My wife enjoys watching swimming but does not wear an all in one Speedo get up when out with the girls. Men however are fantastical beasts. I often, in weekend chav mode, choose to go public attired in my Barnet or Barcelona football finery. I have had daydreams whilst watching the mighty Bees of the team being struck down by food poisoning on the eve of a big game against the mighty Havant and Waterlooville. With player shortages, the manager spots me in the crowd in my jersey and puts me in as a holding midfielder. In the last minute of the must win promotion decider I slam in a 40-yard bullet before being mobbed in a pitch invasion as I earn my place in football folklore.

Why men dress as their heroes is a mystery when women prefer to be a little more refined. It was with this in mind I undertook a social study at Silverstone to watch the British Superbikes. I know as much about bikes as I do about Pantene, but I was amazed to see at least 90 per cent of all guys dressed as their favourite superbiker, be it Leon Haslam or Shakey Burns. There were Yamaha, Kawasaki and Honda fans all trying to out testosterone each other as I searched feverishly in my rucksack for the earplugs.

Judging by the number of cars in the car park, most of the fans did not have bikes and I couldn’t help but wonder what the attraction was. The first 10 minutes was palatable, watching the bikes racing line around the corners and being in awe of the speed. After the 10,000th time, the novelty was wearing extremely thin. It would be like watching two footballers pass the ball to each other in a straight line for nine hours solid, yet, as they stood there in garish clothing looking like advertising hoardings, I failed to see what the fuss was all about. I get similar feelings at the theatre, but instead of the smell of the greasepaint and roar of the crowd, I get the smell of burning rubber and the noise of the gear shift.

I guess we can all admire the aesthetic beauty of a machine, be it a car or motorbike. The lines, the shape and impressive statistics leave us wishing we had the E-Type or Ducati. But generally those dressed up in such clothing, within a minute of meeting in such a setting, start to play a game to gauge your knowledge of the bikes in question as if your answers are a passport as to entering an extended conversation with them. To say they were suitably unimpressed with my stories about when I owned a 50cc Honda ‘back in the day’ would be an understatement.

What do you make of the fairings? What about the sponge baffler and carb limiter? There is no way to blag a conversation like this and they walk off feeling that little bit better about themselves as you feel like the Silverstone village idiot. They have the jacket and the knowledge, yet the reality is that they look like rotund middle-aged men dressed in horrendous non-matching clothing as they drive home in their Fiat Puntos.

I guess the trick is not dressing as your heroes and us guys should take a lead from the female’s book. We need to grow up, embrace gravitas and stop the childlike dreaming. I plan to go and purchase some Hush Puppies, a tweed jacket and some comfortable cords in which to while away the middle-aged hours. I may just wear the football top beneath my checked shirt however. Rumour has it that Barnet manager John Still is struggling to put out a team tomorrow and maybe, just maybe...