“After complaints that many England players felt light-headed and even nauseous because of the rigorously controlled diet before the Czech Republic friendly last month, they are now allowed to have a greater choice over their pre-match meal.” - News report.

From the diary of Jermain Defoe.

Tuesday

Down early for breakfast and feeling pretty peckish. Slightly surprised, though, to see the buffet table empty, apart from a plate of celery. Call out to Wayne Rooney: “Here, Wazza, have you had all the Coco Pops Rocks again?” But Wazza doesn't look too happy and is pushing a celery stalk around his cereal bowl with a spoon. “It's the regime,” he mutters. Joe Cole says: “This carrot juice is minging.”

Me? Well, I guess a bit of toast and Nutella would have gone down nicely, but mostly I'm just happy to be figuring in the boss's plans at last. It's a small sacrifice to make.

Give it my all in the morning training session, after which lunch is one Ryvita thinly spread with a low-fat cream cheese spread. Still feeling sharp and looking to impress in the afternoon session. Quite pleased with my form. The hunger is definitely there.

As I'm going up to my room after supper (grated carrot and apple with a glass of water), Rio Ferdinand furtively beckons me across the corridor and quickly closes the door behind us. “Strictly between you and me, right?” Rio says. He pulls out the lining from his sponge bag and there are three Bountys and a Snickers. “You can have a bite of the Bounty,” he says. “Just one, mind.”

Can't say I'm not tempted, but I make my excuses and leave. Rules are rules and I'm here to do the best job I can for my country.

Wednesday

Breakfast: cup of tea, no milk. Lunch: one rice-cake and a lettuce leaf.

Many of the squad now looking pale and slightly trembly. Afternoon training unfocused and lacklustre - balls going off the pitch and no one bothering to go and get them, etc. Tempers also a bit frayed. At supper, Stewart Downing accuses Glen Johnson of filching his slice of cucumber. Luckily neither of them really has the energy to make anything of it.

During recreation period in the lounge, Theo Walcott gets in a weepy strop with his PSP. He's trying to play Brothers in Arms: Hell's Highway, but there's all these poppings and cracklings and it's throwing him off. “It's like I'm being ambushed by an enemy tank unit,” Theo says. “But there's nothing there.” I help him try reloading the game and then rebooting the unit, but it doesn't make any difference. We're on the verge of binning it and watching the telly instead when it turns out it's not the PSP at all. It's Jimmy Bullard's stomach rumbling.

Later that night Joleon Lescott tells me he's hoping to start on the bench against Andorra. I'm shocked. Why would anyone say that? “Because if you're on the bench you get to warm up along the touchline after 20 minutes, and you can try and get a bit of hot dog off someone,” he says. Not sure that's the right attitude at international level, but suddenly have a strange sensory memory of the smell of fried onions and feel a bit light-headed.

Thursday

Disastrous training session. Wazza's shorts are hanging off him and he's having to hold them up when he runs, which is not helping him. Plus Joleon's hot-dog plan has got around and most of the squad are now playing for a place on the bench. Me included. I can almost taste the compressed meat, the soft bread, the ketchup...

Things don't get any better in the afternoon when Gareth Barry is taken sick after eating the soap in his bathroom. He looks terrible, really green. Give him a consoling pat as they take him to the lift on a stretcher, but all he can say is: “It said it was kiwi fruit and oatmeal on the wrapper.”

Friday

John Terry has gone to the boss to make a plea on the team's behalf. It's a bad sign when he comes back and stares down at the ground. Eventually he says: “He's said no to spotted dick.” Matthew Upson says: “What about custard, though?” JT looks even more forlorn. “I couldn't get him to climb down on custard, either.”

But then JT suddenly beams all over his face. “Merked ya! Spotted dick's back on. And custard. And he's only gone and said yes to Shreddies for breakfast. They lock hunger up until lunchtime, you know.”

Everyone cheers and some find the energy from somewhere to jump all over JT. The man's a leadership legend. You can't teach that. Look out, Andorra.

Text of endurance in Premier League

For some time we have been puzzled about footballers and texting. Players who have been at the centre of any kind of drama will routinely report, in interviews, that their mobile has been “going mad”.

When John Arne Riise headed into his own net in the Champions League semi-finals last season he got a text of commiseration from John Carew, of Aston Villa. After scoring for Fenerbahçe in the same competition, Colin Kazim-Richards revealed that he received a text from Neil Warnock, his former manager at Sheffield United. How big must these people's “Names” files be?

Jermain Defoe even spoke this week about “getting the text” that confirmed his England call-up. Didn't it used to be a letter on FA headed notepaper? No matter. The point is, everyone in football seems to be texting everyone else all the time.

Confronted by the evidence, we could only guess - clutching at straws somewhat - that all footballers are issued with a pre-loaded Nokia as standard on the day they agree professional terms and that football's entire internal phone system comes conveniently ready-installed on a handset.

And guess what, it turns out we were right. As Samir Nasri, of Arsenal, recently revealed: “When you arrive here you get an English mobile phone with all the important numbers on it.”

So that explains it. They're all on there - Warnock, Carew. Bob McNab, perhaps, in case Nasri should need an historic perspective on things Arsenal. Jeff Winter, maybe, for points of order.

Plus all the useful services, of course - the doctor, the local garage, Nando's. Handy. Although presumably Nasri is aware of the downside - namely that the price of doing something foolish on Match of the Day is 750 or so jokey texts from people he doesn't really know.

Newcastle need to think big

So, who are the names in the frame to replace Kevin Keegan as manager of Newcastle United? Your at-a-glance guide to the leading candidates.

ADEG Affiliates: consortium of American property developers widely believed to be ready for a big managerial challenge - and they don't come much bigger than the hot seat at St James' Park. Would probably be committed to turning the club around by the audacious and immediate acquisition of the four or five leading footballers they have heard of.

OPIK Corps: Kuwait-based oil supplies group connected with royalty and with a “sky's the limit” selection policy based on browsing through last week's Match. Known for understanding money and for getting the best out of it on a regular basis. Spokesperson Dr Paula Abdul would love a crack at management at this level.

IXT Investments Ltd: Pacific Rim offshore arms-dealing collective. Attack-minded, so could produce the kind of money that would have them singing again at the Gallowgate end.

A man in a tracksuit, or perhaps a jacket and tie, who used to manage another football club: outside bet.