English footie itself may no longer be a pull, but the trimmings are

I've found myself not watching Spanish football. For several years, I never missed La Liga stuff on Saturday and Sunday evenings on Sky. Yet their top teams are still excellent. Barcelona might have been poor against Chelsea, but normally they are so exciting. A few weeks ago I did catch Barcelona v Valencia and it was brilliant, with a level of all-round skill only Arsenal and Man United can match, and even then only in patches. So why didn't I tune in the following week?

It could be because of Becks and Real Madrid, a once-godlike figure crumbling before our eyes in a sad, fading team. It's somehow cruel to scrutinise the Madrid subs' bench, hoping for a glimpse of his feelings as he wonders whether he'll ever come on again.

I also used to watch to see if Michael Owen or Jonathan Woodgate was getting a game. It did give a certain extra interest, having a few of our lads out there, in some foreign field, doing the business on our behalf. Now they are back - not playing in England, as opposed to not playing in Spain.

Is it because our own League football has suddenly got so much better? Hardly. But what we lack in quality we make up in quantity. There are now so many games at the weekend that I'm knackered, footballed-out, by Sunday evening.

And it's all so interesting, with much to ponder about should the game itself be boring. The pitches, for a start. I love grazing, I mean gazing at them. Not just the wonderful condition but the manicuring. There is obviously a secret code among groundsmen, who send signals to each other depending on the width and shape of the stripes and patterns. In the old days, it was all mud at this time of the year. Now it's turf topiary.

Benches have become fascinating. Not the poor sods sitting on them, forced to accept a million a year for doing bugger all, but the upholstery. By definition, a bench was a bit of wood for sitting on. Now they are padded leather armchairs with high backs and scrolls. It's as if they are sitting in the House of Lords. No wonder subs look as if they've fallen asleep.

The stadiums themselves are now so attractive, even at the so-called humble clubs such as Sheffield United and Reading, up from the lesser ranks. I test myself, when it's Match of the Day, by studying the roofs and skylines and asking myself, Where are we? Why are we here? Questions all philosophers enjoy failing to answer.

As for the Emirates, I'm dying to go there to admire the lines and hear if there are any new chants. At Highbury, when the fans grew bored, they'd shout, "We are North Bank, Highbury" or "Clock End, Clock End, give us a wave." The references went back 90 years. Now, with the geography and nomenclature so new, what can they possibly be singing?

Then, of course, our native commentators provide endless delight. Ian Darke, covering Man United and Wigan, kindly passed on our congratulations to the Wigan defender Arjan de Zeeuw, "whose wife has just given birth to his fourth child this week". Four in a week! Some going.

When there's a Man City game, TV viewers are given excellent close-ups of the cuddly toy Stuart Pearce has by his side in the dugout. His daughter gave it to him for good luck. Pretty soppy, especially when we remember what a hard, no-nonsense man "Psycho" was on the pitch.

Spanish stuff just can't compete for depth of interest. When I told my son this, he said he'd done the opposite. He much prefers watching La Liga. Football fans - fun people, aren't they, eh . . .

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