Elizabeth Joyce: I'm a virtual footie widow get me out of here - now

Whether we're on a plane, train or automobile, it's there. Whether we're just waking up, just falling asleep or 0.3 seconds into an ad break, it's there.

Then there's the reactions. I don't even need to see them any more, I can sense them.

I can sense him breaking into a triumphant smile when things go well. I can sense him hunch his shoulders and bow his head in concentration as stuff starts getting serious.

It is the thorn in my side, the splinter in my finger, the ulcer on my tongue all day, every day, 24/7, 365.

It is Championship Manager. Or is it Football Manager? Whatever it's called, I'm ruddy sick of it.

It's bad enough being a football widow in the actual real world, but when it's the virtual world too, colour me all kinds of miserable. Fifty shades of dismay.

My boyfriend won the Premier League with Preston North End t'other week.

This – despite being as likely in real life as Joey Essex becoming the next head of the UN – made him very happy.

But then he got knocked out of the Champions League and a dark cloud descended on the house.

When I saw his distraught face, I made the mistake of asking what on earth had happened to upset him so. The answer? A 15-minute monologue that included phrases such as "lost control of the dressing room" and "an under-performing strike partnership".

I have absolutely no idea what he was on about but it all sounded very important. Life or death stuff.

Now, if you're lucky enough not to know what Football/Championship Manager – or simply Champ as it's known in my house, as in "I know you're on Champ. Get off Champ. Turn off Champ and watch MasterChef with me" – actually is, let me explain. As exhausted and exasperated tears fall on to my keyboard.

In a nutshell, it's a computer game that lets the male of the species – and more than a few girls too – take control of their beloved football team, no matter how useless they are in real life, and manage them all the way to the top.

Want to see Walsall win Europe? Champ can make it happen.

Want to see Lionel Messi play for Shrewsbury? Champ can make it happen.

Want to see your wife or girlfriend walk out on you? Champ can make it happen.

Preston North End under the management of Mr Liz boast Fernando Torres and Philippe Mexès on the team sheet.

Do you know who plays for PNE in real life? No, of course you don't. No one does. Not even Preston fans.

But that's the thing you see, it's the ultimate in escapism.

It's gone too far though. It's an addiction. An obsession, like those Japanese fellas who become hooked on the Love Plus computer game and end up marrying the little pixelated women who live in their DS.

I just don't get it. It's a waste of time.

Why can't he do something useful with his phone? Like play Candy Crush.

But wait. There was a breakthrough this week. A beautiful and much-prayed-for breakthrough – he got the sack. Jeez, the pretend chairman of Preston North End sure is ruthless.

Anyways, it goes without saying that I was delighted.

WooHoo! I'm finally free, I thought as I did a little victory dance.

And then he got a job offer from Crawley . . .