Like most men, I have many good, close friends. We keep in touch via the pub or by sending filthy jokes, or porn, via email. We don’t tend to call up for a chat and never really meaningfully ask “how are you?”

We don’t fall out with each other, just drift for years. We don’t go shopping together and we never invite a friend for a coffee. We never go to the cinema or eat lunch together. We’d never consider buying a birthday present or card for a friend. We never offer a shoulder to cry on and rarely get emotional about family life.

If a friend invited you for a night of singing or dancing, it would be the end. We don’t do anything of the above unless it involves sport. That’s right, add sport to the empty emotion pot that is man and you will awaken the beast. We turn to our friends for advice, who should play at full back or at number nine?

We’ll call up to organise a curry and a beer to watch the game on TV. We hug each other when our team scores or wins - if we don’t support the same team, we argue passionately.

We sing, we shout and we scream together, normally arm in arm. We turn into banshees, taunting opposition supporters, our normal quiet office roles long forgotten. If tickets for a match become available, we’d think nothing of buying two and giving one to our mate.

Shopping for the newest kit together is a pre-season must. If the game is only on being played on a certain satellite channel, we’d think nothing of inviting our friends around to watch.