Right, David Mitchell can have his own category.
In some ways, I've grown up into a slightly shorter replica of my dad. In this particular, minor, way, we both pour a great deal of bile and contemptuous scorn into the word "football" - enunciating both its syllables, Foot. Ball.
Though my dad was actually on a school sports team, which would have been pretty much unthinkable for me. I can't quite look back at school P.E. and laugh yet - it's more looking back and screaming "Nononono make the memories stop I beg for a swift death".
And remember, I played with the girls! Well... I'm not sure that you can call them "girls", more "enraged she-beasts from the Book of Vile Darkness who've been handed blunt instruments and then cheered on in their bloodshed". If I'd had to share sports lessons with the other boys, I wouldn't be alive to write this.
Menstruation? It does rather jar with my sense of self, but I'm glad that the sports teachers never kept track of my menstrual cycle. Eight periods a month is probably not the ordinary number.
I guess the attendant anaemia would have explained my height and weight...
Anyway, come on, people. Give me a positive view of sport. One that doesn't recall me having my head trodden into freezing mud.