There was a story earlier this month about parents brawling at an under-10s football match – a pretty disgraceful scene for which all involved should hang their heads in shame.

Yet, sadly, it doesn’t surprise me.

Many years ago, when my son was knee-high to the proverbial grasshopper, he played for a local kids’ team. Each week, I’d turn out to cheer him on and stand on the side of a field in a range of weather conditions.

The summer was a treat – the winter, an arduous, often agonising experience, whipped by rain and wind and with precisely no cover to seek. I’m not convinced anyone involved enjoyed it.

On several occasions, I was asked to referee the games. I had precisely zero experience, other than a reasonable grasp of the game’s rules, and did it purely to assist.

My heart would, I cannot deny, sink when tasked with the role. I’ve never been the fittest of folk, and the thought of running around, in front of a gathering of other parents, while trying to keep up with a host of hyperactive nine-year-olds did not fill me with glee.

But, as a parent, you do these sorts of things, don’t you?

Anyway, on one particular (for once rather pleasant, if memory serves me) Saturday morning, I was called into action and handed the whistle. It was only a friendly, nothing on the line.

I impressed myself and managed to keep up with the action and given there were few controversies to officiate, the game was going smoothly. Until there was a run on the goal…an opposing striker was through with two defenders in close pursuit. I could tell this was going to be tricky so was running in line with the action. I had a perfect view. The striker took a bad touch, the ball bobbled and one of the chasing defenders cleared the ball amid a clattering of young bodies.

There was, quite clearly, no foul. Regardless of which team it was. Even VAR would have agreed.

Yet the opposing manager then took it upon himself to start yelling abuse at me.

I could barely believe what I was hearing.

This was a kids’ football match officiated by someone who thought he was going to be watching from the sidelines. Who, frankly, didn’t really care who won or lost, just that the kids enjoyed themselves, A professional referee I was, quite clearly, not.

After five minutes of constant complaining I stopped the match and went over and told him, nicely, to calm down and ease off.

He looked for all the world like he wanted to square up to me. I raised my eyebrows and trotted back to re-start the game. Life is too short for such nonsense.

I’d love to say it was a one-off. But future games I could even hear my son’s coach disputing my decisions.

Granted, perhaps I was just an awful ref. But I don’t think, given the low stakes and relative competence, I was.

All it demonstrated to me was that the attitude people take from watching the Premier League - shouting vile abuse at all and sundry - simply gets transferred to whatever football is in front of them at any given time.

If the referee is a paid professional wearing all black and with a host of technology available to them, they get a mouthful. At least they get paid. If they are an overweight dad wearing a tatty T-shirt and shorts, helping out, they get a mouthful. And I didn’t receive a penny.

Children deserve much better. Referees, for that matter and whatever their level, deserve much better.