You know the old saying, "women who seek equality with men lack ambition"? Well, I've always regarded that as a little rough on the lads, some of whom really are very nice people once they put away their pneumatic drills and Motorhead albums, scrub the oil from their hands with Swarfega and quit beating their chests and making "Ooaah, me he-man, me hunt moose to feed me moth" sounds.

But I've often wondered what are we meant to assume is the converse of that saying? "Men who seek equality with women are big wusses"? Or "men who seek equality with women have low self-esteem and have a secret passion for day-time chat shows and Russell Crowe"? Or "men who seek equality with women have set themselves an unattainable goal in life"? I should confess to having some sympathy for the lads who, these days, aren't entirely sure whether they should hold a turnstile open for you (and thereby risk being accused of belittling womanhood) or release it just at the point you're about to pass through (thereby proving they regard you as their equal, but, in the process, leaving you with severe internal injuries which will end your hopes of ever bearing children). My very favourite confused lad ("non-boy present alert - what do I do?") moment came at a football match in Italy a couple of years ago. The Italian police had, in their wisdom, decided to pen us into our little "away supporters" area and deny us access to the toilets for close on four hours. Now, I was lucky enough, I hadn't downed 29 pints of lager before arriving at the stadium - but even so, I Riverdanced on the terraces all through the game, seriously distracted by my discomposure. It was, though, the sight of the lads immediately around me that caused me most pain. Cross-eyed, legs plaited, wailing like Banshees, their bladders excruciatingly close to spontaneous combustion. "Ah Jaysus, I'm not going to make it," one of them (Aidan from Dublin) confided in me, tears streaming down his cheeks. Now, Aidan from Dublin had been going to games in Europe for 40 odd years so I assumed, by now, that he'd have come up with a cunning way of relieving his discomfort during games. "Well, yes - I normally do it up against one of the pillars holding up the stand above us, but."

"But?"

"But: you're here, I couldn't do that, it wouldn't be right."

D'you know, my callous heart melted at that point so I insisted on holding up my knapsack to obscure the Stadio delle Alpi's view of Aidan . . . you know. So, having informed the rest of the lads immediately around me that I wouldn't report them to the Equal Rights Commission if they chose to let their bladders give way up against the pillar holding up the stand above us, there then followed a Mexican wave of . . . you know . . . of Niagara proportions. Grand, the lads immediately around me were then able to concentrate on the game from that moment on, but I wasn't. Nothing for it but to march menacingly, at half time, towards the cordon of gun and baton-wielding Italian policemen, with me standing jigging before them and pointing, in a beseeching kind of way, at the women's loo right behind them. Well holy smoley, they let me through. I was going to protest. I was going to conscientiously object to being given access to the loo when my boy pals back on the terrace had been denied the privilege. I was going to call them chauvinist pigs. I was going to accuse them of being anti-boy. But I was burstin', so I didn't. I returned and expected Aidan and the Carlow farmer in front of us to be morally indignant, but they weren't. They were happy for me. They even pointed out, to ease my guilt, that it was easier for boys to . . . you know. All of which made me feel worse.

So, I came home from Italy realising that "football-supporting women who seek equality with football-supporting men must have mastered the art of, you know, up against stadium pillars - otherwise they'd hardly be seeking football-supporting equality, would they?"

I got to thinking about it all again when I read that England's Ashley Cole was hit by a "missile" towards the end of the game against Albania on Wednesday. And what form did the missile take? It was: a lipstick case. Now, of course, one could very easily be accused of being sexist if one made an assumption that the hooligan in question was a woman - after all, there's no law that says Albanian boys can't take lipstick cases with them to football matches. But still, circumstantial evidence would largely hint that the offender was, indeed, a she-person. That being the case, one was reminded of the British Medical Association's conclusion when the decision was made to allow women into the boxing ring: "It's a demented extension of equal opportunities," they said. Maybe, but all the same, you have to acknowledge that Wednesday was as significant a day for non-boy sporty types as that occasion in 1913 when suffragette Emily Wilding Davidson threw herself in front of the King's horse on Derby Day, dying from her injuries a few days later. The important aspect of the Albanian incident is that a non-boy football supporter proved she could be just as mindless as her boy equivalent when the mood took her. Equality, though, will only come when Italian police refuse to allow non-boys access to football stadium toilets. Then, and only then, will the sisters know the battle of the sexes has been won and they, too, will be treated like a herd of cattle.