In a world where women are told they are too emotional, it is oddly liberating to watch a live football game surrounded almost entirely by men.

At first, the aggression and profanity startled me. Now, I divide my attention between the players on the pitch and the fans around me.

There’s hot-headed Tom in front of me, who seems to care more about his hatred for the keeper than buying a belt to keep his trousers up. Ten minutes before the end of the game — after a steady stream of insults hurled onto the pitch — he stands up, generously revealing rows three to sixty-nine what can only be described as 40% of his butt crack.

I sometimes blow a little air in anticipation, waiting for the moment he notices this display. It never comes and I’ve found myself starting to look forward to it so much that I feel a strange melancholy at the thought that one day Tom might buy a belt.

Meanwhile, the Statler-and-Waldorf duo behind me debate whether it’s easier to kick a rugby ball or a football. They conclude it’s a football — because you know where it will end up. At that precise moment, they begin shouting at a player on the pitch for sending the ball into the stands instead of the goal.

“He should’ve shot earlier.” Statler says.

“No, later.” Waldorf replies.

Maybe if it had been a rugby ball, it would’ve been 1–0, I think to myself.

After a few knees in my back, some side glances, and one or two uncomfortable leg brushes, I feel confident in saying that men, too, have their time of the month — whenever their favourite team plays (whether they win or lose).