WHO wouldn't be besotted by Sven Goran Eriksson? He has everything a date could dream of: intelligence, charm, money, a top job and a Burton suit. According to the people who know him worst, ie journalists, he is attractive, even "bearing a passing resemblance to Kevin Costner" (so says Christa D'Souza who works for the Daily Telegraph: not, I assume, as film critic). He is "an ice-cool technocrat - and a red-hot lover" (according to psychologist and clich salesman Professor Alex Gardner in the Daily Mail).

He's neat and discreet - leaving the shoes outside the bedroom was a nice touch - and, in lonely hearts parlance, has a GSOH, cracking a joke or two during his Monday press conference.

Sven, then, is quite a catch. Forget about the women, half the men in England would have given him a full-blooded, lip-to-lip smacker after our boys destroyed the Germans 5-1 in Munich.

So no one should be surprised that he has an active love life. And surely we are mature enough to let him lead his private life in private?

But such high-minded principles went straight out of the window as soon as we knew who he was dating. It's Ulrika? Release the press piranhas! Soon the feeding frenzy began.

"Sven tackles a Swedish sizzler: top telly totty scores with slaphead stud" screamed the headline. And that was just Radio 4.

Although entertaining, Sven's relationship is bad news.

Firstly, it is a running story with nightmarishly difficult-to-spell names: Sven Goran Eriksson, Ulrika Jonsson, Nancy Dell'Olio (my spellchecker suggests "Groan" for Goran, which is appropriate). It makes you nostalgic for an era when football was a game played by men with manly names: Jackie, Georgie, Nobby and Malcolm.

Secondly, Ulrika is in danger of becoming the latest blonde whose messy private life becomes the daily stuff of the breakfast table. We seem to have an insatiable desire for such an icon, perhaps because they don't last long: Marilyn, Diana, Paula...

Thirdly, this is another reminder of the shambolic state of England today. It was embarrassing enough that we had to import a foreign football coach for our national team. But the fact that Sven then sought the post-match comforts of an Italian then a fellow Swede doubles the humiliation.

If there was one thing this great country prided itself on, it was our football groupies. Blonder than Ulrika, bustier than Nancy and thicker than two short Becks, their relentless pursuit of anything in a tracksuit ensured a string a world class kiss'n'tell results.

Now these girls can't even entice a 54-year-old balding man in stacked heels and specs into their semis. Shameful.

Finally, and most importantly, we must consider the impact on the England team. We know from grim experience that footballers slavishly follow the lead of their manager.

Manchester United's players in the Ron Atkinson era were always flashing their cash about the Northern nightspots. Kevin Keegan's Newcastle proteges were given to bad haircuts. And Glen Hoddle's lads are always spoiling for a bible bashing.

We should fear the worst. More England infidelity is likely to follow. Look out for revelations about Michael Owen's harem of satellite TV weathergirls, and David Beckham's metatarsal seeing other doctors. Our World Cup hopes hang by a thread.

We are used to football managers getting the sack. Now we need one to get out of the sack. Sven, for the sake of the Three Lions, lose the threesome. Just like Edward VIII 66 years ago, the nation demands that you decide. Will you do your duty by England and keep your Burton boxers on? Or at least make a choice: are you Ulrika's man - or a Nancy boy?

Updated: 10:54 Wednesday, April 24, 2002