I DID something on Friday I have never done. I bought a newspaper and read it from back to front. Literally. What most men have done since birth, I have just grasped.

Little wonder then that my dad has finally regarded me with the kind of pride he – prior to this life-changing moment – once normally only reserved for my brother.

You see, he was great at sport; rugby, football, running, tennis, fencing – a one-man version of Sky Sports.

And my dad was no sporting wallflower either – he refereed rugby matches, played golf, was a respected snooker player, and could swim for England.

Yet to make matters worse (for me), both he and my brother also drank beer, could look under a car’s bonnet and say, with absolute conviction, “it’s your head gasket” and strike up conversations with workmen and builders.

I, of course, have never been able to do any of the above.

I have always favoured cocktails over pints, like nothing more than a good ballet, and can’t even diagnose a simple flat tyre.

Still, all that has now been forgiven and forgotten and like the Prodigal Son, I can once again enjoy the warm bosom of my family.

And what, or who, do I have to thank for this miracle?

In three words – the World Cup.

It’s not that I have ever disliked football – I enjoy it a lot, as it happens – but I can’t explain the offside rule, have never supported a team, and the only footballer whose name I do recognise is Gary Lineker.

Truth is, I probably know more about the wives and girlfriends than actual players. But every World Cup changes that.

Every World Cup I become like every other man.

Every World Cup I become a ‘bloke’.

Not that there’s anything extraordinary about this (despite the Lourdes-like claims of a miracle from friends and colleagues); it’s just that, like the Olympics, like Wimbledon, like Eurovision, it’s an event. And that puts everything on its head.

Suddenly, it isn’t just about football (at least not to me); in the blink of an eye, it’s about taking your place on the world stage, showcasing everything that’s good and great and admirable about your country.

It’s about heroes and villains, the characters who support them, the dreams, the hopes, the anguish.

It’s Pop Idol...but with balls (and I mean that in both senses of the word).

So right now, against all my genetic coding, I AM fluent on all things Rooney, Fabio, Messi (Argentina’s magical little scamp), Ronaldo, Eto’o (that’s Cameroon’s hit man in case you didn’t know) and vuvuzelas (you can look that one up for yourself...).

And just to prove how fluent I’ve become in World Cup lingo, I was able to hold my own on Saturday night when I asked, out loud in a pub, : “So, do you think Fabio will go for a 4-4-2 or a 4-3-3?”

I know, I’m cool.