It’s tough being the England coach

Apologies for the lack of blog activity over the last couple of weeks, but I’ve been on England duty. My role within the England set-up was a little clearer than David Beckham’s (a suit, on the bench? Bah!) My World Cup campaign started with a good luck exchange of texts with the training ground at Royal Bafokeng (true, I swear), and the purchase of a vuvuzela. I also downloaded the vuvuzela app, in case of urgent need.

As assistant coach, my duties were manifold. Troy, my husband, was the actual coach, along with thousands of portly beer swillers sporting England shirts.

I had to check the iCal for fixtures, ensuring that no social activity, and as little work as possible, was scheduled to clash. I had to cancel my plans to go for a romantic weekend in Bruges, and arrange our anniversary dinner at a restaurant where we could watch a match. Last year, Troy had the best anniversary present ever, when Terry Venables turned up at the restaurant, and presented him with an autograph. I had to arrange our squad of GoGo Crazy Bones to mirror the starting eleven, which is no mean feat as Fabio wasn’t giving me much notice. At least this year I didn’t have a bloody wall chart to update.

But most of all, I had to keep down the male angst levels. A recent study showed that watching England play generated the same amount of anxiety as going through a divorce, or moving house. On the night of our first match we were at a wedding. Troy was so stressed about not watching, that he absconded - with the band, mind you - to the pub. That evening, the London Ambulance service recorded 40% more calls than normal, generally to deal with drunk supporters.

Domestic violence soars during the World Cup. The logical conclusion therefore is that women and NHS staff should be delighted once England get sent home, but I suspect that’s not true.

So, the GoGo’s went to charity and the vuvuzela mysteriously disappeared. As I hadn’t got round to putting flags on my G-Wiz, I was spared the emotional trauma of removing them. A final sheepish commiserative text to Rustenborg for a safe journey home, and my World Cup was over.

I am currently considering my future role in the squad.