Much amusement this week as potty-mouthed football manager Joe Kinnear attempted (without success) to explain away his now legendary four letter rant to national sports reporters.

In case you missed it, former Watford lad Joe, now interim boss at Newcastle United and dubbed JFK by fans, ripped into stunned footy hacks with language strong enough to bring a flush of embarrassment to Roy “Chubby” Brown.

Rather than apologise for his more than 50 obscenities, however, an unrepentant Kinnear explained to BBC Radio 5 Live: “It’s the language I’ve grown up with.

“I grew up on a council estate in Watford.”

What he appears to be saying is this: that the way we speak (our vocabulary, our mannerisms, our turn-of phrase) is dictated not by our life experiences but by where we grew up.

As a proud north Dorset boy I can only agree.

Indeed, when flustered I regularly divert to a rich Jethro-like West Country twang, spitting colourful obscenities to anyone in earshot.

I also retain an inexplicable fondness for tractors, muddy Wellingtons, and unseasonably large root vegetables. Oooh Arrrrrr.

Anyone heard of Peppa Pig? No. Me either. Mind you, it would seem that plenty of other readers have Indeed, a competition in our sister newspaper, the Watford Free, which offered the chance of tea and cake with the popular children’s TV character, proved something of a hit. I’m told that a record number of entries were received.

I only hope next week’s offer to win a six month supply of bacon proves as popular.

Speaking of kids I was heartened to see so many of them taking an interest in a deathly dull council planning meeting last Thursday night.

As reported on Page 11, around 100 members of the Chorleywood Youth Football Club turned up to Three Rivers District Council to argue (unsuccessfully) the need for some new pitches.

This ruling did not, however, dampen the enthusiasm of the young man sitting behind me, who kept a small section of the audience entertained with the mammoth ball of bubble gum he spent all of 30 minutes stretching between his spit-covered fingers, twirling around his head, dropping on the floor before eventually shoving it back in his mouth.

How the said gooey pink mass didn’t affix itself permanently to the sumptuous carpet of the Penn debating chamber I will never know.

Young man, I salute you.

This reminded me of my own exploits as a young footballer with the Manor Park Colts – without doubt the worst team ever to grace the Mid Sussex and District football league(s).

In my near two seasons at the club we amassed a total of one point – a scrappy away draw to hated (equally appalling) Burgess Hill rivals Mall Place FC).

My position: Goalkeeper.

One “sport” I excelled at, however, was conkers – in no small part thanks to my frequent, illicit use of vinegar and a baking tray. Recent attempts to find conkers, however (at least three hours over the last two weekends) have thus far come to nothing.

Indeed, I was beginning to wonder if “climate change” had got the better of them, adding still further to the list of species (polar bears, tigers, sharks, pandas, whales , Guardian readers, people with beards, etc, etc, blah blah blah) we’d soon have to live without.

It was with enormous relief, then, that I learned of tomorrow’s conker championship at the Rose and Crown pub, Harefield (see Page 11).

More pleasing, however, is the revelation contained in the extraordinarily detailed set of rules that you’re still allowed to “call stamps” on your opponent’s conker as soon as it hits the ground.

If I wasn’t visiting my mother in Brighton (apparently I’ve not seen her since March) I’d be there like a shot, shoelaces in one hand and a vinegar soaked conker in the other.