Imagine, if you will, try to picture the scene, a driver, being chased, his face etched with mean. The posse in pursuit prepares to fire; a blast, a screech, there goes the back tyre. The hero appears caught, they have him surrounded – but, oh no, damn, blast and confound it. What, commercials? Now? This doesn’t make sense; you’ve only gone and kill dead the suspense.

The prevalence of time-outs and ad-breaks, incessant pauses in the game’s momentum, turns us Brits off American sport (and US TV). A marketing man’s wet-dream indeed, but for the guys back home, these interminable intermissions quickly become a sordid nightmare. The best games of football and rugby, our two main winter sports, send you on an emotional roller-coaster ride – teams’ fortunes continuously ebbing and flowing, absorbing pressure, trying to press home an advantage, defence turning immediately to attack. Half-time supplies just long enough to catch your breath, recharge the batteries (and beer glasses) before, ding-ding, round two. Time-outs? Give us a break.

Football fever has reached exalted levels (soccer, please – no!). Massive 75,000-seater stadiums, the pantheons of today, pulsate each week with an ever-faithful congregation. For 90 minutes these venues become cathedrals of majestic song: yes, football is our new religion. Supporters follow their teams with energumenical zeal: they worship the great gods Gerrard or Rooney (not Beckham – like Christmas, he’s so last year). And as we’re talking religion, it’s hardly surprising that the occasional skirmish erupts between teams’ disciples (condoned by no-one, I should add). They say the US is sport mad. Maybe so. To UK fans football isn’t simply a matter of life and death: no, it’s considerably more important.

The England national team draws a loyal following too, despite depressingly predictable results since the glory days of the ’66 World Cup victory. Our deep pool of talent habitually underperforms, drowning in the shallow end of their conceit. That said, we are the current Rugby World Champions, beating Australia, in Australia, in the ’03 final. Success has not nurtured further success, alas – our prospects in the forthcoming Six Nations tournament (with Italy, France, Wales, Scotland & Ireland) look sadly rather bleak. Playing for national pride, facing those damned English overlords, seems to inspire old enemies to raise their games, exacting revenge for centuries-old grudges (hey, you might like this?). The Scots down a wee dram of Braveheart and – kerpaw! – transform into mighty highland warriors. Thanks, Mel – add England to your no-go zone (along with Israel, Mexico.).

But at least we play other countries. The World Series victors are hailed as world champions, but, er, what about Japan or Cuba? And it’s a shame your version of football isn’t a global affair. A thought – you could use our blueprint for introducing cricket to the world, and get an Empire. Of course, we subsequently lost the Empire; now the former colonialists enjoy dishing out large dollops of humble pie with all too predictable regularity. We may not like humility’s taste – rather bitter, they say – but it is excellent medication for certain conditions. Please, a slice for our hebetudinous headmen!

Where sport really earns its stripes, though, is as a means for good – healing old wounds and bringing troubled countries together (remember South Africa after Apartheid?). The recent match between Qatar and Iraq, in the Asian Games final, saw a sales-surge of green and white Iraqi national jerseys. Whilst leaders squabbled and militias fought, the rest of the country stopped to watch: unification and nationalism, precious commodities in today’s Iraq.

Sport can be a best friend, or a cruel mistress. The ecstasy of victory, or the agony of defeat. Which will it be this Sunday? Hmm.Time Out!