NO matter what happens to England tomorrow, it's been a World Cup to remember. For the first time as a dad, I've had a World Cup ally - football-mad Jack, aged eight - to share the settee, the ecstasy and the agony. He's phoned me at work to discuss great goals and surprise results. We've religiously filled in the wall chart on his bedroom wall. And we've danced round the room when England have scored.

Yes, it's been a memorable World Cup - but it hasn't been without its trials and tribulations.

First there was the 'football fun day' at school to cash in on World Cup fever and raise funds. There were dribbling competitions, penalty shoot-outs, kids' matches and, most exciting of all, an adults' five-a-side tournament.

In a rash moment, I not only offered to select a team but to provide the trophy as well. It was duly bought from a local shop and engraved with the words: "Hurworth Primary School Dads Five-A-Side Champions."

"You can't present that," said my wife, coldly, when I collected the trophy from the engravers the day before the tournament.

"Why not?" I asked.

"You'll be lynched - there are MUMS' teams playing."

Mums? This was more serious than David Beckham's metatarsal. I raced back to the engravers minutes before closing time and breathlessly explained the dilemma.

"Mmm, I can see it could lead to bother," mused the obliging shop-owner.

"Not half," I replied, "there are some very scary mums at our school."

By the following morning, the word 'parents' had mercifully replaced 'dads' and I breathed a sigh of relief, reflecting on the fact that Sven Goran Eriksson doesn't know how lucky he is to only have to pick the team, sort out the tactics and deal with the odd injury crisis.

Anyway, my team (Men United) crashed out in the semi-final, after putting up a gallant display for blokes our age, and the trophy was presented without a hint of controversy to a team of dads, the mums' teams all having lost in the first round.

A few days later, Jack and his friend Ben challenged me to game of footie in the garden. It led to one of the most utterly frustrating conversations I've ever had. "We'll be France, and you and Max can be England," suggested Jack. "I'll be Zinedine Zidane and Ben's Thierry Henry."

"OK," I agreed. "I'll be David Beckham (naturally) and who are you gonna be, Max?"

"Zizzazine Zizzane," announced Max, aged five.

"No, you can't be - we're England."

"I want to be Zizzazine Zizzane!" he insisted.

"You can't, he's French. Be Michael Owen or Rio Ferdinand."

"No. Wanna be Zizzazine Zizzane."

"Well, you can't."

At that point, Max had a tantrum and ran off into the house, leaving David Beckham to take on Zinedine Zidane and Thierry Henry alone.

France had just taken an early, disputed lead when Mum appeared at the back door and shouted: "What's wrong with Max?"

"He wants to be Zinedine Zidane and he can't because we're England," I explained.

"Does it really matter?" she asked. (Clearly a stupid question but after my close shave over the trophy I didn't want to say so in case I was red carded for sexism.)

"Yes, it matters," I said, displaying admirable temperament under pressure. "We're England and Zinedine Zidane is French."

Then came a comment which made me realise that there are times when it's just not worth arguing: "Oh just let him be Zinedine Zidane - England could have bought him."

"ENGLAND COULD NOT HAVE BOUGHT HIM - HE'S BLOODY FRENCH," I found myself screaming.

But it didn't end there: "There are plenty of foreign footballers playing in this country," she went on.

I gave up, stormed into the house and yelled: "Max, come downstairs you can be Zinedine Zidane." He could have been Skippy the bush kangaroo for all I cared.

England lost 5-0: Zinedine Zidane scored three and Thierry Henry Two. Zizzazine Zizzane also played (badly) in goal for England and David Beckham went in search of the wine bottle.

Like I said earlier, Sven doesnt know he's born.

THE THINGS THEY SAY

TOLD by teacher Frances Carroll, at Ripon Ladies Luncheon Club last week...

Fin, aged four, was thrilled to bits when she was asked to be the Virgin

Mary in the school nativity. However, the next day there was a sudden change of heart: "I don't want to be the Virgin Mary under any circumstances," she declared.

Her teacher - desperate to persuade her because Fin had long, blonde hair and was perfect for the part - tried in vain to change her mind. Her mum also tried but Fin did not wish to discuss the matter.

As a last throw of the dice, Grandma was despatched to pick her up from school and talk to her on the way home.

"Everyone thinks you'd make a lovely Virgin Mary, you know. Why don't you want to do it?" coaxed Grandma gently.

"Because Joseph keeps making horrible smells," replied Fin, sharply.

FATHERS' DAY

FATHERS' Day brought me Abba's greatest hits and a lovely box of toffees (Thorntons best). The first toffee was crunchier than expected. That's because it had removed a filling and taken half the tooth with it. This week's column was therefore written in agony while awaiting a dental appointment...

I HAPPENED to mention my toothache during the silver jubilee dinner of the Inner Wheel Club of Bishopwearmouth at the Regency Rooms in New Seaham on Tuesday night.

It turned out that the president's husband Gordon Herdman got a box of Thorntons toffees for Fathers' Day too. He and wife Jane had just started scoffing them in front of the television when they had to leave in a hurry after a call telling them their

baby grandson was ill.

All turned out well, but when they arrived home, the box was lying empty and licked clean under the coffee table. Labradors Bess and Sally looked guilty - especially Bess who was shivering under the kitchen table.

Both have been "grounded" but, as far as anyone can tell, they still have all their teeth.

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