I very much hope that the unfortunate revelations of the weekend do not mean I will soon have to stop calling Richard Scudamore a lady part in my private communications.

I don't always go for the rudest female variant of the genitalia where the Premier League chief executive is concerned: occasionally I consider the situation and rule that Richard has been a prick. The latter term I think I'm allowed to use in the Guardian: the other one I'm not, as far as I know, unless it's in reported speech. (I like to think of this rule as a gender politics skewing of George Carlin's famous bad words routine, which concluded that "You can prick your finger, but don't finger your prick.")

Anyway, I do reserve my right to carry on calling Scudamore both things in private emails, or in conversation. And despite the fact I found the Sunday's Mirror's excerpts of his emails both pathetic and almost poignantly unfunny – hardly a surprise – I rather defend his right to indulge in the level of twattishness they revealed. What I don't defend is his right to be a total professional hypocrite – but we shall come to that later.

First, a recap. According to the Sunday Mirror, a temporary secretary was automatically forwarded Scudamore's private emails for the sake of coordinating his diary, and in certain exchanges he was found to be wanting of the high standards I know we all expect from the guy who runs the Greatest League In The Universe.

Some distinctions are perhaps worth making. The Premier League boss did not himself refer to women as "gash" – one of his friends seems to have torn themselves away from the Curb Your Enthusiasm writers' room to deliver that bon mot. Richard's crime was evidently not to call him out on it.

Then there is a mention of "female irrationality" – though not in reference to a decision taken by a woman running the line at one of his product's games the previous weekend. The Sunday Mirror declined to provide the full context of the remark, but reading between Scudamore's references to families and China's one-child policy, it felt to me that his correspondent had just had a baby girl, or had discovered they were soon to.

As the father of two daughters himself, Scudamore offers a cliched, sub-wry, old-hand observation on his household that I really cannot see as the end of the world, or even the beginning of the end of it. In happy contrast, my father has three daughters, and it wouldn't occur to him to say anything remotely like this – the most sublimely gentle of former oil rig workers, he has always professed to love being outnumbered, and in every one of his attitudes is one of the most ardent feminists I know. But I expect he'd think it a bit rum if we started calling for people's heads for this sort of private email lame-arsery.

There is very obviously a level of sexism or misogyny at which Scudamore's position would have become untenable, but this is not it – certainly not for anyone who understands the importance of a grasp of nuance and degree if arguments against the bigoted and benighted are to be won.

And so to the long-looming Having Said All That. Having said all that, what if Scudamore were to be judged according to his own standards? You see, even as he was brushing off the incident with his non-apology apology, a bell was ringing in my head. It was not three years ago that all Premier League funding was rescinded from the fan empowerment organisation Supporters Direct, on the basis of a few swearily abusive tweets sent by its chief executive minutes after AFC Wimbledon's promotion to the Football League. (Supporters Direct helps fans establish supporters' trusts, and in one of those corporate fig-leaf deals that sees McDonald's donate a minuscule percentage of its gazillions to the occasional public health project, it is overwhelmingly funded by the Premier League.)

"The Bible can fuck off," opined the euphoric SD chairman Dave Boyle, "this is the greatest story ever told." The MK Dons chairman was a "cowardly cheating idiot". The lawyer who sat on the FA commission that approved the Milton Keynes relocation was judged something apparently unprintable. And for those spur-of-the-moment, soon-deleted transgressions, the Premier League's crucial funding was withdrawn from Supporters Direct with immediate effect.

It didn't matter to Scudamore that Boyle offered a mortified apology. Almost unbelievably, it didn't matter that he then resigned in a desperate bid to safeguard the organisation to which he had given more than 10 years' service. Scuadmore's outfit still pulled every penny, via its satellite the Football Stadia Improvement Fund, leaving Supporters Direct's 10 dedicated staff petrified that they would soon have no jobs. This financial torture of the organisation lasted months.

So that is the sort of man who runs the Premier League – petulant, spiteful, imperious, devoid of a sense of proportion, and nakedly contemptuous of anyone trying to represent the ordinary fan. Call me a wildly unreconstructed misogynist – ideally in an article which studiously discounts everything I have written about sexism before – but those characteristics are considerably more troubling to me than whatever dreary badinage Scudamore exchanges in private with one of his dreary-sounding mates. And in a media misjudgment that would surely have delighted him, they got about a tenth of the coverage.