I believe (deep breath) that football has become a homoerotic culture

You don't get many footballers who are poofters, to use the cheap, slangy, dressing-room terminology, which of course I do, even when I'm talking to myself. They would get drummed out, humiliated and exposed very early in their careers, unless they could conceal or sublimate their feelings and inclinations. Which some must do, by the law of averages.

The violently macho posturing of their language and attitudes is often rather suspicious, and might even be a sign of something being suppressed. For I believe (deep breath) that football has become a homoerotic culture.

From the earliest age, they are exposed to naked male flesh, all day long. Blokes really do preen, prance around, showing off their tackle. They are used to their bodies being massaged and pummelled by other males. You don't get female physios inside dressing rooms. They go out on the piss together. Picking up some tart at the end of the night is an optional extra on a par with a curry or a kebab.

Many of them do treat women badly, having been brought up in an all-male environment. But what's surprising is the new habit of group sex, with them all taking turns, in the same hotel room. It would suggest that watching each other is part of the fun.

However, at the same time, their feminine side has become more open and pronounced, thanks to players like Becks. An obsession with their hair is a modern passion. Before the Second World War, they certainly copied each other's hairstyles, such as a middle parting; postwar, they liked to look like Billy Wright, with waves on top. But then they stuck to it for life: none of this faffing around and changing the colour, ribbons or extensions every damn game. Kissing and cuddling? None of that business went on before the war. A stiff handshake with the person who had passed the ball, then you walked back to the centre circle, tight-lipped.

Today, their natural reaction on scoring, while they await the kisses and cuddles, is to take their shirt off. This is now banned, but you still see them starting to do it involuntarily, pulling it partly over their head or at least up a few inches, exposing a bit of flesh. Why do they do this, o wise one? Because naked cuddles are nicer than shirted cuddles.

Physical contact has now progressed even further, with players getting into little huddles, arms around each other, cuddling up, before the game has even started.

Football itself has become more feminine. Look at the physique of the average player. In the past, they were smaller, squatter, heavier - bull-like. Now they are taller and thinner, more akin to ballet dancers than labourers. They wear slippers, not boots, and the rules now protect them from thugs and nasty people who push them into the net.

Perhaps it's all just a matter of Brits generally being more open now about their feelings. Gazza became famous for his tears, but he is also greatly loved by all his friends.

I was driving with him and his dear friend Jimmy Gardner, aka Five Bellies. We were on our way to a match at Telford, where Gazza was about to play for Wolves Reserves, when we got totally lost.

Jimmy was driving and Gazza was giving directions, as he thought he knew where the ground was, but this was a fantasy. They were effing and blinding and screaming and shouting, blaming one another. Any outsider might have thought blood was about to be spilled, but it was harmless invective, a way of letting off steam. I know what they're like, I thought. They're an old married couple. They appear to be arguing, but in reality it's a form of affection. Lads today, eh?

I'm not suggesting there's anything between them, as I don't want to get thumped, but they are each other's best friend. When Gazza's marriage finally collapsed, he turned to Jimmy for help, going to live with him.

You know where you are with your mates. It's how players are brought up today - on permanent bonding sessions.

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