My Luxembourg Granny or as we called her Mami...

In retrospect I should've eaten the beetroot. I hated disappointing my Mami but she did have high standards.

Before you start taking the mick I'll explain why we called her Mami. Basically that's one of the French words for Gran, a bit like Nan or Nana I suppose. She was called Alice and although she was born in Luxembourg, she ended up living in France because of (and can you get any Frencher than this) romance.

When Luxembourg was invaded during World War Two her family was evacuated to a little French village called Cormatin and they stayed in a very large house owned by the local dentist. His son was away with the French army, fighting in vain to stop the Nazis.

But it wasn't long before Cormatin was invaded too. The dentist's home was taken over by the Germans and the soldiers camped out in the garden.

From what I've heard Alice was anything but scared because her and her sisters were really brave ladies. In fact if the French had put them on the Maginot line I reckon the Germans would've never got passed. She told me and my brother off once for throwing slugs at cars (don't ask) and I've never been so frightened. Luckily he got a slap and I just had a good old cry.

With France in Hitler's hands there was no point hanging around and they all returned home to Esch in Luxembourg.

You've guessed it though, the families stayed in touch, the dentist's son began writing to Mami, they fell in love and in 1947 they were married. The house she was once evacuated to was now her home.

Their daughter moved to England where she married my Dad (no woman can resist the Leicester charm) and every year we used to cross the Channel to visit Mami and Papi (you're really going to take the mick now) during our summer holidays.

I remember when I discovered that my Gran was originally from Luxembourg. I was about eight years old and heard her on the phone, speaking in a strange language. It was part French, part German and there were even a few English words sprinkled in. It was a bit like a sketch from the Fast Show

"That's the Luxemburg language John."

"The what what???"

My Mum explained that Mami came from a tiny country in between Belgium, Germany and France.

"But you know what the best thing is," my brother chipped in, "we can do a John Aldridge."

I was really confused now.

"His Gran was Irish and he played for Ireland. Our Gran's from Luxembourg, so guess what we can do."

I was too busy watching the French version of Going for Gold to really take in what he'd just said but the seed was sown. Maybe one day I could make up for leaving the beetroot! But first it was the beat the buzzer round. Becoming a Luxemburg international would have to wait.

Platt, Bull, Christie, Russell and Andrew - they're all to blame...

"Steve Bull, Steve bloody Bull!"

It was a big moment and not only because I'd just said a swear word in front of my mum for the first time.

"No, it was David Platt, David Platt!"

That put a slight dampener on things, Platt played for my brother's team Aston Villa and he would be gloating for months. But it didn't really matter, England had beaten Belgium at Italia 90 and from then on I was obsessed with international sport.

It wasn't only football. Before the 100 metres final at the Barcelona Olympics two years later I was so nervous that I locked myself in the toilet and prayed that Linford Christie would win. He still hasn't thanked me.

In 1995 Rob Andrew's last minute drop goal to beat the Aussies at the rugby World Cup turned a shy 15 year old into a street dancer and Jack Russell's hero status got bigger in my eyes with every amazing catch that he took for England.

Of course my dream was to follow in the footsteps of Linford, Jack and ...eerr... Bully but it wasn't to be. I came fifth in the 200 metres at sports day (I thought it was fourth but then realised that the guy who won was so far in front that I hadn't seen him finish), I got into the football team at school but the teacher once told me his granny could play better (to be fair she may have had a great left peg) and although I was a decent wicketkeeper my highest cricket score was 17 (not out, I hasten to add).

Probably my best sporting moment was scoring two tries against our arch rivals Hardenuish school when I was 15 but I realised that rugby wasn't for me when I was chasing a huge prop. I out paced him easily but as he turned around and pushed his fat hand into my face I realised that rather than attempting to make the tackle it would be less painful to just fall over. And like the brave warrior that I am, I tumbled to the floor in dramatic style. Didier Drogba would've been proud.

As the years have gone by though I've regretted not being more committed to playing competitive sport in my youth. Maybe with a little more effort and more confidence to join some clubs I could've been better. After all I'm better than average. A jack of all trades and a master of none.

But surely when you approach 30 the dream of one day representing your country finally dies. Or does it? England can do without me but can another country? A country that was home to my inspirational Grandmother. She once refused to give me pancakes because I wouldn't eat my beetroot but she was a great woman. I still hate beetroot. But I could grow to love Luxembourg...