Harry Kane doesn’t drink. He enjoyed Bayern Munich’s annual trip to Oktoberfest in full lederhosen and ate a giant pretzel, but his jug of beer was barely touched. At the hotel where he lives, meals are carefully planned by his chef: breakfast is an omelette or yoghurt and granola; lunch and dinner consists of salad and vegetables topped off by a rotating carousel of white fish, chicken or beef. Sometimes he has salmon as a treat.
He lives away from his wife and children, in a country where he does not speak the language after only a handful of lessons, in a city he cannot enjoy without being mobbed. His family will move over but for now it is a solitary, unremitting existence: eat, sleep, play, recover, repeat. It is not quite the life of a monk, but when children dream of becoming England captain, they probably don’t dream of this.
