IMAGE is everything when it comes to football. These days, it's more important to look good than play well.

That's why Jack, aged nine, went to football training in a damp Arsenal strip and a sulk on Saturday.

Mum, displaying alarming misjudgement, hadn't got the red and white kit ready in time. The socks were dry but, with under an hour to kick-off, the shirt sleeves were moist and so were the shorts.

A desperate race against time began. The shirt and shorts were left on the radiator until the last minute, with Jack pacing up and down like an expectant father, ringing his hands and checking the clock every 15 seconds.

"Why not wear your Arsenal away kit?" I suggested when it became clear that the race was being lost. The blue shirt and matching shorts were perfectly dry in his wardrobe.

"I haven't got the away socks yet," he mumbled. (It has to be said that Arsenal away socks aren't easy to find in the North-East.)

"Well, you could wear the away shirt and shorts, and the home socks - it won't matter," I reassured him.

He flashed me a look of utter disgust which, despite no words being spoken, said it all. I should have known better. After all, blue shirt, blue shorts and white socks just don't go, do they?

And yet, there is something even more important to Jack's footballing career than a dry pair of shorts and the right coloured socks - his hair.

Before football training every week, he goes through the same, painful routine. He stands in front of the bathroom mirror, spiking up his quiff with the help of his tube of Brylcreem Ultragel.

He teases it, cajoles it, reprimands it, and talks to it like an untrained puppy: "Oh come on... don't do this to me... don't be stupid... no, not that way... come on, come on... stand up... yes, that's it... right, stay there... stay... sta-a-a-ay..."

It can take up to half an hour to get right and when you've invested that long in something, the last thing you want to do is mess it up.

And that may well explain why Jack has reached a major crossroads in his life: should he be a midfielder or a goalie? He'd probably rather be a midfielder but being a goalie has one huge advantage: you don't generally have to head the ball.

Heading the ball plays havoc with quiffs so Jack decided to spend his life savings - £14.76 - on a pair of goalie gloves. "Dad, Dad, I've bought a mint pair of silver goalie gloves," he told me in an excited telephone call to work.

An hour later, the phone rang again, but this time his mood was downbeat: "Dad, something terrible has happened. I've only just noticed that my gloves have got Fabien Barthez written on them."

"Not Fabien Barthez," I groaned.

Fabien Barthez plays in goal for our biggest rivals, Manchester United, and no self-respecting Arsenal fan can be seen dead wearing his gloves. To make matters worse, Barthez is completely bald so he has no need of Brylcreem Ultragel.

"Can't you take them back?" I asked.

" No, I've got them all muddy," he replied.

This was clearly an emergency, but by the time I got home from work, Jack had worked out two possible options.

The first was to stick some matching silver tape over the offending words.

"Or I can write 'stinks' in black felt tip under his name. What do you think, Dad?" he added.

We've decided the tape will suffice.

After all, we don't want to be childish about it, do we?

THE THINGS THEY SAY

THIRTY years ago, Hazel Davies, secretary of the Durham branch of the Marks & Spencer Retired Staff Association, was travelling on a bus from Sunderland to Durham.

It was winter and a little lad in the seat in front got up on his knees and started drawing with his finger on the steamed-up windows.

His mother told him to stop and sat him down again, but the child kept getting up and continuing his drawing.

"That's enough," she scolded him when he defied her a third time. "When we get home, I'm going to tell your Daddy what a naughty boy you've been."

The response from the boy was immediate: "When I see my Daddy I'm going to tell him you weed in our new plastic bucket."

As laughter spread through the bus, she grabbed him and said: "Come on, we're getting off."

"But this isn't our stop," protested the boy.

"Well it is today," she declared.

Hazel has never forgotten it in 30 years - nor stopped wondering why the woman came to need the new plastic bucket.

JOE Caygill, aged three, was having a story read to him by his Grandma. His Grandad and his Mum were also in the room at the time.

When she'd finished, Grandma said to Joe: "It's your turn to read me a story."

Joe decided he'd tell the tale about Jack and the Beanstalk and promptly began to dish out roles.

"I'll be Jack," he announced. "And Grandad, you can be the giant."

Then, looking first at his Mum and then at his Grandma, he added: "Right, who wants to be the big fat cow?"

* Grandma is Pat Harker, chair of Hummersknott Townswomen's Guild in Darlington.

Published: 24/03/2003