FORGIVE me, for I have sinned. I am not interested in football - nor am I interested in the World Cup.

I never read the sports pages of the national newspapers - sorry Rooney, but there’d be no point; they may as well be written in a foreign language.

If conversation turns, by some extraordinary lack of vigilance on my part, to football I will simply drift off into my own little non-soccer world.

The first note of the Match of the Day theme tune and I’m off.

If I’m in male company, and they are glued to Lineker’s ramblings, I’ll flounce off in a strop - which ultimately gets me nowhere as they barely notice I’ve left the room.

The forthcoming several weeks are, to me, nothing more than a grim product of our male-dominated media.

The fact remains that women’s football is largely ignored by the television - despite the conspicuous success of England women’s football team.

And as for a female sports editor on a national paper - don’t bother looking. So when it comes to watching a bunch of overpaid giant babies play the World Cup, then doing the ironing, or even having a Brazilian wax, looks a whole lot more fun.

The Child, however, like millions of others, loves football.

She plays in a girls’ squad and thinks nothing of holding her own in footballrelated adult conversation.

She will, undoubtedly, be glued to every single match, which means I, too, will be participating in the watching of the alleged “Beautiful Game.”

Take Saturday night for example. The Child and I went to our friends’ place for supper. It was a beautiful evening, clear skies and a whispering breeze. We enjoyed French beers on the terrace until 7.30pm.

And then my friend Nick ushered us all into his lounge. No excuses. No arguments. All of us aged between one and 83 were forced to watch the England game.

England scored a goal, (possibly three minutes in, but I can’t be sure), and it was replayed at least a million times from as many different angles.

Okay so Gerrard scored a goal. Big deal. Isn’t that his job? Isn’t that why he is paid £100,000 each week?

For God's sake. Footballers don’t even need opposable thumbs, as long as they can persuade someone to tie their laces. And is it really necessary that IF we score, the goal is then repeated at least 22 times during one single match?

Then there was the Robert Green debacle.

The Child announced David James would never have allowed the USA shot in.

She pipes up: “The trouble with Green is that although he is a brilliant shot-stopper - he is a bit of a vampire when it comes to crosses.”

I think she meant he tends to hide - like Dracula from sunlight – but I didn’t like to ask for fear of the question being met with gales of laughter at ‘silly old mum.’ Actually, I'm quite impressed at this knowledge she has acquired from somewhere I cannot fathom.

And it is for her love of football alone that I invested in a proper television complete with Freeview - a far cry from our former postage stamp-size TV with four channels.

So while I might not be able to summon up much enthusiasm for the game, at least I no longer have complaints about needing binoculars to see the screen.