I do not usually mention sports, as I do not want to alienate my six female readers. However, the football team I support took a bit of a beating against Manchester United this weekend. There is nothing unusual in that, as they have been doing it to us for years. Unfortunately, living two hundred miles from Old Trafford, as I do, ensures I bump into ‘hardcore’ cockney reds with vomit-inducing regularity.

I was waiting to play five-a-side outside the sports hall yesterday evening when one of them, waiting for the next pitch along, noticed my Aston Villa shorts.

“Ha! We gave your lot a right beating on Saturday.” he began, smugly.

“Yes.”

“Again!”

“Yes.”

“You must hate playing us!”

“Yes.”

“You should support a proper team!”

“I do, AND I’m from that part of the world. Have you ever been past Watford Gap?”

“I went to Old Trafford two seasons ago mate, and I did the tour! The greatest stadium in the world, with the best team, and the best fans. And we beat you this weekend, again.”

“Look pal, you should learn a little humility. This success won’t last forever. It might take five, ten, or twenty years, but you will have a downturn, and when you do, the rest of the footballing world will be reveling in it, thanks to the overly-smug attitude exhibited by you and your ilk for the last ten years. You should try being gracious in victory for a change.”

He stopped and looked at me, expressionless. For the briefest moment there was a glimmer in his eyes that implied I might actually have gotten through to him. Maybe, just maybe, there was a plastic Manc out there that might realise the error of his gloating ways and not be an eternal arsehole. Had I really just made the world a slightly more bearable place to live?

He turned to the man stood on his other side.

“Dad, this man says that United won’t be the best team in the world for ever and ever.”

“What?” he began, before turning to me, “Are you picking on my son? He’s nine years old for God’s sake.”

“No…it was just that he said….well it was just that he mentioned….well…he started it.”

He turned away from me and put his suddenly-very-smug-again son on his other side whilst we waited for our respective pitches to become available.

At least we only play them three times a season.

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