"What was that strange noise?" asked my wife, when I eventually came to bed. Mice going walkabout, I suggested, a red squirrel snoring, Herwicks coughing, a fox hunting, someone nicking the last of my apples, folks coming back late from the Kirkstile Inn? Could be anything, really.

"It was inside, coming from downstairs, a noise I've never heard before. It sounded like you yawning while watching football . . ." Ridiculous. Don't be potty, pet, I'd never do that, you're wandering, woman, go to sleep.

It had been a long, hard evening. By a sequence of events, forking out endless subscriptions, fiddling with lots of knobs, I'd been able to watch three live European matches - on BBC1, Sky and Channel 5. What a treat. They overlapped a bit, so I had to flick backward and forward, but it meant I had almost five hours of continuous football, with no pause for half-times. Isn't life grand?

It was during the Leeds game against Maritimo, which didn't start until 9.45pm, that I was aware of my first little yawn. Just slipped out. Followed by a lot of eye-rubbing, jaw-dropping, till, unbelievably, amazingly, the yawns got so bad that I gave up. I came to bed not knowing the score. Didn't find out for two days, because our copy of the Independent never carries late news. It was Postman Pete who told me.

Then, over the weekend, it happened again. I found myself wilting on Sunday afternoon with two live Premier games, one after the other, from two o'clock to six o'clock. But it's got to be done, I told myself. You're not meant always to enjoy yourself when you're enjoying yourself.

Saturday had been even more knackering, what with Football Focus at lunchtime, Radio 5 Live in the afternoon, a live Scottish match at 5.35pm, the Premiership on ITV, then Spanish football on Sky. Can you have too much of a good thing? I used to think not. If it moves, I'll watch it. I could never knowingly, willingly, turn against footer. So what is going on?

I remember, a year or so ago, arguing with a friend who had taken a scunner against football after years of devotion. It depressed him - all the money, the mercenaries, the cynicism, the lack of loyalty. He wasn't going to go any more, it just wasn't the same. I maintained it had got better - thanks to all the money, all the foreign players. There was a stage in the 1970s when it was poor, the conditions appalling, crowds decreasing, but today I really do think the standard is terrific.

So why have I started yawning? Tiredness, trying to watch up to ten live games a week, at home and in Europe. That must be it. No need to panic. It is a particularly busy time of the season, with all our Brit clubs still alive, still kicking. When most get stuffed, as they certainly will, things won't be as hectic. It will sort itself out. No need for counselling. Or are we all reaching saturation point? Can one have too much football? Am I overdosing on pleasure? Impossible.

While yawning that first evening, I was also thinking of the World Trade Center. Not like me. I do have my priorities. When they cancelled the European games the day after 11 September, I thought, bloody hell, what are they doing, it's not that serious, is it - though I didn't admit it, not out loud.

A day later, having lunch on my own in Cockermouth after my swim, I overheard six different conversations - and not one person was discussing America. At all the surrounding tables, they were talking about either their work or their families. I remarked on this to the waiter, and he said: "Oh, it's old hat, that's yesterday's news." I was quite shocked by their insularity. It was only when walking down Main Street that I heard an old woman say to a young boy, probably her grandson: "I do hope Bush doesn't do anything silly." Country folks do feel cut off, removed from the mainstream, but as the days have gone on I have found myself worrying less about Gazza growing grey, or even Michael Owen's poorly hamstring, than about Bush going ballistic. Is it at long last about to sink in that following football so fanatically is, well, pretty trivial? Then I think, steady on.

I was worried last week, for about ten minutes, when my younger daughter Flora said she thought she was going off shopping. She didn't seem to have the same enthusiasm for it any more, street markets no longer seemed exciting, she didn't know what was wrong with her. Oh, you'll get over it, I said. It's just a passing phase. Pull yourself together.

And that's what I'm going to do. I'm relying on football to keep me happy in the years ahead, when I'll have done working, done walking, and will merely get up each day and slump. Uncle Football will be there for me, wall to wall, morn' till evening, the perfect opiate, from cradle to grave. I can't rethink all that, can I? I'm banking on it.

Then there's the immediate year ahead. Have I not spent a fortune on cable and Sky and pay-per-view nonsenses, £820 for my Spurs season ticket, my half a season ticket for Arsenal? I must have invested around £2,000. I'm certainly not wasting all that just because of a passing spot of boredom, a bit of tiredness, some slight overdosing, a moment of illumination, or whatever it was. And it's World Cup year. So much to look forward to, with Sven's lads, and the Irish, and Scotland, possibly, maybe. Ingerland, Ingerland. I'm getting excited already. You misheard, pet. And even if you were right, it was only a very small yawn . . .

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