There was a moment, a simple enquiry, when I realised that my daughter had successfully been indoctrinated. A journey round the M25 to a match in north London had been halted prematurely, as the car’s engine lost all power, and we spluttered to a halt on the hard shoulder. As my uncle got out to investigate the cause, and with the rest of the Saturday afternoon traffic thundering past at terrifying speed, I hurriedly scooped her out of the car and over the relative safety of the crash barrier.
Stood among the overgrown grass and clutching her favourite teddy, she beckoned me down to her level so she could make herself heard over the passing vehicles and asked a question that made my heart skip with parental affection. “Daddy, are we stil…