I have spent many, many years dutifully squeezing into pubs full of rapt, drinking men giving excessively loud voice to their feelings of either atavistic triumphalism or atavistic rage – all accompanied by the odd rattle of broken glass and flare-ups of intra-man hostility. But last weekend, as I dutifully prepared to leave my warm flat and make my way in the sub-zero night to the pub for the World Cup quarter-final of England versus France, I realised that I am done.