Hirsute heros score!

I am neither given to admiring too much facial hair on a man, nor to worshipping at the altar of the game that is referred to as the beautiful one.

The other-half has experimented once or twice with working on the whiskers and, at the time, I found it perfectly acceptable (you can sense the enthusiasm); the notion growing on me with each week, so to speak. It's the in-between part that I'm less keen on, the designer stubble so beloved of ageing film or pop-stars and some footballers - often those with thinner locks on top.

Football, I can take or leave. Boring for 90% of the time, spectators hang on in there in case the predictably good striker hammers one home, or the unbelievably awful mid-fielder - you see I do know the odd term - trundles up from behind the half-way line to pop one in the goal whilst the goalie's attention is elsewhere. Every time one of these tournaments comes round - which they seem to do with astonishing regularity - my heart sinks. The over-paid and over-there ones are followed by hordes of paparazzi, their every move and those of their loved-ones souped up and served up for our delectation on air, screen and paper.

However, I do enjoy watching members of the family play and can be hear to embarrass them with yells from the sideline (or is it touchline?); words of encouragement and suggestions as to movements - well it can't be that different from school-days hockey, can it? And when these regular global, or impoverished-monetary-unit zone, competitions feature I can, on occasion be found passing through a room with a screen showing a match. Answers to any questions in these circumstances will not be forthcoming from any male member of the family and I've found that passing notes under their noses doesn't work either. Half-time is devoted to a quick comfort stop, or re-stocking of liquid refreshment and, "Got any crisps or something, Mum?" In the face of such competition I find it best either to vacate the premises or to give in, feign interest and sit and watch. Gives me the perfect excuse to hold up my hands in question when asked, at the end of the match and commentary, "What are we eating?" I, too, have been watching animatedly; how can I know?

I digress: Hirsute men. Whilst watching half a match between our nation and a certain bearer of blue and yellow, I couldn't help but notice a bearded, viking-type on the pitch - though luckily less barrel-chested than traditional images of his marauding ancestors. His presence was dismissed by family members, yet I had clearly chosen well; he scored two goals and now I find that I may have to watch another match to see how he gets on. I shall advise him, (sure he'll be pleased to know) not to rid himself of the beard. Another Nordic hero of mine played Aragon in Lord of the Rings; magnificent with long-hair and beard, the actor has sadly disappointed in subsequent smooth-cheeked roles. If Mehlberg wishes to succeed, he needs to keep the facial hair.