A bit of a kerfuffle down at The Shovel the other night when four women walked in – all at once. The Incumbent and I watched from our little dark corner. The regulars were in shock.Pints of Mild and Mackeson were placed heavily on the bar. There were so many raised eyebrows it looked like an explosion at a Carlo Ancelotti factory. There hadn’t been five women in this bar at the same time since VJ night. The landlady sensed a business opportunity and polished up the Martini Rosso bottle on the optic rack.

Some of the younger regulars (those in their fifties) appeared never to have seen a female before. One bloke ricked his neck trying to get a better view of a plump woman’s cleavage. Well, I say cleavage – heavy breasts swinging around a lady’s knees inside a frumpy cardigan (think Carol Kirkwood drinking a pint)- but it was getting these guys excited.

I’d needed to get out of the house in case I watched any cricket (there’s no tv in the pub). After seeing the might of Ireland trounce Ashes-wining England I was feeling pretty low. How many hours have I wasted watching England football and cricket teams march into world competitions with an ill-judged air of confidence only to be humiliated by 11 part-timers or “minnows” ? Jesus. I might as well support Scotland. I can’t write any more. It’s 7.30 in the morning and we’ve just collapsed to 171 all out against South Africa (who, in all fairness, have actually played the game before). All the joy in my heart that was present after the English outplayed the French at Rugby last weekend (queue French bleats of dodgy refereeing and “Anglo-Saxon conspiracies”) have vanished like an old oak table. With Charlton Athletic Oozluming (again) and the cricket boys due to get the first Easyjet flight home from India, I wonder if my subs to Sky Sports and the time I spend watching it might be better spent elsewhere.

There’s a crib match down the pub later. Great spectator sport.