The chance to see a local game proves too tempting for Hunter Davies to resist

The moment I said I'd given up watching Spanish football, the inevitable happened: I got invited to a game. Naturally, I said great, terrific, count me in, always loved Spanish football. I was in Spain at the time, not London or Lakeland, so that made it easier. I'd taken my children and grandchildren to La Molineta, near Frigiliana, not quite knowing where it was, to give them all a half-term treat. I do spoil them.

It turned out we were staying in two stunning villas, owned by an expat Brit called Stephen Todd who used to run a design firm in London. He knocked at the door one day to say he had a spare season ticket for Málaga. Just an hour away. And he'd drive. Stephen goes to all the home games, along with two other Brits and three Spaniards. They always park in the same place, go to the same tapas bar, have the same moans and groans, just like all supporters everywhere.

But Spain is a bit different from England. It's cheaper, for a start. My excellent seat cost only €20. I also saved a fortune because there was so little to buy - no programme, no coffee or beer, and most surprising of all, no rubbish souvenirs. I do love them, but I just couldn't find a stall or shop selling Málaga CF tat. There is a club shop, apparently, but it's in the town and not at the ground. In Spain, many of the clubs are co-ops, or are owned by the local council or by a billionaire who's in it for vanity not profit, so there's not the same money-grubbing mania.

Málaga has a large expat following, very easy to spot from their beer bellies, tattoos and St George's flags. There's one who always takes his shirt off at a certain stage, regardless of the weather, and runs up and down. The Spaniards are the ones eating sunflower seeds all the way through, until eventually they are surrounded by what looks like a sea of blossom. In this case, rather soggy blossom - there was a violent rainstorm in the second half and they all retreated to the back of the stands.

It was a Cup match against Real Sociedad, currently bottom of La Liga, from which Málaga got demoted last year. Only 4,493 turned up, but they did see Málaga win 4-1. Sociedad had two players sent off in two minutes. I think Carlisle United could have given either of them a good game, but the conditions were awful. So much for the Costa del Sol.

When it's Real Madrid or Barça, the ground is full. Frigiliana, with a population of only 2,000, has 13 Real Madrid supporters' clubs. They turn up to cheer Madrid rather than their local team. Just like Man United supporters in England.

There were no away supporters at the game, which again is a feature of Spain, partly because of the long distances and also because there is no tradition of travelling fans. The home crowd therefore has no rival supporter to shout abuse at. Instead, they take it out on the ref.

Stephen was confused by this at first. At each game he could hear them shouting "Hijo" at the ref, and assumed it must be his name. And he always seemed to come from the same place, somewhere called "Puta". He thought, "That's funny. In Spanish games, they must always use the same ref." Now, of course, he knows they were shouting something very rude.

I came away having enjoyed the whole experience. I learned that Sociedad is not a place - it means society. Such ignorance. The club is based in San Sebastián.

And I was left wondering: if I were a ref, would I prefer to be described as a Wanker in Black or the Son of a Prostitute?

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