Why I’m finished with football

I have spent many, many years dutifully squeezing into pubs full of rapt, drinking men giving excessively loud voice to their feelings of either atavistic triumphalism or atavistic rage – all accompanied by the odd rattle of broken glass and flare-ups of intra-man hostility. But last weekend, as I dutifully prepared to leave my warm flat and make my way in the sub-zero night to the pub for the World Cup quarter-final of England versus France, I realised that I am done. Done with football – and done with England.

Well, that’s not entirely accurate. The Women’s Euros final, which saw the Lionesses romp to victory – something their male equivalents haven’t done since 1966 and seem unlikely ever to do in my lifetime – was the first time I have ever enjoyed watching footie. Not only was it fun to see ponytails a-swinging on the pitch, but there was far more continuous play than with the men.