GROWING up as a young lad in the north of England, there were two things you always tried to avoid: supporting Manchester United and being middle class.

The first one was easy – having family down south and a very persuasive father meant I was instantly drawn to his team, who play a long way south of Watford Gap.

The second was a little more difficult.

As the son of two teachers who was good at music and read a lot, I ticked the middle class box better than anyone.

But even at a good school where most of the kids wore blazers, in this Lancashire mill town being middle class was always a bit of a dirty idea.

It was always associated with people who were stuffy and serious, a group who were anti-fun, even anti-social.

That was then.

And now, despite becoming a grade A exhibit for Marxist social schema - young professional, home owner, keen gardener - I’ve always felt uncomfortable with the stigma.

But that’s not to say I don’t enjoy it.

And the other day I did one of the most middle-class middle-aged things one can do – I went over to my neighbours for dinner and a glass of fizz.

While over there, I started telling them the story of when I was playing rugby at school against much bigger kids.

I was quite good at the sport, relishing the cut and thrust of a game which meant everyone, regardless of their size or speed, was a valued member of a team.

As a small, slightly chubby kid I also enjoyed bringing a few of the older lads down a peg or two, especially after they’d given me a bit of lip.

There was one moment which I fondly remember.

I’d just put one of the opposing players on the floor with a hefty tackle when one of my teammates looked at me aghast and said: “What’s that coming down the side of your face?”

I reached up, touched my ear and found a stream of blood pouring down. I turned to my dad on the sidelines.

His response was typically northern: “What’s wrong with yer? Get on with it.”, he shouted."

So I did, until the referee saw it and immediately ordered me off.

I sat on the sidelines till the end of the match. Then it was on to A&E.

A few hours later I had a row of five stitches put in to stop my ear from hanging off the side of my head.

From then on, I played the game on and off for a few years, always wearing a protective headpiece.

And Then I stopped completely, not because of trauma of nearly losing an ear but – it was simply because shortly afterwards my eyesight started to deteriorate. It doesn’t take a genius to know that glasses and rugby don’t mix very well. I finished my story to much laughter and a few sympathetic “awws”.

Then it was back on to serious things such as house renovations and double parking.

Coincidentally, a few days later came the news of this study by a bunch of academics about how tackling in rugby should be banned.

In an open letter to ministers, they say injuries from this “high-impact collision sport” can have lifelong consequences for children.

They argue two thirds of injuries in youth rugby and most concussions are down to tackles and urge schools to move to touch and non-contact rugby.

In reality, I could have been a case study. But I’ve rarely read something that which made me so angry. For me rugby was a chance to escape, a chance to be on a level playing field regardless with my all of your peers.

It also taught me simple values such as teamwork, bravery and overcoming adversity – all of which stands you in good stead in later life. It was also bloody good fun.

If the academics had their way then children would be wrapped in cotton wool and locked in a dark room until they are 18. Only then would they be released but what then?

Yes rugby can be a little violent, yes it can occasionally result in blood being spilt but that I’m afraid is what life is about. It’s far better for young people to become aware of the rough and tumble at an early age when there’s not much at risk than in later life when things could be a little serious. None of the life skills learnt playing rugby can be picked up in a darkened room while reading books and writing theses.

So you academics, I urge you – stop being stuffy, stop being so middle class and start to have a bit of fun.

We have all our middle age and later years to sit down and be serious.

But for now why not just let kids be kids. If slightly chubby middle-class lads like me can escape unharmed, then there’s hope for everyone else.

Speaking of children, a few days back I was in the pub during the middle of a children’s disco.

Most of the children were at the front dancing along to “heads, shoulders, knees and toes” but a few of the youngsters shunned the fun to sit at the back and play on their iPads.

No doubt this is just exactly what the 70 academics who signed the letter calling for tackling to be banned in rugby want our children to be like in the future.

In a few years time, no doubt the same children will be trying to order a virtual drink while eating a virtual packet of crisps and talking to friends via text message. How sad.