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I know this is supposed to be a blog about the Euros, but is it my fault that I'm having fun in the sun in Trinidad? Here we are in Port of Spain, Trinidad's low-rise capital sprawling at the foot of tree-coated mountains at the island's centre.

Low-rise except for the brand-new gleaming . Sumptuous, luxurious sofas perch next to gleaming marble pillars. Here and there lurk attentive staff so expert that they cater for one's every whim almost before you have had chance to whim it. It's the kind of hotel that leaves you feeling vibrant and young, reflecting that you are one of life's chosen few as you saunter from the silent lifts onto its plush embracing carpets.

At least that's what I imagine the England players' hotel must be like as I gaze at it enviously from across the booming dual carriageway on my way back to my considerably more mundane resting place between the docks and the cement factory.

No matter; I am here to cast an eye over Capello's England wannabes. Walcott, Young, Agbonlahor, Wheater, Hart and Warnock all wait and hope for the chance to carve their name on the national team's future.

England's training session on Friday at the Stadium was watched by an enthusiastic crowd of Trinidadians, a couple of thousand of whom had been allowed in to scream as David Beckham flexed a hamstring, to holler as Steven Gerrard stretched his torso, and, yes, even to gasp as David Bentley tied his laces.

But of what these islands' home-grown heroes, the ? Not for them the police motorcycle escort and water- tight security. Oh no.

Their training session was held in the afternoon at the Stadium inland from Port of Spain. We had been told it would be at 4pm, and with half an hour to spare we arrived.

Through the open stadium gates came the thump of music, the screeches of happy children and the sound of laughter. It turned out that all of this was nothing at all to with football. A local church was having a family fun day with a bouncy castle in the penalty area, a merry-go-round behind the goal and kids swarming in the stands and on the pitch.

"Where are the footballers?" I asked someone who seemed to be in charge. "They'll have to wait," he said. "We have booked the stadium until 5."

Sure enough the team - , Carlos Edwards and all - arrived in two mini-buses and sat in the car park whilst their Colombian coach, Francisco Maturana, was happy to fill the time telling me about how much he enjoyed a recent trip to Southampton to watch Stern John score the goals that kept the Saints in the Championship.

Eventually the bouncy castle was dragged of the pitch and the national team got to work.
In four days' time I'll be in Switzerland with Uefa bureaucracy ruling the day. Right now the Alps feel a long, long, way away.