James Lawton: Beckham knees-up masks seriousness of the task ahead

Party at Beckingham Palace goes against sober contemplation of an England World Cup challenge greatly undermined by injuries

The vulgar bash at Beckingham Palace, patrolled by guard dogs and fuelled by an apparently growing obsession with the slavering gush of trash culture and its elevation of hype-based fame, was somehow reminiscent of another inappropriate get-together on the eve of a World Cup.

It was staged at Hampden Park in 1978 and was hosted by a character so different from David Beckham it is a bit of a push to remind yourself that they belong to the same species.

Ally McLeod was manager of a Scottish team which, unlike England, qualified for the finals in Argentina and it was a piece of one-upmanship which naturally brought delirium to Glasgow. What happened in South America was, it seemed, largely irrelevant in the wake of the humiliation of the English. But that wasn't quite right because when Scotland were ripped apart by Peru, held by Iran, and had Willie Johnston failed a drugs test, McLeod held his head in his hands with such despair that you guessed he would live with the pain for the rest of his life. Despite McLeod's wry sense of humour, this has largely proved to be true.

Heaven forbid similar humiliation for England in Japan, but the chances are that the hubris implied by the affair at the Beckham Mansion at the weekend will have long been forgotten if the Japanese sun does set on England as quickly as we must fear after the events of the weekend.

Beckham's do was, in truth, no great outrage, no one was actively harmed and no doubt the NSPCC will be grateful for whatever margin of profit was achieved. It is just that beyond its essential naffness it sent a message – another one – that we are perhaps not a seriously grown-up sporting nation.

It's hard to imagine the captain of France or Argentina or Italy – to mention just three teams with a superior chance of glory in the Far East – getting involved in such a publicised and, when you think about it, meaningless affair. It is surely a time for the gathering of will and sober consideration of what lies in the immediate future.

Bobby Moore might well have suggested an evening of relaxation with his team-mates but the dress code would probably not have insisted on white ties and diamonds, and the cost of the party would not have exceeded the entire winning bonus of the 1966 England team by roughly 17 times.

Times changes and they have brought a withering decline in the strength of England's football resources. That much has been spelled out with quite appalling grimness by the late injuries to Steve Gerrard and Kieron Dyer, which makes the England midfield suddenly seem utterly insubstantial.

Sven Goran Eriksson's restraint after the triumph over Germany in Munich certainly makes ever-increasing sense. The injury to Gary Neville, and the need for Liverpool's Jamie Carragher to undergo surgery, perhaps most cruelly highlights dwindling English playing strength. Eriksson will now have to choose his right-back from Danny Mills, a player of dismayingly volatile temperament and a shocking lack of basic defensive technique, and Wes Brown, a much more talented footballer but one with limited playing time, especially in the critically specialist full-back/wingback slot.

What we are left with is a picture of truly terrible decline in the options of an England team manager, and for this there is absolutely no need to scour for reasons. Foreign membership of the Premiership is now heading for 60 per cent. Consider for a moment what the Premiership, according to the justifications of the Football Association, was supposed to represent. It meant streamlining and a resulting reduction in fixture congestion, more time for outstanding young English players to develop their skills.

But what is the reality? Players like Gerrard and Dyer are cut down on the last day of a season which should, as it did in rival countries, have closed a week earlier. For what? Another bite at the apple, another round of revenue. You only have to look at the tortured faces of Gerrard and Dyer to see how English football has come down to the pips of that apple.

Meanwhile, there is gaiety – and presumably picture buy-ups – at Beckingham Palace. Hopefully, Kylie Minogue has survived the pain of her failure to make the welcome list. She may console herself with the absence of another guest – the one called reality.