I was both intrigued and surprised by the results of a survey, published yesterday by an organisation called the Media Business Group, which suggested that more than 95% of 20 to 34-year-old males would rather watch the World Cup finals on the telly than make love to the woman of their dreams.

This statistic is, to put it mildly, clearly open to debate. For a start, it would surely depend on who the woman of your dreams happened to be. If, for the sake of argument, it was Barbara Cartland, then fair enough. Point taken. Not only would the said dreamer be in desperate need of aversion therapy, he would also be entirely forgiven for preferring the delights of, well, any old football match (even one which involved Arbroath and Ayr United) to a night of unbridled passion with the popular romantic novelist. In a contest between the Beautiful Game and the not-so-beautiful Dame there is, well, no contest.

However, if the woman of your dreams was, say, Claudia Schiffer/Denise Van Outen/Joanna Lumley/Jennifer Aniston (delete as appropriate, guys) then the question becomes somewhat more problematic. Look at it this way: on the one hand, you have Ms Van Outen (currently my personal favourite, though she has not, as yet, answered any of my letters) dressed in slinky underwear, standing in a provocative pose at the bedroom door, and saying, ''Take me big boy, I'm yours'', while, on the other hand, you have Jim ''and-girls-he's-good-looking'' White hosting his highly entertaining pre-match studio discussion on the telly. Come on, who are we trying to kid? Drop-dead-gorgeous Denise beats the footie into a cocked-hat any day. And any self-respecting Scots fan who claims otherwise is either telling a porky or has been taking too much bromide in his tea.

But that is only half the argument. Your decision would have to depend, not only on who the woman was, but also on which World Cup football match was being shown. If it was the game of your dreams (Scotland v England in the final, obviously) then it would have to be: ''Sorry Denise, I've got one of my headaches. Could I take a rain check? Don't move an inch. Just keep that pose and I'll get back to you in a couple of hours.''

If, however, the game was between, say, Iran and Tunisia then things might be very different. It could just turn out to be Denise's lucky day. Surely a chap would be prepared to forsake the pleasures of the pitch and concentrate instead upon (at the very least) our other great national game, tonsil hockey, with the woman of his dreams?

Of course (and here's where the survey lets itself down), if you were to move the goalposts, so to speak, you could end up with the best of both worlds. Here I suggest two possibilities, the second of which is probably far more feasible than the first.

You could, if you were up to it, watch the football and make love at the same time. On the plus side (and we have to stretch the imagination to the point of incredulity here), this would result in Scotland and the male viewer in question, em, scoring at precisely the same moment.

On the down-side, it would also mean that a chap would have to find the stamina to keep going for a full 90 minutes. And, if the game were to go to extra time, perish the thought. Those of us who are, shall we say, of a more mature age might find this extremely detrimental to our health.

Then there is the slightly delicate question of position - as in which sexual one to adopt in order to obtain maximum pleasure from the act and maximum sight

of the television screen. This, of course, could be worked out in advance while watching, for instance, The Home Show with Viv Lumsden and Alan Douglas.

Perhaps the second course of action would be easier to achieve. In simple terms this would entail watching the football match, all 90 minutes, without any seemly distractions and with only a six-pack of beer and a packet of Embassy for company. However, at half-time one could invite the woman of one's dreams to join one in front of one's telly.

This would allow a full 15-minutes of non-soccer ''quality time'', a respectable interval during which a chap could not only make love to Denise/Joanna/Claudia/Jennifer (delete as before, guys) but also make a nice cup of tea, read the racing section, have a fag, take the dog round the block, and still be back in the armchair before the team's return to the field.

And then, when Denise/Joanna/ Claudia/Jennifer (delete blah, blah, blah) looks at you with those bedroom eyes and says, ''How was it for you, darling?'' you can reply: ''Well, we were all over them for the first 20 minutes but things changed when Coisty missed that sitter.''