Sven should fax in the team sheet, then watch at home like the rest of us

I sometimes wonder why Sven bothers to go to England games. He clearly has no role, nothing to do, a spare Swede at a veggie gathering. His staff won't even sit beside him, judging by several glimpses of him at the Poland match, where he was on the bench all on his own, both seats either side empty. Poor sod, I thought, he's run out of Big Issues to sell.

Presumably he does wander into the dressing room at half-time, looks around in a daze, offers a few banalities that are either ignored or have the reverse effect, as England usually do worse in the second half. Then, towards the end, when things get tough, he becomes transfixed, unable to stand up, far less shout, swear, jump about and punch the air, the way it shows you in all football management manuals.

Before and afterwards, he's awfully nice to them, so Gary Neville has told us, loving and caring for them, listening to their moans, soothing egos, giving in to their whims, holding their hands, wiping their bums - which is a useful role, do not mock, all players need that sort of attention. On the other hand, they already have people who perform that function: their mums.

So what is the point of Sven? England have been so jammy, landed in the cushiest group, yet Sven is going to put us through agonies over the next, how long, I have the fixture list somewhere, oh no, we have a whole year to go, until October 2005, before England are safely into the 2006 World Cup finals.

Of course, England will qualify. Of course, Sven will keep his job. We know all that. What we don't know is what Sven does. The main attractions of his job are the money and the women, excellent motivating forces, whether in politics or pop music, while the football is obviously a bit of a chore. For the next two years, he should stay at home. Send in a fax with the team sheet, then watch it at home on the telly with the rest of us.

I sometimes wonder why players bother to turn up. For internationals, it's optional - if you can't be arsed, you say no - but for League games, they have to make some sort of appearance. Yet once a Premier player reaches his twenties, he's a multimillionaire, with all the women he can eat, all the houses he can sleep with, no need to work for the rest of his life. So how rotten, how beastly it must be for him to have nasty managers and coaches screaming at him all day, sometimes being forced to play in a position he doesn't fancy. Then there are fans booing, the press putting in the boot - all so unfair, they just don't understand the pressures, the sleepless nights, the bags under the eyes that make them look 42 not 22, how can they go clubbing like that? Or, in the case of John Terry, 62.

Honestly, I don't know why more of them don't pack it in at 23, stay at home, count the Ferraris. You have to admire them for sticking it out.

I sometimes wonder why I bother going to games. It takes four hours out of your life, in the flesh, when you can have it wall-to-wall on the box from your sofa in less than two hours.

This season, Sky has got even more live games. That's not to mention pay-per-view, which of course I have, Bravo, which I'm still looking for, I don't think it reaches Lakeland unless it's a sheep station, and Sultana, which I think is an Irish channel, plus ITV2 and ITV3 and, of course, basic BBC, all of them now boasting live footer. Last week, on Sky ordinaire, you could watch eight live Euro games in one evening.

What I call my evening lasts from 8pm to 9.59pm, when we run up the stairs, at the double, to catch the peep, peep, peep for The World Tonight on Radio 4. Then we fall asleep, sometimes before the third peep. So that's a two-hour evening. To watch eight live games, getting them on video to view them one after the other - for you can't save them up, can you, there's an avalanche tomorrow - you need evenings lasting not two hours, but 16 hours. Dear God.

I sometimes wonder why I bother living for football. I'm at one with Sven and the players. Really, it's all so exhausting . . .

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