OUT for a drink in the pub, I've often wondered whether blokes really know what they're on about when they talk football. They blab on about this header and that corner, about free kicks, fouls, yellow cards, and sendings off and about players being offside. We women always assume they know what they're talking about. But, to our great delight, now we know they don't. Now we know it's a load of bluff. Men may appear to know their stuff, but really they haven't got a clue.

Whereas we women, we are on the ball. Those of us who take an interest in the game really do know our football. Three out of four female Bradford fans questioned as part of a survey could explain the Football Association's offside rule, compared with fewer than half the male supporters.

It's not because our men are too daft to understand the rules of their beloved game. It's because if they're unsure about anything to do with soccer the last thing they will do is ask.

It wouldn't look good, would it, after the match, when you're down the pub having a few jars with your mates, discussing whether Robbie Blake really was offside when a crucial goal was scored. And you suddenly pipe up: "Err, what exactly is offside?" Whereas a woman wouldn't feel at all ashamed to put the question.

Generally speaking, if a man doesn't know, he won't ask.

The other night in Tesco my husband scuttled off to find some lime juice. Ten minutes later he was back. "I can't find it," he said. "Have you asked?" I said. "No, I don't like to," he answered.

This isn't the first time something like this has happened. If we're out in the car, lost in an area we've never visited before, he would rather we drive round aimlessly for hours than ask directions.

That's caused a few bust-ups in the past, especially when the petrol gauge is in the red and we need to find a garage.

My dad is the same, so's my brother. In a climate of: "If you don't ask you don't get," they are often left wanting. It's as if asking is a far too painful, unmacho thing to contemplate.

I've never known my husband ask me anything other than trivial stuff, along the lines of: "Where's the can opener?"

He's useless at lighting the fire and knows my technique is better -- but simply can't bring himself to ask how it's done.

I don't know how he gets anything done at work. He must surely ask questions there. Yet if he's anything like he is at home, he'll be one of those people who's been there for years yet still can't work the photocopier.

But for many men, sport is the Achilles heel. They would rather boil their heads in a vat of cow dung than admit to being ignorant about some sporting term, rule or regulation.

Never in a million years would they admit to actually having scoured the skies for an eagle while watching the US Open golf on the telly. Or believing 'advantage' in tennis meant one person having a larger racquet than the other.

Until I put him straight my husband thought a 'break' in snooker meant both players nipping off for a coffee.

He even confessed to having feigned a heart-attack when sent to field at long leg during a school cricket match. He said he preferred a week in the school sanatorium to coming clean and asking where he was supposed to stand.

The problem is, that men don't like it when we know more than they do - and for us to know more about football is the last straw.

It means when we're out in the pub they won't be able to throw us a bag of crisps and totally exclude us from their football waffle. They will be the ones nodding sheepishly at the side while we talk knowledgeably about the match.

Let's face it, the only way they're going to be able to hold their own in the pubs of the future - wall-to-wall, wrap around Sky Sports TV screens - is to start asking questions.