Are people like me guilty of middle- class ignorance which we cover up with an aggravated sense of apprehension?We were about to find out. Covered up with enough clothes to stop a bullet, over-excited and agitated, I set off with my son Ari. There was nothing volatile about the hordes hurrying towards the stadium, in spite of the foreboding presence of policemen in vans and on horses. Not all fans, I realised to my shame, wore ugly expressions (some looked like beatific pilgrims) or carried beer bottles, though there were a few self-conscious toughies walking backwards in the middle of the road, trying to get themselves noticed.One man, wearing a black leather cap with earmuffs, was walking with some difficulty and was offered an arm by a young woman in a miniskirt Her boyfriend walked on, leaving her to it. Friendly blokes approached us – probably because I looked so gormless – to ask if I wanted to sell my ticket. Everyone was relentlessly nice, including the chain-smoking skinny woman at the reception who was talking on two telephones while trying to help me get an extra ticket for our photographer.

Her promise came to nothing, but she made me feel good.We went into the stadium just a minute before the game was due to start. It was a blindingly sunny day, and I was startled by how physically thrilled I was at the vibrant colours and the sight of thousands of people. The roars that went up and down, the exquisite chanting and songs, some with the depth of hymns – the sheer power of that moment gripped me with an intensity that may have had something to do with the fact that it was so unexpected.We were in the front row – the kind of vulnerable spot where an irritated footballer might try to kick your face in if you said unkind things about his mother. On my left was a boy with no facial hair but a booming voice that resonated in my ear for hours afterwards.

Next to my son was a woman who looked like the actress Miranda Richardson at her most desperately vulnerable. A fat man, bald at the top and with the rest of his greasy hair tied in together, was trying to get comfortable in a seat that was too small for his ample girth. He found this unbelievably funny, as did the line of seven giggling, middle-aged Chinese men wearing white Lycra gloves and Spurs scarves sitting behind us.I could see no other Asians or black people, but there was no antagonism directed towards us In fact, our section was full of couples and families. A doctor sat with his eight-year-old son, next to an Irish family. Both men said they loved bringing their children to matches and that what happened in Ireland was nothing to do with football and everything to do with politically- motivated extremists “This can’t stop us,” said the doctor.

“It is something my father did with me, and something I want David to do with his children. It is part of our family life, it is a continuing tradition and we have so few of those in our country.”It is certainly true that you saw all the generations together, sharing something powerful and in a way that you couldn’t see anywhere else. The women were young and old, some on their own, most with their men, none looking out of place. This was very different from the possessive male account that Nick Hornby gives in his brilliant book, Fever Pitch.As the match progressed, the rituals – when you clapped, sang, screamed, moaned, put your head in your hands – began to take shape, though I didn’t dare join in because I lacked the ease and real commitment of the others Alas, my caution went too far. I failed to rise with joy when Spurs scored the first goal; this would, Ari thinks, have rendered me dangerously conspicuous had he not hauled me to my feet to cheer.The Chinese men were screaming in their own language.