It's a beautiful day!

SO it's that time of the year again, that time of the year when the shameless Football Correspondent begins his column with the phrase: it's that time of year again.

Not too far behind in the second paragraph, you are bound to come across some nice, descriptive stuff about the sun blazing down on the fresh green grass and snow-white lines, and how all the fans travel in hope and expectation on the one day of the season when the playing pitch is truly level and, for ninety minutes only, all clubs - from the mega-rich masters to the small change servants - are created equal.

Proper order too, say I. Enough words have been written about the disfigurement of the beautiful game, about how football has sold its soul, and about how a people's pure passion has been soiled by the dirty corporate hand and the mad excesses of its not so super stars. There's truth in that too, of course, though not as much as the back page magnification would have you believe.

Doubtless, you'll also hear a few mutterings of discontent from the home brigade, expressions of snobbish disgust that Irish soccer fans can get so worked up over the Premiership while their own league down the road is played out, for the main, in front of sparse attendances.

Well, yes, in a ideal world it would be nice if the good sides in the eircom League, and individual class acts like George O' Callaghan, Wes Hoolahan, Pat McCourt and others, were rewarded with the full houses their efforts deserve. But they're not, and berating devotion to the English rather than the Irish is about as helpful as telling hip-hop devotees that they should really be listening to sean nos. But why should it be either/or? For sure, in common with people all over the world, many Irish fans have their heads turned by the hard-sell glamour of the Premiership, but while the conspicuous consumption of merchandise and pay-per-view may be more visible and costly nowadays, the basic impulse is pretty much the same as it ever was - or at least as far back as when I was a kid going to a thronged, throbbing Milltown at the same time as my other footie-mad mates were proud to wear the reds of Liverpool or Man U or the gold of Wolves. (Yep, that's how long ago it was).

Here's the thing: for all the flaws and failings of Premiership football, it can still be the business, and not just a business. That's why many of us will feel an extra spring in our step this morning, at the prospect of the best football in this part of the world beginning its regular invasion of our lives.

There is much to look forward to, not least of which is the opportunity to see if Mourinho and Chelsea are a one-off or something more substantial. (I think we know the answer, actually). And what red-blooded football fan wouldn't relish the prospect of seeing Duffer weaving his magic on the wing, or Henry defying the limitations of space and time, or Rooney pulling something sensational out of the hat? And then there'll be the ones who could well slip in under the radar, like Yossi Benayoun, the gifted Israeli playmaker who is already all too familiar to Irish fans and who can now be expected to have the Hammers blowing bubbles when he settles in at Upton Park.

And, in terms of challenges to the big three, I have a sneaking feeling too that Spurs are on the verge of recapturing former glories after too many years as extras in the main feature.

And, by the way, doesn't it feel good to be able to talk of the big three? Those who are already confirmed ABC's seem to have forgotten, almost overnight, the red duopoly which lasted for more than a decade.

AND while Chelsea, especially with the bustling Drogba as their spearhead, may be too direct for the liking of many, even arch-critic Arsene Wenger must envy the wing wizardry of Duff and Robben, the iron composure and leadership of Terry, and now the prospect of Shaun Wright-Phillips stepping up to challenge Frank Lampard in a competition to burst the top corner of the net from 30 yards.

So, on the day that's in it, there's every reason to accentuate the positive, though that won't stop me taking this opportunity to make a couple of small but heartfelt requests for some necessary change. For one thing, could commentators please, please, please come up with an alternative to that most hardened and hoary of cliches, the one which tells us that the wall has - altogether now - "done its job." And on a more substantial note, in a world in which football is a comparative triviality, albeit a magnificent, absorbing and at best life-enhancing one, could anyone who is tempted try and refrain from describing an own goal - even one which blows the title or confirms relegation - as a disaster or a tragedy.

When temptation does strike, a handy rule of thumb is to recall Andres Escobar of Colombia. His o.g. in the 1994 World Cup was not a tragedy; his murder afterwards was.

But today, the first of the new season in England, is one on which to savour the eternal excitements of the grand old game: the action, the atmosphere, the results, the shocks, the "early contender for goal of the season, Brian." Like U2 say: it's a beautiful day. And, for football lovers everywhere, here's hoping it's the first of many.

And for the football lovers of Wigan, not just the last.