The ways in which the English press wish to scupper their national football team never cease to amaze me. In this, a World Cup year, where there is as good a chance as ever of success (a semi-final), it nevertheless behoves the papers to find whatever means they can to mess with the players' heads.

I think it's a bet between the front part of the newspapers and the back part – like some sort of Trading Places wager. Let's see, Mortimer, if you can build them up quicker than I, Randolph, can drag them down. One dollar!

In the past it was nonsense like the distracting "circus" surrounding the players' wives and girlfriends, a "story" that only existed because the papers chose to create it. Without the papers, the entire over-hyped spectacle was just photographs of some young women meeting for lunch and shopping. I'm not sure how much of a distraction your wife shopping is to most men when they're at work. I find it relatively easy to handle.

If anything, I'm the one with more time to go shopping, but I don't think my wife has ever committed malpractice, just because I texted to say: "I might get a new coat."

What she might find distracting is the thought that I couldn't go anywhere without being stampeded by a load of leering paparazzoes. That might distract someone all right, and it would be the media's fault, not the women shopping.

Most recently it was John Terry, a news story that has already led to one man's demotion from the captaincy, before being booed in front of his own fans, and another man deciding not to attend at all, even though his position is potentially up-for-grabs.

And it's only an injury that has kept Ashley Cole away from a similar booing. In time, Ashley, in time.

Things have taken on an even more sinister air this week with the offering for sale of illegally recorded tapes from the team hotel. Not enough to worry the players with constant intrusions into their public-private lives, now we have people trying to drive them insane during what they might vainly have hoped would be their private-private time.

Three months before a World Cup and Fabio Capello will be found tearing floorboards up and ripping lights out of their sockets, before collapsing broken in the middle of the floor. Or reduced to talking in surveillance code:

– Do you remember that guy?

– Who, that guy in that place?

– No, that other guy. The guy who did that thing, that one time.

– Sure, I remember that guy. What about him?

– Don't let him score.

Maybe this is the way to go. Maybe he should presume the world is listening and give the most straightforward and obvious advice he can. Maybe he should just embrace the clarity. After all, we all suspect anyway that the tapes reduced to this:

(Crackly noise, an older Mediterranean voice is heard, speaking slowly and patiently)

– Steven, Francis, Little Theo.

(Chorus of English voices, younger, more eager)

– Yes boss?

– This is what we need you to do …

– What boss?

– (Slowly) Give it to Wayne.

(Long pause. Then one voice speaks up)

– What do we do if we don't have the ball?

– If you don't have the ball, first check, does Wayne have it? If not, get the ball and then, as quickly as possible, give it to Wayne.

(Separate, deeper voices, all English)

– What do we do boss?

– Ahh, Rio, John, TBA. You are all very far from Wayne. You must not try to give him the ball. You can either give it to Steve, Frank or Little Theo, and they will give it to Wayne. Or, you may hit it to Peter.

(More middle-class voice, suddenly excited)

– What do I do then, boss?

– Peter, you must deflect it to Wayne.

(Longer pause while all this is absorbed, then a final voice, scouse, quiet)

– And what do you want me to do, boss?

– Wayne, your job is simple. Don't Get Hurt.