When in Rome . . .

Having commented previously about the desire, indeed the need, to have a break from football, I was delighted when my better half organised a summer break for us 2,000 miles away from Cornwall.

Unfortunately, her football knowledge is about as good as my cooking, and she chose Italy as our destination. In European Championship year . . .

She thought it would be fine because, after all, England weren't good enough to qualify for Euro 2008. Surely I wouldn't be able to find any football to watch? Wrong.

What we found at the small village of Positano, on the breathtaking Amalfi Coast, was a community of football lovers, Italian style. So I just had to join in, didn't I? It would have been rude not to.

The Italian television commentary may have made little sense to me as I watched Italy humbled by Holland in their opening group game, but I knew just how badly affected the locals were by the 3-0 defeat. The village was quiet at the final whistle.

To make it up to my dear wife, I promised we would go out for a candle-lit meal on the final night of our holiday, at an outdoor restaurant overlooking the Mediterranean. What could be nicer?

Unfortunately, it was Friday night and, yes you've guessed it, Italy were playing again. This time against Romania, and defeat for Italy would lead to their swift exit from the tournament.

We were okay with the starters and the main course as the first half progressed, without too many dramas. Indeed the waiters were incredibly polite. But by the time we were ready to look at the dessert menu, they were camped around the small screen inside and to hell with their customers.

The match had become tense, it was 1-1, and Romania were awarded a penalty. Fortunately the Italian keeper saved it - which meant we finally got served again!

The wife shook her head in dismay. "Is there really no escape from bloody football?" she asked, with an air of desperation in her voice.

"If you can't beat them, join them darling," I ventured.

I'm afraid I am unable to report her reply, in the interests of good taste. It was something to do with going fourth . . . which is just about where Italy were in their group table.

Ciao.

Sky's the limit

When I was a lad - and, yes, it was a while ago - the football season used to end in the middle of May, and the next season didn't start until the middle of August.

You had a decent time to recover from nine months of roller-coaster emotions, and then a few weeks to build up anticipation for the new campaign ahead. Sometimes it seemed to take ages for the season to start.

Not any more. Sky television has seen to that. Even before the end of last season, they were showing promotional adverts about next season, and boasting about pre-season tournaments they'll be showing in July. Meaningless pre-season tournaments of interest to virtually nobody.

It's hard enough trying to find a Premier League match you actually want to watch, without having to consider pre-season nonsense.

More is not better. Don't get me wrong - I am passionate about football and always have been - but we all need a break from the things we love. I like cakes too, but if I was eating them every day, I think I'd soon go off them.

Now we've got four weeks of Euro 2008 to 'look forward' to . . .

Give me a summer's day at a Trent Bridge Test match any time, over watching over-hyped, over-paid and over-here professional footballers who would rather be on the beach.

It's a small world

There I was, minding my own business during a break in play at the Bodmin Town versus Saltash United match, when one of the Priory Park regulars I always try to avoid, popped his head over a fence dividing me and him, and said to me: "Have you only got one coat?"

Immediately I knew what he was getting at. Priory Park can be such a cold ground to watch football that I usually wear the warmest coat I possess, which happens to be a Nottingham Forest coat, with the distinctive Forest logo on the front.

Virtually every time I've attended Bodmin games this season, the walk from my car near the social club down to a position behind the dugouts has been punctured by the sound of this supporter muttering abuse in my direction.

On one occasion I clearly heard him say: "Oh, it's that b***dy Forest fan again."

So I rather guessed he wasn't too keen on the team I have supported since I was eight. But I hadn't realised this bloke was a comedian too.

After asking me whether I only had one coat, before I could answer he added: "You must have, because that coat's had seagull sh*t down it all season!"

He was referring, of course, to the white Forest badge on my black coat. How he laughed.

Then he asked me if I was from 'up there' and I said yes, I was from Long Eaton.

"That's in Derbyshire - you should be a Derby fan, not a Forest fan."

"Well then," I replied. "I had a lucky escape didn't I."

"What do you mean?" he scowled, "I'm a Derby fan. I'm from Derby."

I just knew there was a reason I didn't like the man.

Small world, though, isn't it?

Getting the better of Sir Tim Rice

This profession has brought me into contact with many famous people over the past 33 years - but I have to say I never thought I would compete in a singing contest on live radio with Sir Tim Rice.

Sir Tim is a great lover of the game of cricket, of course, but on this occasion it wasn't the sound of leather on willow which gave us a common denominator . . . but Lee Marvin's never-to-be-forgotten number one song, Wandering Star.

When I have the opportunity - work commitments allowing - I like to listen to David White's excellent morning show on BBC Radio Cornwall when, for the first half hour, he plays several big hits and asks listeners to text or email in with their guesses at the mystery year.

Unless The Beatles are played, I tend to get the answer wrong, and I did on this occasion too. David said it was 1970 and once he reveals the year in question, he usually ends the segment by playing the number one from the corresponding week of that year.

This time he said he wouldn't play it because the number one was Wandering Star by Lee Marvin, but he invited listeners to text or email in with their memories of the song.

It just so happens that Wandering Star is what I used to sing to my son to try to get him to sleep when he was a baby in 1983 - and though I say it myself, I did a pretty good job, because the boy always seemed to close his eyes pretty quickly.

He claims he wasn't necessarily asleep, but simply wanted me to stop singing. Children can be so ungrateful - I'm finding that the first 24 years are the worst. Anyway, I digress . . .

In a moment of stupidity, I texted in to David White telling him my memory of Wandering Star and he replied almost immediately, asking if I would go on air to talk about it. I hesitated awhile.

But before I had time to make my mind up, David suddenly introduced over the airwaves none other than Sir Tim Rice, who was listening in from his home in Cornwall. He said he had known the composer of Wandering Star, and recalled Lee Marvin's gravelly rendition of the song which featured in the film Paint Your Wagon.

Before he could end the conversation, though, Sir Tim was asked by cheeky Mr White whether he could sing the song in question - and Sir Tim, being a good sport, obliged.

It wasn't a bad effort, either. But I have to say I thought I could do better, so on I went, explained my story, and then sang my version of Wandering Star to the masses listening in to their local radio station.

David White was impressed, so was the BBC weatherman, who said my version was slightly better than Sir Tim's. Have that!

There I was, sitting in my armchair at home basking in the glory of outdoing Sir Tim Rice, when the next thing I know, they've got my son on the show! It was a set-up, with White and my offspring doing their best to heap embarrassment on me.

They didn't do a bad job, either. But my son's version of Wandering Star came a sad third behind me and Sir Tim. My son, though 24, still has quite a high singing voice. Don't worry, next time I see him I'll make sure I'll find a solution to that.

PS: My apologies to anyone who was driving at the time I was singing on the radio. I have had reports that I sent a number of people off to sleep at the wheel . . .