Breakfast memories of Motty

I am going to miss my armchair family now that this World Cup is finally over. Having stuck with BBC whenever possible, I have become very attached to Gary and his crew.

They have been in my house so often - for breakfast and lunch, not to mention the occasional drink - that I am half-expecting an invitation from one of them to pop round for supper. And perhaps a few tips on where to buy clothes.

Gary Lineker has become an ideal to which one might aspire in times of deep emotional stress. When life on the pitch is manifestly unfair, and decisions made that suggest the involvement of the Russian mafia, Gary has been there for me. He has a voice seemingly incapable of being raised, and a fund of sweet reason that even Alan Hansen could not exhaust.

Quite the best sidekick has been Wrighty, who has looked throughout like a man who was prepared to pull on his boots at a moment's notice and help out.

His quip yesterday about Ronaldo using a length of rope to floss his front teeth had the unmistakable stamp of true dressing-room humour.

My other great fascination is the way that Martin O'Neill's spectacles have cast a variety of reflections on his nose.

But the Golden Tonsils award has to go to Motty. Clearly stung by ill-informed criticism in the British press, he announced, during the course of a particularly recondite anecdote, that he would be making no mention of food. No matter: for me, the breakfast sausages will sizzle on forever.