I am ashamed to admit that on Saturday I willingly witnessed 56 men indulging in a shocking display of naked aggression that ended in tears and cheers, blood and alcohol.

It was a shocking demonstration of strutting peacocks, immature machismo and male camaraderie.

At the very moment York City were playing themselves out of the football league, I was not too many miles away bearing witness to a corporate seven-a-side footy tournament.

Eight teams (my maths is still pretty good then) were locked in gladiatorial combat for the honour of J. Bloggs and Sons or World Logistic Solutions Inc or something like that. As they strapped on their shinpads like legionnaires' armour they recited the ancient pre-battle chant: "Today is a good day to die, Caesar, I mean boss."

The amphitheatre was packed with a sprinkling of wives and girlfriends all howling for gore and goals. They were there to show support - and cleavage, midriffs and legs on such a fine spring day. The most bizarre aspect of the whole tournament was that I was there to watch. Friends know I hate football. My wife openly confesses - after a glass or two - she married me only because she would never have to sit through a game, at home or on the terraces.

It was only recently explained to me that football is the one with the round ball between teams of 11 men or boys or girls. Then I find out that there are variations - five-a-side or seven-a-side.

When male conversation turns to football - as it does on the hour every hour - I make my excuses and leave. I marvel at the passion, misguided loyalty and heartache this sport engenders in otherwise sensible people.

One friend is openly, clinically depressed because "his" team, Leeds United, is in terminal decline and down in something called the relegation zone. It sounds like some post-apocalyptic, futuristic nightmare landscape.

Apparently it is if Leeds slip down. If it were the army it would be the equivalent of having to drink in the NAAFI instead of the officers' mess.

There's another thing. How can supporters adopt a club from somewhere they have probably never even visited as a town or city?

York is packed with Arsenal, Manchester United or Chelsea fans and they jealously refer to them as "we" whenever the topic arises.

My poor, misguided son is no better. Despite the relentless thrashings and hell and damnation sermons about football he was given as an infant, he has aligned himself to Sunderland. Lord knows why, I didn't even think he knew where it was.

Even worse, he is trying to infect the family line. His lovely little daughter has a junior version of his season ticket.

It is shocking when you think football has sparked off nearly as much violence - on and off the pitch - as religion, jealousy or greed.

If as much analysis, concentration, discussion, passion and cash were devoted to solving the world's ills, we would have eradicated cancer, global warming, shell suits, boy racers and war decades ago.

Back to my tournament. I was dragged there kicking and screaming after agreeing to attend in a weak moment. Anyway, I wanted to see how the other half live.

On the pitch, managing directors played alongside office boys, rank for once reversed as the energy of youth overwhelmed the sedentary executives.

Office protocol went out the window as youngsters screamed abuse at the shortcomings of their senior team mates, and men of all ages and shapes practised the sliding tackles they had learned off Match Of The Day. Stupidly masochistic thing to do on a gravel, outdoor pitch.

After a failed shot at goal, the shamed marksman would fly into a tantrum, shaking his head and body, swearing and shouting at himself.

His manhood was at stake in front of the mixed crowd, his next promotion may even have been riding on it.

I heard one chap on his mobile phone apologising to his wife or girlfriend that, somehow, they had made it to the final and he could not pick her up before the shops shut.

Two women supporters were encouraging the team playing against their partners, so they could get off to the pub without having to sit through another nailbiting game.

Strangely, I was drawn into the excitement and found myself calling out "Come on, blues."

I don't even know who Blues were but "we" won that round.

Updated: 11:10 Tuesday, April 27, 2004