I have lived abroad since the late 70s and, by 1990 my sense of patriotism was still high and, being an ardent football fan, I was really looking forward to Italia 90.

My eldest son, then 7, could not help but be infected with my enthusiasm and, although he had a tenuous grasp of football at that stage, dutifully watched the opening games by my side. He soon understood this it is much more fun to watch football if you support a team and, through a 7 year olds eyes, the concept of nationial loyalty came a poor second to bright colours and cool kits so he chose Holland (orange shirts) and Germany (a lightening bolt design on their shirts). As you can imagine, this aberration on his part had to be swiftly corrected so I had a serious talk with him which, of course, only meant that he would regularly shout "I love Holland / Germany" at me whereupon I would dutifully shriek with anguish and chase him, Keystone Cops like, around the kitchen to whoops of laughter, this was a great game (for him, got a bit tiring for me).

Another trick I tried was to threaten to take him out of my passport. The previous year, we had been home to England to visit my parents and I had added him to my passport instead of his mothers which was a big deal for him as it had given him some playground kudos. Again, the sequence was a derogatory remark about England on his part followed by a “if you say that again I’ll take you out of my passport” at which point he would look to the beacon of reason and truth (ie his mother) with a "does he really mean that" look and, of course, got a reply to the negative, where upon another cry of "England is rubbish" ensued followed by more Keystone Coppery.

As the tournament wore on however, undoubtedly influenced by my increasing levels of insanity, he stopped the taunting and started to sit dutifully beside me as we rode the England roller coaster of emotions, now a firm England fan. Then came the semi final. To him, I must have seemed like a person possessed as kick off time approached, pacing up and down, calling friends in England to discuss the tactics etc (remember, no SMS, Twitter or even internet in those days to take the edge off). We sat through the game, my levels of hysteria constantly reaching new peaks and when the final penalty was missed I honestly can’t remember what I did but I’m sure a degree of howling, arms thrown into the air and (mild) profanities were in the mix. Anyway, the point was that my son saw his father out of control for a brief period, and when I looked at him I saw to my horror that he was crying his eyes out, I started to move towards him to comfort him but he shot off the sofa and ran bawling to his room. Now I’m sure that the parents among you will agree with me that there is nothing so gut wrenching as seeing your small child crying real tears, especially when you are the reason for said tears.

I looked at Mrs W who shot me one of her “now look what you’ve done. If you don’t fix this immediately you will suffer in ways you cannot even begin to comprehend” looks. This was not the first (or last) time I had seem this look but I have never seen it laced with the same intensity as that evening.

I dutifully trudged off to my son’s bedroom, sat by his bed and tried to console the sobbing child by explain that it really wasn't so important, it’s only a game – sob, sob – look son, I’m sorry, I wasn’t really that upset, I was only playing – sob, sob..It’s all your fault!!! – I know love, listen I’m really sorry but I’m really not that bothered, its only football etc, at which point my son turned his head and looked at me through puffy, tear swollen eyes and said “it IS all your fault, if you hadn’t threatened to take me out of your passport, I would have been supporting Germany”

Kids eh?