There was no-one else to blame. Abandoning a lifetime habit and not checking the detail, I turned up for a fundraising event, at which I had offered to help, at the wrong location.

In mitigation, it doesn’t help when Marston is home to two prominent Oxford institutions — Oxford City Football Club and Oxford Harlequins Rugby Club. I arrived at the former, to be swamped by small but aspiring David Beckhams — dozens of ’em.

Some lads wished they’d stayed in bed. The weather was foul, and while mum and dad sheltered beneath stout umbrellas, they clung to the cuffs of their team shirts, rain flattening their hair and running off pink noses.

It is a wonder that in these days of state interference, some law has not been passed to prevent such parental treatment.

A phone call established I was at the wrong place, so I drove along Marston Ferry Road to the home of the Harlequins. Again dozens of vehicles (many 4x4s — somehow the accepted conveyance of many rugby families) disgorged players, the younger ones echoing the dubious enthusiasm of their soccer counterparts. Sunday morning was all about training for them, while the under-16s were warming up to take on long-time rivals Reading in a full-blooded match at 11am.

Press-ups, running backwards (I can’t think why), lying on soaking turf followed by more reverse running and press-ups seemed to be a vital element in the younger ones’ exercises. Some took it better than others; one young chap, a born prop forward in build and attitude, was less enthusiastic and when the training turned to that age-old contest of the few against the many — British Bulldog — he withdrew to the touchline and a bottle of water.

In sharp contrast was a tiny chap who later announced he was a fly half, a claim I saw no reason to question. He took on the bigger lads with great determination, even though he was invariably flattened for his endeavours.

One spectator was watching a couple of grandsons. He expressed typical grandparental sympathy.

“Poor little sods!” he said.

But where was the fundraising event? I approached a small, energetic woman called Michelle, whose name graced a banner indicating she was the person who accepted outside bookings for the clubhouse.

“The fete starts at two o’clock — after the rugby,” she said, before dashing off to address more pressing needs. Another promising fly half should she decide to take up the game?

Not only had I gone to the wrong place, I’d also arrived five hours early. The embarrassment of it all!

But this wet and cloudy morning was to reveal its share of silver linings.

I watched the under-16s match, which Harlequins won, to the delight of the home team, the aspiring yet soggy youngsters and the supporters. It was played with good humour and skill that can only be honed to greater perfection by those coaches and trainers who give up so much of their time, even if it does include making lads run backwards and lie on wet turf.

This was all a fitting reminder to those who despair that today’s teenage lads are mostly foul-mouthed, knife-wielding, ignorant thugs. I have never shared this view — and was delighted to see my opinion confirmed.