Having two x chromosomes I know my World Cup limitations. This is not necessarily coloured by the fact that I'm Scottish, but yes, it may be compounded.  Despite being married to an Englishman and having two children and one grandchild living in England, I am unmoved. This lady is not for turning.  When asked which team do I support, my stock answer is 'whoever England is playing.' This is not down to my northern team loyalty, it's just in my genes. I hope you're impressed, I'm throwing in a biology lesson as well as Phys. Ed.

So having laid the ground rules, it was with great delight that I read the headline 'England Team in the Toilet'.  Now, living in France I fully understand dodgy toiletting arrangements and I can also imagine a bad case of the pre-match collywobbles, but the whole team?  Come on guys, I know  that most of the time you play like a bunch of big Jessies (quaint Northern expression for pansies), but you're not in nursery school when one child puts his hand up and you all have to go.

Oh No! Silly me. The headline was not to be taken literally - although now the England team may be wishing it were so and they would have been excused Sunday's ousting. They were hardly flushed with success. For me, you could pull the plug on them all, they could all stay in there until the loo roll runs out.  Perhaps one player, the one with the GCSE in Woodwork or Religious Studies could be allowed out to explain in all seriousness the offside rule. It would be tricky without the condiment set I know, but a roll of toilet paper and a bar of soap could be substituted and we girls could feign interest. Of course, anything that can be so easily explained or versatily ( I know, it's not a word, but it should be) illustrated is hardly rocket science, but let's not tell them that girls or they may take their balls home.

I am firmly with Emma Bomberg on this one and that anyone who watches three games of football in a row should be declared brain dead. So I find myself on Sunday at a World Cup BBQ, held, I have to confess, at my son's home in London. What kind of mother are you? I can hear you screaming.  Under normal footballing circumstances he supports Dundee United which is just about permissible, although remember we are talking here about grown men kicking a ball around, millionaires to a man; where there's balls there's brass.

Dear reader, you will be relieved that yours truly did make a stand (well a seat) against watching the match and encouraging the enemy and male testosterone in general. I sat in the garden, feet in my granddaughter's paddling pool, sipping Pimms and listening to the  groans and gasps from those who felt it necessary to watch the toilet escapees wish they were safely back in the bog.