By Brett Ellis, columnist

WATCHING women’s football in the company of men triggers a psychological switch ignited by testosterone and beer.

Reasoned, professional family guys sneer every half-hearted tackle and jeer every misplaced pass. I first clapped eyes on this phenomenon some years ago watching Doncaster Belles. Since then, I have caught a few games on TV, broadcast, I believed, to appease the equality brigade.

The team names are now semi-generic. Out go the Belles and in come the hastily titled ‘Manchester City Ladies’. That in itself is peculiar as we don’t refer to ‘Arsenal men’., as if the default is the masculine, not the feminine. I guess longevity is therefore the default.

Recently my daughter has shown an interest in football. The goal I bought for her a few years ago is getting some serious use. That wasn’t always the case. A few weeks after buying it, she turned to me and asked ‘’Daddy, you know the goal you bought me… you bought it for yourself, didn’t you?’’. It was a comment that struck home as it was true. It was an excuse for me in my 40s to smash a few into the top corner whilst wearing my suit after work as I to pretend I was Kenny Dalglish, circa 1979.

Since she caught the bug, I have been teaching her the basics and is now pretty darned good (despite a tendency to toe punt my shins with zest). To further inspire and fan the flames of passion I bought tickets to the Women’s FA Cup final. I wanted her to enjoy the same feeling of walking into Wembley as I did in 1989 to see Simple Minds belt out ‘don’t you forget about me’. I didn’t and I haven’t.

As a two-bit stadium tour guide I explained to Isabel and her friend Isabella, why we should pay homage to the Bobby Moore statue. In truth, I spent most of the diatribe attempting to define the word ‘homage’. For the duration of our Wembley experience my daughter referred to the statue as ‘Bobby Seagull’, confusing captain marvel for the winning University challenge team captain.

The Wembley innards are akin to entering Gatwick duty free, minus the perfume., although I guess that’s next: ‘Eau de Wembley: The smell of Gerrard’. Everything is a fiver. Minimum. The first pester power stall encountered was the pick n’ mix. Determined not to be fleeced I strictly rationed the girls to a ‘few items’. Suffice it to say I was fleeced by the £11 sweets and the £10 drinks. we entered the stadia proper to be met by the pyrotechnics team transforming pitch side into Nottingham City centre on a raucous Saturday night.

The football was of a very high standard. The goals (5 of them) were sublime and would have been raved about on Match of the Day. But the one overriding aspect of the whole experience was that it meant something to the players, as in really meant something. We were stood right next to the balcony when the cup was held aloft. We saw the players on both sides bounce downstairs to enjoy emotional scenes with their families. One city player bawled like a baby, as did her father. He hugged her, not letting her go for a good couple of minutes as he whispered pride ridden comments in her ear.

It was heartfelt, emotional and not about the money. It was men’s football in the 1960s and 1970s, played for the love of the game and personal achievement, not for image rights and fleecing your employer for as many grand as you could squeeze via some wide boy Essex based agent.

I am now a reformed sneerer and jeerer. The next time I hear a man mock women’s football I will offer to take them to a game, watch a repeat of the FA Cup final goals, and show them that although not yet at the standard of the elite men, their passion and pride trumps that of spoilt, diving (er, simulating), histrionic prima donnas.