I'm writing to say sorry to those of you who believe that a woman's role is in the home by the week and, by the weekend, practicing holding up traffic in the Meadowhall car park while perfecting our 12th eight-point turn (of the day).

I'm sorry, because times have changed. Men no longer have the exclusive rights to the terraces on a Saturday (or a Sunday, Tuesday, etc) just like women no longer have the monopoly on bad parallel parking.

I'm sorry that the situation has confused managers into screaming for more fans one week then telling a quarter of them where to go.

I'm sorry that more girls are getting into football as a way to get to spend time with their frequently absent dads. And that they can analyse the game just as well as - sometimes better than - their gob-smacked fathers.

I apologise that the cost of living has increased, marriage rates are down and house prices are up on the past.

I'm sorry if that means men and women are working harder and see going to the match as a way of catching up after a tough week of late finishes and early starts.

The boat of tradition has been well and truly rocked. The great Titanic of male culture has been flooded with women - I can see you're feeling sea-sick.

There are women in the boardrooms and on the press benches sacrificing the rest of their lives so they can live their passion.

That they have to be better than their male counterparts (present company excepted) to even get a look-in means nothing. Funny how you never complain about Kirsty Gallacher, Helen Chamberlain, Rebecca Lowe and Gaby Logan.

Or maybe that greenish tinge is just jealousy. I bet you'd love to try out that new Chip and Pin technology in front of a packed Saturday crowd in Moss Bros.

I'm sorry for all the times I have burnt breakfast while watching the showboating on Soccer Am and for showing you up in the pub that time when you 'forgot' the offside rule.

Most of all, I'm sorry for writing this letter. Because sorry means I won't do it again. Sorry means I'm going to stop loving sport, stop believing that people can be who they want to be - Elvis impersonators notwithstanding - and start doing what the history books say I should.

I'm sorry, but I won't.

I'd rather go to MacArthur Glen on the last Saturday before Christmas without a shopping list. Just like you, I imagine.

Yours sincerely,

Claire.

Updated: 10:00 Saturday, February 18, 2006