Until a first – then a second – grandson came along, I had been the sole male in the Davey household. Yours truly, with some help and assistance from Mrs Davey, produced two daughters.

For years before they were teenagers I fancied I would, as a consequence, eventually live the life of Riley.

After all, didn't I have not one but three women in the house to wait on me?

I based this model of a blissful domestic future solely on the fact that a bloke I once knew, who had a wife and three daughters, hardly ever lifted a finger, such was the attention lavished upon him by the rest of his household.

Of course, as any parent with only daughters to their name will tell you, it was a false dawn. I don't know where it all went wrong, but things never turned out to my advantage.

All I got was years of door slamming and inexplicable short-tempered behaviour, 52 weeks on 52, plus a complete disregard for their dear old dad's welfare, aided, abetted and supported by their mother whenever I questioned the situation.

It's all water under the bridge now, of course, but I realised only recently that this girl thing meant certain other joys of parenthood passed me by.

For example, I've never been caught up in youthful extra-curricular or weekend sporting activities... until now.

Because eldest grandson – after years of thrashing both me and my wife at the beautiful game, played out on our improvised back garden pitch – has gone and joined a football club.

A proper one. He even has the stud marks, bruises and a very neat linear leg gash to prove it. These are the scars of war. Or what passes for it when you are nine years old.

A nyway, a couple of Sundays ago he made his debut in an under-11s side. So I seized the historic opportunity to actually watch a male of the family actually playing football in a proper match.

It was a first – for him, his mum, me and my wife.

In truth my wife and myself sort of sneaked up on the game. We didn't want him to know we were coming to watch and scheduled our arrival a decent interval after kick-off.

If you've never been to see soccer at this age level, as neither of us had, then trust me, this really is a whole new ball game.

That's because virtually everyone watching is related to one of the 22 players on the pitch.

This in itself adds a particular frisson to the occasion.

Shouts of encouragement are mixed with personally targeted touchline advice. No one, understandably, wants their kid to let the side down.

I have to say I played the reticence card and kept my gob shut, knowing full well that once I opened it I wouldn't be able to stop, until my wife kicked me in the shins or somewhere to silence my rantings at the opposition or the referee.

To tell the truth, I felt rather smug about my previously undiscovered ability to keep mum.

Grandson's team lost, by the way. It was a close-fought contest played in a good spirit. Watching from a discreet distance from the touchline, though, you could not fail to be impressed by the dedication of all the adults involved in getting these little leagues up and running, weekend after weekend.

His team has an away match this Sunday. I'm taking him. And I promise I won't say a word, ref.