IT was one of the most difficult moments in my life, but I was strong in the knowledge that I was not the only teenager about to crush his father's dreams.

I had read many extremely earnest articles about it in magazines, and come to realise the full extent of what it meant: the commitment, the potential negative reactions from those closest to you, the sometimes embarrassing scenes in public, the knowing looks. . .

It had been weeks since I had first decided I was ready to inform my parents. My mum was easy, but I was concerned as to my father's reaction. Despite figures in the newspapers that suggested one in five youngsters held similar feelings, I did not actually know anyone in this situation.

Strangely - but then, I was 19 - I decided the time to break the news would be a Friday night in my village Working Men's Club after a few pints.

I would have to choose my moment carefully. A thick pall of smoke hung in the air, making it difficult to ascertain who you were actually talking to, which didn't really help matters.

Groups of ageing men sat at tables, pints grasped in one hand, dominos in the other, their faces frozen in concentration as if a bad turn would mean re-mortgaging the garden shed.

Men shoved hard-earned silver into fruit machines and talked loudly about football and politics. As a fresh-faced youngster I felt slightly intimidated by their size, macho stance and strong opinions.

Propped against the bar, to one side of my father stood his mate Barry - a jovial sort of chap, but full of blunt Yorkshire bluster and some cutting comments about my colourful shirt.

To the other side was red-nosed Tony, who said very little and only drank bottles of warm Guinness ordered with a nod of the head in the direction of the woman behind the bar.

I would have to wait until Tony and Barry had left the scene. It was pie and peas night, so the three men were enjoying a late-night treat: one that I had chosen to abstain from.

I had informed my dad that eating would impede my beer drinking - an excuse that was greeted with a certain degree of understanding. It was difficult enough to consume four pints an hour without filling yourself up with food on top - although my father and his friends seemed to do this without much problem.

What I was about to inform him would confirm that I would never be man enough to achieve this.

Eventually, about 30 minutes after what would, in normal establishments, be closing time, my father and I were left alone. It was now or never.

I thought the signs had been relatively obvious for some time. I didn't have a girlfriend, was a big fan of The Smiths, had no particular objection to Erasure or the Pet Shop Boys, and enjoyed reading Oscar Wilde (well, I had the complete works displayed in a prominent position on the living room table, but never actually read it).

I took a large slurp of beer and turned to my father - a man among men, who never read books and whose interests were simply sport, the pub and John Wayne films - and said: "Dad. . . I've got something to tell you. I'm, er. . . a vegetarian."

He turned to the steward. "Any chance of another?"