FROM a nation's grieving womanhood, an anguished cry rings out: "Why, oh why, Wayne, why?"

It's not that most of us could care less about Rooney's metatarsal. It's the fact that he's been daft enough to snap it, which in turn means that the dreaded World Cup wittering has started even earlier than usual.

Experts are already on rolling news bulletins, repeatedly offering their windbag opinions. Graphic artists are churning out drawings of "that football fracture in full".

Pundits are racking up appearance fees to sit on GMTV's couches and bore Britain rigid about whether oxygen tents aid recovery, and the poor old man in the street is being relentlessly hounded for his opinion as to whether Rooney's foot will heal in time for kick-off.

Tatty England flags are once more fluttering from car windows, Halfords' counters are decked out with commemorative fluffy dice and air fresheners, and you can, if you must, download a fixtures chart to pin up on your bedroom wall.

Can it really be time again for us to be in the grip of mass hysteria, refusing to accept that, injury or no injury, England can't play for toffee? Is it so long since Alan Hansen was last reminding us it was all down to atrocious defending?

Come to think of it, wasn't there some whinging going on about somebody else's foot-bones last time around? Was it Owen? Was it Beckham? Might have been Beckham, seem to remember it was somebody good-looking.

Anyway, here we are again, and we still haven't learned a thing. To snap one metatarsal - well, these things happen. To snap two is damned unlucky, but to snap three smacks of carelessness, Lady Bracknell.

Apparently this tragedy is unfolding because the modern-day football boot is lovely and light, and it comes in nice colours such as red and gold, but it's a triumph of style over substance.

These footballers are just like silly 16-year-old girls who go over on their four-inch wedged sandals and strain their ankles because they wouldn't be seen dead in a pair of sensible shoes.

Mind you, you'd have thought that someone with a nickname like Shrek would have had a stronger set of bones to start off with. And if he wasn't born with them, surely a man of Rooney's means could afford to pay for an upgrade.

Models and actresses replace all sorts of bits and pieces to get on in life.

No, the only people I want to hear wailing and gnashing their teeth at this stage of the game are Rooney, Alex Ferguson and Sven. Oh, and maybe that uncle of Wayne's who apparently placed a bet years ago that his nephew would play for England in the 2006 World Cup. He might have some reason to moan. These Rooneys really should stay out of the bookies....

Ok, so I exaggerate for effect. I admit that some women, myself included, might get interested in soccer when national pride is at stake. And Football's Coming Home is quite a decent tune, even if it's now "forty years of pain".

But national pride is not at stake yet, and it won't be until June, if I remember rightly. Really, can't we limit the chuntering to a decent interval, say a week either side of the competition, at least until we actually manage to win the flippin' cup?

Roll on Wimbledon, I say. At least then there'll have some legs worth watching - no matter whether you're a man or a woman.

Updated: 10:00 Wednesday, May 03, 2006