Terry Venables had his finger in more pies than Eamonn Holmes, yet also got an easy ride

The Toughest Job in Football, Sky called it, and we all wondered what it could be. Peter Crouch’s barber? Roy Keane’s dog? Fergie’s gum-taster? Everton spectator? It was none of these. No, the toughest job in football is England manager. Oh yes, the job that pays £4 million a year with free round-the-world travel and a guaranteed passport to the knickers of the tastiest secretaries in the office. A real tough job, but some clown’s gotta do it.

The current incumbent, of course, is Sven Goran Eriksson, whose track record of picking the wrong women (the Swedish and Asian kiss-and-yells) is matched only by his record of picking the wrong players (Chris Powell, Peter Crouch, Owen Hargreaves). In fact, some would argue that if Sven had bedded rather than capped those players and fielded rather than f***ed the women, he would be held in far higher esteem.

It’s my suspicion that Eriksson is the biggest con-trick ever perpetrated on English football and that any day now Johnny Vaughan will pop up and explain it’s all been a hideously expensive Channel 4 stunt. And nothing in The Toughest Job in Football made me change my mind.

Turnips and Swedes

We were supposed to feel sympathy for the Swede and his predecessors – the turnips – because of the treatment they received from the press. But they all walked into the job with their eyes open: they knew success would make them national heroes, and failure would make them figures of fun. It was a risk they were willing to take.

Sure, some of the flak they copped was cruel (especially in Graham Taylor’s case), but much of it was deserved (especially in Graham Taylor’s case). Yet Sky chose not to dwell on their many failings. Taylor was the man held up to public ridicule by the unforgettable Do I Not Like That documentary, yet not a single mention of it was made by narrator and writer Jim White.

Don Revie high-tailed it out of the England job riding a camel, but was given kid-glove treatment. Terry Venables had his finger in more pies than Eamonn Holmes, yet also got an easy ride. And I don’t know what your views are on reincarnation – I’ve believed in it ever since I was a young hamster – but that was the sole reason given for Glenn Hoddle’s fall from grace. There was no mention of his ill-judged World Cup Diary that crucified some of the players he later recalled. No mention, either, of the disaster he made of man-management, if not England management.

In all these cases, the pillorying they received from the press was largely merited. In all these cases, they had taken a plum job and made a pig’s ear of it.

Bobby Robson was perhaps the exception. It turns out the merciless treatment of Robson in the Daily Mirror was instigated not by editorial executives looking to bump up sales but by former publisher Robert Maxwell, who was bumped off while sailing (if you believe the theories). However, it’s doubtful that even after his cruel treatment, Robson would ever call managing England the toughest job in football. How could he when he went on to manage Newcastle? And that was the big downfall of a documentary that failed abysmally to live up to its title. The toughest job in football? It’s not even a proper job.

Travesty in the UK

What’s that saying about the sins of the father? It’s obviously baloney because in recent months the offspring of vilified figures have won the affection of the nation, while the son of a much-loved hero has become a figure of public scorn. Carole Thatcher, the daughter of darkness, won I’m A Celebrity and Shayne Ward, the son of a rapist, took first place in The X Factor. But Calum Best, son of George, was snubbed by Celebrity Love Island viewers and has since become tabloid fodder.

God must have come to earth on the day Calum was born and given him the choice of his father’s footballing talent or his bedroom prowess. A tough decision: on the one hand, you could seduce the most fantastic-looking women in Britain, on the other, you have five fingers. However, bed babes is all he ever seems to do, and it’s pissing me off. You accepted it from George. Every new Miss World had the honour of wearing a tiara for the night and George for the year, but the Irishman also knew how to keep the menfolk happy with his talent on the pitch. Best Jnr, though, knows only one way to score.

Maybe I shouldn’t have been shocked that Carole won I’m A Celebrity – this is, after all, the country that voted Margaret Thatcher into power. But shocked I was. Her victory over warm and friendly runner-up Sheree was painful. For the pocket, definitely – but mostly for what it said about Britain. And that last sentence applies to Shayne’s victory in The X Factor: he couldn’t hold a candle to runner-up Andy Abraham. But the winner is white, like every winner of every British TV reality/talent show decided by public vote. The runner-up is black. That’s Britain for you.