Trap: Truth of me and Spurs

"No, she wouldn't speak to me for 10 days," he reflected ruefully. "She was having sleepless nights at the thought of missing Milan and being so far away from her two children and two grandchildren."

It got worse when Trapattoni went to London. Twice. He found Levy charming, thought Spurs had a 'bella squadra' and wasn't even put off by watching them twice at White Hart Lane. He spent hours on the phone to his suitors and admits that if Paola had agreed, the pair would "probably" have been Tottenhambound once he had concluded his business with the Italian national squad at Euro 2004.

He still may. "Because it's not like getting an offer from Foggia, is it?" he grinned. "I mean no offence to Foggia, but Foggia isn't London. London is one of the great cities of the world which offers the possibility of a great experience."

In his desk planner, he showed me the credo - penned, he believes, by a French philosopher - which he has always followed: The future for the weak is unachievable; for the frightened, it's unknown; and for the courageous, it's a new opportunity.

But though Trap loves the new opportunity and the big challenge, he evidently loves his Paola more. "I spent a lot of time trying to convince her (about the Tottenham job) but the fact that she was unhappy upset me too, so I decided 'Focus on Euro 2004 and then see what happens afterwards'."

The man's charm - he reminds you disconcertingly of Lloyd Bridges in Airplane mode - tempts you to believe he could still persuade her. After all, he did once manage Bayern Munich to the Bundesliga title. So what did Paola do then? "She stayed in Milan and drove 250 miles every weekend to see me," he explained.

Yet even if he understands why Tottenham can't hang around waiting for him, he does not sound like a man who has completely ruled out the move.

On the contrary. "I am very enthusiastic about the prospect (of the job)," he said through an interpreter, intriguingly using the present tense.

He raves about everyone from Robbie Keane to, more alarmingly, Helder Postiga, after watching a couple of games at the Lane. He couldn't quite remember who they were playing, but then he is 65 years old.

"Ah, but I train with the national team every day. I am 40 in here," he said, tapping the side of his head and, in one fell swoop, doing his best to rubbish the two main arguments used to suggest why, for all his unmatched coaching achievements, he would never now make it in England. That is, he is too old and his English could not cope.

"I appreciate the language barrier would be difficult, but I am a great communicator and have good rapport with the players," he countered. Actually, his English, learned oddly during his time at Bayern, is probably not much worse than his friend Claudio Ranieri's.

In any language, though, he could talk and talk for Italy. Yesterday, for an hour-and-a-half, he discussed everything from Steven Gerrard's burgeoning greatness to his bid to coax Paolo Maldini out of international retirement for one last assignment. "I collared him at Milan's celebration party on Sunday night but he was more focused on his holidays than coming back to the national squad."

Then it was on to his fondness for spraying around holy water on the touchline - a must at White Hart Lane, of course. "It gets rid of any negativity," he explained. "But it doesn't guarantee victory. Er, because everyone would be doing it otherwise."

Twice during our conversation, his mobile rang. It was his players and he told them, sorry, he would have to talk later because he was busy. On the eve of announcing his Euro 2004 squad, I could only applaud his admirable decision to put a natter with English journos first!

Then there was the weird venue for the interview. An exhaust-fitting centre in the Milan suburbs owned by Trap's pal where you walk through a garage and suddenly stumble into his rented office dripping with more baubles than you would find in the trophy room of most major European clubs. It was like meeting Sven at your local KwikFit.

Yet he could teach Eriksson a thing or two with his refreshing band of easy-going openness allied to the odd Vesuvius eruption. You could picture why his compatriots see him, as we treat Sir Bobby Robson, as a national monument.

If the marvellous Trap ever did make it in England, the thought nagged away, we might not miss the departing Ranieri so much. Sadly, though, Paola will probably never let us find out.