Is it just ME?

Or are fairweather football fans maddening?

VIVA Inglaterra! I’ll be there in spirit on Saturday. Baffling my husband, for whom football is a closed book, I shall be vigilant as a meerkat for the Champions League Final between Liverpool and Spurs in Madrid.

I may sneak into some well-equipped pub and shout: ‘Come on my son!’ at random moments, for either team: as long as it’s thrilling I don’t mind who wins. Especially when they’re both English teams. I will try to refrain from embarrassing girly questions such as: ‘Which are the red ones again?’

This is a confession: I am a fairweather idler, who only takes an interest in sport at the final thrilling minutes — the Olympic moment, the tussle for the cup. Real fans have studied and suffered, argued about whether Tottenham boss Pochettino makes the best of Dele Alli, or if Liverpool’s Firmino should play as a false No 9.

They have sung, screamed at commentators, suffered crushing disappointments and walked home sad, or joined great waves of joy. They are proper fans.

Then idlers like me suddenly notice that Liverpool usurp Barcelona and Spurs beat the Dutch, and wow, we might be stuck in a shocking Euromuddle, but look at us! I was the same at the World Cup, alone in a hotel room sharing the grief with the minibar.

It’s incurable, this shameful habit of sneaking in at the end to surf great sports moments. I know I am an impostor, grabbing the cream and avoiding the roughage.

But maybe proper fans won’t mind that their river of excitement breaks its banks and drenches us all.

Because we get the point: the leaping athleticism, the tension in the penalty box, the extraordinary footwork, the mad headers, the sheer life.

Go on my son! Whoever you are . . .

‘I shall try to refrain from girly questions such as: “Which are the red ones again?”’