SIR CLIVE Woodward says he's a "million miles" from making the conversion from Rugby football to soccer. Sven-Goran Eriksson says he's not going to have "any sleepless nights" worrying about whether Sir Clive is, as has been reported, ultimately after his job. Well, maybe he should. Because, unlike the other things that usually give Sven sleepless nights, such as Faria and Ulrika, Clive is the real deal.

He's focussed, grounded, obsessed with, and on top of his game, and, unlike Sven, he's actually had his hands on a World Cup, not just a D cup. I don't know what Sir Clive gets up to in his private life - I couldn't really care - but, going on the evidence so far, it's probably not the kind of attention-diverting caper we've come to expect from the England football coach. And too many members of his squad. Critics - who sound ever-so-slightly terrified, to me - claim Clive wouldn't be able to switch sports. Why not? It's football we're talking about, not rocket science. And, let's face it, the bloke currently running the show, Mr Sven, who we're told was hired on a massive salary for his erm, massive "expertise", hasn't exactly done us proud in the silverware department, has he?

But, in fairness to Sven, it's not just the England job that needs a new face, it's the whole, crumbling ethos behind football today that needs a giant kick in the pants; the ludicrous sums paid to ignorant teenagers, the backstage deals, the abominable treatment of loyal old stagers like Sir Bobby Robson, the sleazy morality and contempt for authority that pervades the game from the top down.

Having lived with a man suffering from Obsessive Compulsive Rugby Disorder, since 1988, I've mingled with enough rugby players to know that they're not all angels or gentle giants.

But can you honestly remember the last time professional rugby was rocked by stories of roasting, hit-and-run road deaths, missed drug tests, sarongs, brothels and alcoholism?

And so it trickles down. While soccer players roll and whine and bicker with the ref, rugby players glory in being good sports, getting up, and playing on with a broken neck. Soccer crowds scream and chant and hurl missiles and abuse. Rugby crowds sing and cheer and applaud the opposing team.

This difference is apparent right at ground level. Sport is supposed to be about fitness, fun and sportsmanship, but in my experience, boys' football clubs appear to be hotbeds of posing, bitchiness and a refuge for tragic men suffering from rampant Sir Alex Ferguson Syndrome, who do nothing but screech at their offspring and pick fights with dads on the opposing side.

Youth rugby, however, is a place where youngsters are taught how to play the game like a good chap, shake hands at the end of matches, and learn not to cry when someone accidentally mashes their leg.

English soccer can sneer all it likes; it can deride and continue with the ridiculous pretence that it is still the beautiful game. But the truth is, it has never been more in need of the Clive Woodward magic dust, and the culture of discipline, good manners and team spirit apparent in rugby.

And, if they are sensible, the people in charge will recognise it and embrace him and what he represents.