If life, like football, is a game of two halves, then at the end of the next six weeks a hefty percentage of people might justifiably claim: we was robbed. For contrary to popular belief, not everybody is obsessed with what goes on between the goalposts of every team of the world.

Let me put it this way. It was a lovely evening. Warm air, still-light sky, walking with friends to pub. Chat is (of course) about work, holiday, vine tomatoes, infidelity, stairhead politics. House reds all round. Make that a bottle. Oh, and - hungry since no lunch during longer-than-usual working day - a packet of Kettle Chips please.

All they had was Salt and Lineker. In a west-end-of-Glasgow bar, for heaven's sake. There and then, enough suddenly became enough. Images of bunting wafting in the rain and crying vive le football swam before our eyes; hyped-up stushies about Sainsbury's not having its branded merchandise out in time came flooding back; ads for world cup condoms, air fresheners, mousepads, and scratch cards returned to the mind's eye. Now we were sick as parrots. It was time to reclaim our territory.

Back in the office, I raced over to the start-led sports desk. Hastily I was informed that teams - sorry, squads - from no fewer than 32 countries will be involved. That there will be some 700 players in France, plus all the attendant refs, Fifa reps, and media circus. That nine major cities of one's favourite country will be travelled to, slept, eaten, drunk, and argued in, by these and several thousand fans. That there will be 64 matches played - about 10 a week. Played twice a day and beamed into our homes live or as highlights, replays, and the basis for endless angst-ridden late-night analyses.

So many hits on each single match may be commercial heaven; but for many it's destined to be domestic hell. Most Scottish households now have at least two television sets, with the second most commonly placed in the kitchen; millions have satellite and cable. Pubs are screening games live. Every car worth its stripes has a radio. Every newspaper, including this one, is carrying a World Cup supplement either daily or weekly.

The fever has been raging since March, when the warm-up games began. Next we'll have the ''bounce'' games to follow between them and the real thing. And as for Gazza being dropped from the England squad - a story which occupied the first seven minutes of the national six o'clock news on Monday evening, if you please - well, I rest my case.

As a colleague patiently explained to

me, while I almost collapsed in belated

disbelief at the sheer presumptuousness of it all, you'd have to go to the moon to avoid World Cup 98. Understatement of the year, I'd say, Brian.

You can forget all namby-pamby talk of the nanny state. This, it seems to me, is

Big Brother at his most belligerent. Who said the future was female? The future, my dears, is football.

As lifestyle editor of this newspaper, I naturally felt duty bound to speak out on behalf of the huge minority to whom footie matters not the slightest jot. To point out that for thousands, millions, life goes on regardless. What about those men and women lucky enough to be in full-time employment who are working the longest hours in Europe, and who are, frankly, too knackered to be bothered listening to the sickening roar of televised crowds when they get home; who are expected to cook and clean while the family watches all the dumbed-down commercialisation of the game; who may also be trying to plan a summer graduation, wedding, or holiday, in between organising the weekly supermarket shop and negotiating professional and personal relationships? For whom weekends away, enjoying one's partner, family, and friends, are simply more important than ''joining the world's biggest party''?

Altogether, we reckon the latter group accounts for approximately 45% of the entire Scottish population. Strangely, though, since our football-free magazine (ffm for short) was conceived as a result of all this, some people have suddenly begun to refer to me as women's editor. This is interesting, for I have been very careful not to make ffm a Women's Thing. Research does indicate that only around 5% of spectators at league matches are female (''and that's 5% too many,'' someone said, adding: ''Youse lot should stay at home washing dishes'', to which the obvious, and sharply delivered, riposte was that washing dishes would be a merciful, if rather dull, release). It is estimated that this jumps to about 20% at World Cup matches (only, I bet, because the poor saps have been suckered into believing that combining the footie with a French holiday is actually possible). That still leaves 30%,

or some seven million British (700,000 Scottish) women of all ages left out in the cold. And stuck at home to boot.

But perhaps more importantly, 10% of men are calculated to have no interested in football or the World Cup. (This despite the rather frightening challenge thrown up by another esteemed colleague: ''I dare any bloke to admit to not liking football,'' he said. ''See? Not one's put his hand up. Too scared of being called a big jessie, that's why.'')

Nevertheless, that means a stonking three million males, 300,000 in Scotland, are available to be counted into the disaffected team. Perhaps that explains why men's lifestyle magazines, which are currently the biggest growth area in publishing, rarely, if ever, mention football. And if they do, it's in less than reverential terms.

We feel very strongly that there is a male and female market out there which will be thirsty for cool-headed reading material that avoids World Cup fever altogether. And to its

credit, The Herald is putting its money where its lifestyle editor's mouth is. ffm offers a diversion not only from the f-word, but from anything The Herald has published before. It's a 16-page tabloid magazine which, while addressing the serious issues of the week, aims to be informative and fun. There's a six-week healthy eating plan for the three ages of man; a style surgery those in need of a hasty image overhaul can visit; helpful advice on which Scottish towns to visit on days away; and a mini series on cooking for cowards. It will also have a strong European slant. In short, ffm is for those who know their grande decaff latte from their Tennents lager.

If I might be so bold as to paraphrase the late Bill Shankly, having an alternative to football over the next six weeks is not just a matter of life or death; it's much more important than that.

n ffm launches tomorrow.