IWAS faced with a dilemma recently, that many a man might never expect would happen to him. We were away for the night in a hotel where the owners pride themselves on the finger-tipped proficiency of its team of masseuses. The good woman had booked me in for a massage at four o'clock and, due to lack of forward thinking on my behalf (a regular occurrence in my life really), it clashed with the second half of Germany-Argentina in the World Cup.

A match George Hamilton described as 'one the whole world had been waiting to see'. So, at halftime, and with the Argentines a goal down, I was caught between a sporting rock and a massage place. Should I devote yet another 45 minutes of my ever-diminishing lifetime to watching 22 men chasing each others' shins around a field, or should I boldly explore this world of body treatment where I had never ventured before. Diego might not have approved – but I decided the highlights of this epic battle would be good enough for me. So for those of you that have never been on a massage table before, the following is an account of how it was for me.

4.00pm – arrive at the leisure centre reception. The lady checks me in and leads me to the relaxation room, where she asks me to fill out a health information form. Having come this far I decide that even if I suffer from any of the health problems listed, I will probably fail to mention them – less fuss for everyone. Within minutes the boxes are all ticked and she tells me to make myself at home: someone would be with me shortly. The room was dark and serene with dimly lit scented candles creating a somewhat mystical atmosphere. The humming of the fan overhead reminded me of a resting ocean at its tranquil best. On a table in the corner, however, was a Closer magazine with Jordan's head peering out at me. And for a moment, I struggle to get into the zone.

4.10pm – door opens and in comes the beaming good woman. She's been for a swim and has been sent to fill in her own health questionnaire. Again we're told to get nice and relaxed by the lady attendant and someone would be with us shortly. At this stage I didn't know who or what to expect. My imagination began to sketch out visions of an Arnold Shwarzenegger-type chap in a tight T-shirt and even tighter pants coming to pound my back, like he was a baker kneading some weekold dough. The good woman is busy admiring the softly padded couch and thinking how nice it would be to have one at home. Meanwhile, I'm sitting on a stool in the middle of the room, trying to get Lionel Messi off my mind.

4.15pm – the masseuse enters the room. To my relief it's a pleasant young blonde girl in her twenties and any thoughts of not making it out of this whole experience in one piece disappear. She asks me to follow her into another room and I bid the good woman farewell. We'll see each other on the other side.

4.20pm – I'm asked to hop up on the massage table and cover myself with a blanket, just leaving my back exposed. Then she asks how firmly I would like to be rubbed. I tell her firmly – just don't crush anything. Then she begins working her magic.

5.20pm – I would like to share with you the ins and outs of what happened during that hour of having my muscles massaged, but unfortunately I slept my way through most of it. I do remember two slices of cucumber being put on my eyes at one point and realising my well-weathered skin was being seen to as well. Afterwards I thanked the good woman for putting my name forward for something that I would never have considered doing by myself. And then I wondered what the hell I have been doing with my life – massages feel great.

5.35pm – check the phone and a text has dropped: Germany 4 Argentina 0. Having backed Maradona's men to go all the way, I'm glad I hadn't stayed to watch the rest of it. Besides, those 22 footballers were probably lying on their tummies at that very moment, enjoying their own massages. Though I would imagine Lionel Messi wasn't thinking about me.

TUNING INTO A TRAGEDY

I watched the story of the last few hours of Raoul Moat's life unfold on Sky News last Friday night and felt somewhat at odds with myself. On the one hand I was gripped by what I was seeing and the fact that the media was almost camped on the frontline, making it as exciting as they possibly could. On the other hand I felt the tragedy of the whole situation had been lost on us viewers and we had no right being there. It was presented more like a live episode of Midsomer Murders than what was really happening: the cold harsh reality of a seriously disturbed man losing his mind.

- SHEA TOMKINS