If you think it's all over,think again

At last it's over. No more sneaking upstairs to catch the last few minutes of commentary on Radio 5, no more artful setting of the television so that Match of the Day materialises out of nowhere at 10.30pm sharp on Saturday, no sneaking switchovers to Ceefax to check the latest scores, when things are getting really tense. Except, of course, it isn't over.

At last it's over. No more sneaking upstairs to catch the last few minutes of commentary on Radio 5, no more artful setting of the television so that Match of the Day materialises out of nowhere at 10.30pm sharp on Saturday, no sneaking switchovers to Ceefax to check the latest scores, when things are getting really tense. Except, of course, it isn't over.

Once upon a time the football season did end with a clean break. I remember how a Saturday afternoon suddenly arrived in early May without the football classified - that feat of newspapering whereby within just one hour of the final whistle at 4.40pm, special editions with full results, tables and match reports were on sale less than an hour later. For three months you made do without. Other pleasures lay ahead: Wimbledon, the Test Matches, the Open golf. Then the football classified was back, and in mid-August you settled down for the new season.

But no longer. Which for me perhaps, means problems ahead. Women, we are told, are now just as keen on football as the rest of us. My wife, however, is American. And while she is dimly aware that David Beckham is the most famous living subject of the Queen, she is unsure of his exact line of business. There is in fact just one thing about football of which she is certain - that she cannot stand the theme music of MoTD.

Today, for my wife and those like her, the dreadful truth is the threat to orderly family life never ends. I haven't dared mention, for instance, that this Wednesday I might sneak a glimpse at the Uefa Cup Final, that there's our Cup Final on Saturday and then the European Champions final, followed by England against Brazil a few days after that, and then the European Championship (Q: "But haven't they just finished that?" A: "No, darling, that one was for clubs, this is for countries.").

And so the mighty soap opera will run on, despite the fact even football writers must take a holiday. Alas, like nature, our obsession with the national game cannot tolerate a vacuum. Great events, real and imagined, and even greater headlines, must emerge to fill it. So we will soon be thrilling to breathtaking transfers in the making (someone will have us believe the entire Brazilian national side is about to be signed up by Derby County). Paul Gascoigne (as my wife also recognises, the second most celebrated individual in the realm and a character of true Shakespearean complexity) will make an overdue return to the headlines.

Then there's the £2bn bidding war for next season's Premiership rights. Sky, ITV, BBC, digital-this and satellite-that - in other words, how much free footy will there be on telly? And you thought Rover/BMW was a big business story. Nor can we overlook the most significant European issue of the moment. I am not referring to the debate about Britain's entry into the single currency. In truth, our future greatness hinges on whether the Football Association, in the interests of avoiding a national team drawn from the Nationwide Conference, can secure an exemption from European law and impose a maximum of five or six foreigners fielded by our leading clubs?

So, one way and another, a rich and varied summer lies ahead, even before a single ball is kicked in earnest, and a single referee pushed over in anger. And you must admit, it beats the old days after the classified disappeared from the streets, and all the football supporter had to comfort himself between May and mid-August were Australian games on the summer pools; could Kookaburra Wanderers and Dingoes United deliver that eighth scoring draw? And come to think of it, even that fallback's more interesting now. Isn't Gascoigne heading off to play Down Under during what was once called the close season?

r.cornwell@independent.co.uk