Ben Machell discovers more than a Boy’s Own adventure on manly day out with his son

I recently took my three-year-old son to watch his first ever game of competitive sport.

As the pair of us set off, I was a little anxious. It felt like taking him for an MMR jab in the sense that, long-term, I knew he would only benefit from the experience, but that in the short-term I may end up having to distract and placate him with quite a bit of emergency Peppa Pig, boxes of raisins, packs of stickers, hard cash, bawdy, improvised songs about bums and impossible promises of rides in X-Wing Starfighters from Star Wars. We walked to the bus, father and son. He seemed cheerful. Oblivious.

We were going to watch a game of rugby league, which is easier said than done in London. But — curiosity of curiosities — the mighty Wigan Warriors were playing a pre-season friendly against local part-timers, the London Skolars. And, more curious still, the match was being played just south of Old Street roundabout. I know! Rugby league in Old Street! It was the world turned upside down.

Actually, it was fascinating. It was held at the home of the Honourable Artillery Company on City Road, which boasts two beautiful pitches, hidden from general view, a secret grassy enclave surrounded by the sheer glass and steel of the City. As a result, it’s one of the most valuable patches of grass on the entire planet. And most of us don’t even know it’s there. You have to respect that kind of power move. London’s swagger never ceases to amaze me.

And standing on the touchline, my son on my shoulders, I experienced a Proustian rush back to my own childhood: the cold air, the smell of damp turf mingling with fag smoke and beer, the sound of men’s voices and the salty language I didn’t quite understand but thrilled in nonetheless. The spectators were an odd mix: half were City boys, enjoying a corporate jolly, while the other half were laconic, granite-faced, flat-cap wearing men who all reminded me of my grandad. More than once, I thought I’d seen him from the corner of my eye. I felt a brief lump in my throat, but it passed.

It was a very male environment, which troubled me slightly. I hadn’t meant for this to be an exclusively ‘boys’ event. My daughter, who is one year old, loved the recent Rugby League World Cup more than anybody, and would cackle with delight at the sight of massive Pacific Islanders repeatedly braining each other. But she was having her nap, so a lads excursion it was. And a relative success, too. My son ran up and down the touchline for a solid 40 minutes before we both got cold and went for pizza. No shame in that.

A little later, another chance to do something manly presented itself. My son was invited to an army-themed birthday at the National Army Museum in Chelsea. Because we live in genteel Hackney, we don’t tend to get invited to parties where war is on the menu, so this was an illicit thrill. But my mate, whose son’s party it was, lives in Fulham, where they’re obviously a lot less squeamish about these things.

I was secretly hoping Andy McNab might be doing the kids entertaining, making balloon assault rifles, etc. Instead, there was a brilliant indoor soft-play assault course. My daughter would not be prised off it, but my son, eventually, found his way to a child-sized kitchen area. It was supposed to be an ‘army canteen’ or something, and he set about, very methodically, baking some imaginary cakes. And there’s no shame in that either. None at all.