Why can't men say 'No!' to women dressed like cheerleaders?

It seems a man can’t attend a major sporting event these days without being harassed by orange-tanned, bottle blonde cheerleading types with a product to push.

Take Wednesday, for example. I’d barely emerged from the security check at the entrance of Sophia Gardens when I was pounced upon a Vodafone blonde asking if I was happy with my current mobile phone contract, a Sky Sports blonde offering me a match day radio if I signed up for their premium sports package and a rare brunette from Betfair brandishing a free £5 bet if I spent at least £20 with them online.

I dispatched them to the boundary with my usual tactic – putting on a broad Australian accent and saying I’d love to help but I’m only visiting. I use it with charity collectors too. They can only sign up people with UK bank accounts and lose interest in chatting with you when you don’t.

The most persistent were the NPower girls. They trawled the beer queues in packs of three, flirting outrageously with each guy until they divulged their current energy provider as well as a contact name, address and phone number. The details were dutifully punched into a handheld device by one of the blondes and beamed back instantly to NPower’s evil HQ.

It was an astounding achievement. Energy companies in the UK are held in lower regard than your average expense-fiddling politician. Yet every single man in the queue ahead of me succumbed.

I was determined not to. I was going to be the dot ball in their boundary-laden over. Yet somehow they wrangled my email address out of me.

I don’t know how they did it. I told them that I was happy with AGL back in Sydney. I apologised that I only had an Australian phone number. Yet a smile and the promise that if I parted with my details and won the prize of a training session with English cricket team it would be given to charity, the head cheerleader had my email address. The proper one too. Not one I could have/should have made up.

I made my way back to my seat with a pint of Brains in my hand feeling dirty.

It got worse. When I checked my email on my iPhone during the tea break I’d already received one from NPower pestering me about their green credentials.

Damn you NPower girls!

And damn you Y chromosome!