getting worse.

In just 2 days, 22 hours, 47 minutes and 48 seconds I‘ll be stood at Wembley singing my heart out as my beloved Pompey take to the pitch to do battle in the FA Cup Final.

It‘s no exaggeration to say that I‘ve been waiting for this moment my entire footballing life. From my very first match as a giddy seven-year-old stood on the Fratton Park terraces on an old beer crate (I was too short to see over the crowd) way back in October ‘89, Portsmouth winning the FA Cup is the one thing that I‘ve always dreamed of.

And now, nearly 20 years on, it‘s so close that I can almost reach out and touch it. But not yet, not quite.

Of course, it could all be snatched away if Cardiff lift the trophy instead of us, and that‘s why I‘m making sure that I do everything I can to tip the odds in our favour. I‘m going to be wearing exactly the same boxer shorts that I had on for the semi-final because they‘re quite obviously lucky, I‘ll have in my pocket a paper bag of the cola cubes that Grandpa used to buy me before every Pompey game, around my neck will be wrapped Dad‘s 1986/87 promotion scarf and on my chin will be a load of trampy-looking stubble because I‘ve somehow got it into my head that if I shave then it‘s all going to end in tears.

This week I haven‘t been able to stop grinning and, as Cup Final day draws closer, it‘s getting worse. Last night I couldn‘t sleep, I‘m finding it hard to eat and not a minute goes by when I don‘t picture that perfect image of Wembley Stadium all decked out in blue and white.

I really don‘t know if I‘m going to be able to last until Saturday afternoon, I’ll be a complete mess by then…