Cricket World Cups; From maroon caps to green hair

Domestic competition and bilateral series are all very well, but everyone loves a World Cup, don’t they? In the past six years I’ve become rather attached to the alternative Champions Trophy, if only because the use of Cardiff as a venue has enabled me to tag along several times in person. However, with only the top eight  ranked nations eligible to participate,  it lacks the cache of a genuine World Cup. 

The growth of Twenty 20 has inevitably led to the format’s own global tournament every two years. To be honest, I have little interest in it. Probably the only action I can recall watching live was the astonishing last-over climax at Kolkata in 2016 when Ben Stokes served up four identical deliveries for Carlos Brathwaite to club for six and hand the West Indies an unlikely victory.

For me, the only cricket World Cup that matters is the one based on official one-day international rules. That now involves fifty overs a side but when the Prudential Cup launched in 1975 the poor things had to play sixty. Too long for twenty-first century viewers but great value for teenage fans like me.

The ODI as a concept was very much in its infancy; prior to this tournament the total number contested by the six Test-playing nations was fewer than twenty. With a straightforward format comprising two groups of four, semis and final, the World Cup was easily condensed into a fortnight in June. All the more reason to relish all fifteen matches. Given that all twelve group fixtures took place on just three days, the simultaneous scheduling and only two available BBC TV channels meant that few were televised live.

To be honest I have no recollection of watching England sail through Group A against India, East Africa and New Zealand. The other quartet was far more interesting and it was Pakistan who fell victim to the Group of Death, their fate determined by a thrilling finish at Edgbaston. Despite the efforts of Majid Khan, Sarfraz Nawaz et al, the West Indies scraped home by one wicket with just two balls to spare.

Infuriatingly, both semis were contested midweek, so pesky school commitments precluded a full day’s feast of TV cricket. I expected to get home to watch the England-Australia finale so was staggered to find it had already been wrapped up. Instead of Lillee and Thomson, it was the little-known left-arm swing bowler Gary Gilmour who dominated, taking a stunning 6-14.

And so it came to pass that the inaugural final involved the Aussies and Windies who were becoming bitter rivals. It turned out to be one of the most memorable matches I’ve ever watched. Annoyingly, we missed the middle section – including Clive Lloyd’s magnificent century – because Dad’s school fete took priority. However, from Roy Fredericks treading on his stumps in executing a hooked six off Lillee to some fabulous run-outs by Viv Richards and premature pitch invasions near the end, all the game lacked was a nail-biting last-ball climax. Just writing this 44 years later sets my skin all a-tingle.

The next two World Cups were also hosted by England who still couldn’t quite make home advantage count. In 1979, I glowed with pride and wonder as my idol Viv Richards flayed England’s finest to all corners of Lord’s. That audacious match-winning flicked six off Mike Hendrick will never leave me an image of an alien beamed down from a planet where cricket was played on an altogether higher plane.

Four years on and Viv was at it again, part of a Windies side that was if anything even firmer favourites. They cruised to the final where the fantasy fast bowling quartet of Roberts, Marshall, Garner and Holding dismissed India for under 200. And yet this time the script was ripped up. Once Kapil Dev had pulled off a terrific backpedalling over-the-shoulder catch to end Richards’ menacing innings, Amarnath and Madan Lal completed the job and we had new world champions.

England’s monopoly on hosting duty was over, and the Asian subcontinent assumed the role in the autumn of ’87 followed by Australia/New Zealand in ’92. The time difference and for us, out-of-season scheduling, meant I didn’t watch much of either tournament. The sport was becoming more open, with the Aussies and Pakistan respectively, holding the cup aloft. Imran Khan’s moment appeared destined, achieved at the age of 39 in his very last ODI. The crumbling of cricket’s barriers was further illustrated in 1996 when little Sri Lanka shocked the world by beating Australia with an innovative brand of limited-overs strategy, and the skill of Aravinda da Silva.

In the summer of ’99, cricket ‘came home’, sort of. In fact, England shared fixtures with Scotland, Wales and the Netherlands but at least the premier tournament was held in our summer and our time zone. That said, I don’t recall watching much of it on the box. One exception was the India v Sri Lanka group stage game at Taunton. I was working in London at the time but our office featured a little TV set high on the wall. Someone – not me - had the foresight to switch it on just as Sourav Ganguly and, more surprisingly, Rahul Dravid, piled on a terrific triple-century partnership. I doubt much work was done that afternoon. South Africa were looking likely winners only to lose their heads in a climactic frantic semi-final scramble against eventual champs Australia. Thus the competition introduced not only the Super Six and the white ‘Duke’ ball but also the unwanted ‘chokers’ label around the Proteas’ necks. Twenty years later, rightly or wrongly, it’s still there.

Things took a political turn in 2003 and the combination of eye-catching results (e.g against Sri Lanka) and fortuitous boycotts in Africa propelled lowly Kenya and Bangladesh into the semi-final stratosphere. For all the giant-killings, Australia were unbeatable and duly thumped India in the final by 125 runs. I caught a few late-evening highlights on BBC2 of the 2007 event, which featured an early exit for India (which prompted a change of format to prevent any repeat of such a financially damaging scandal), Ireland’s defeat of Pakistan, the latter’s coach Bob Woolmer suffering a fatal heart attack and a farcical final completed in near-darkness.

By Spring 2011, I was seeing Angie, who had Sky Sports at home, so in between her precious football, I sneaked a few glimpses of cricket at weekends. England’s embarrassment at the hands of the green-haired Irish was joyous to behold but it was also a pleasure to witness the concluding hour or so of the final in Mumbai. The decision to stage the World Cup across the entire Asian subcontinent, with Dhaka hosting the opener, proved a resounding success. For all the caring and sharing, it has to be said that from Sehwag’s brilliant 175 in Match 1 to MS Dhoni’s characteristically piece of perfect pacing six weeks later, the trophy had India’s name on it throughout.

The most recent edition saw another Aussie triumph although co-hosts New Zealand pushed them hard with their aggressive play. Ireland won more games than England, whose chances of progression were ended by Bangladesh, but I was disappointed that for 2019 the ICC decided to raise the drawbridge to stop the Associate nations getting ideas above their station.

On the plus side, the forthcoming tournament is now returning to these shores. Consequently, subject to politics, personal health and that perennial enemy of cricket, inclement weather, this summer will allow me to watch my first ever World Cup matches live in Cardiff. This time, top-ranked England will start hot favourites but above all I look forward to enjoying the multinational atmosphere and exciting performances. It may not match up to the nostalgic aura of 1975 – Viv, Clive, Lillee and all that – but here’s hoping for a summer to remember.

Cricket - LIVE!

Reflecting upon my four decades of watching cricket, it’s inevitable my thoughts wander and weave over the more memorable matches I’ve attended. It’s not as if I’ve been a particularly prolific circuit basher, averaging no more than one game a year. However, few have been total disasters. Of course, Somerset defeats are always disappointing but even the fixtures wrecked by the weather left me with some enduring emotions and lasting images.

Some of the outstanding memories are associated with ‘firsts’ and inevitably I must begin with that inaugural trip to the Essex County Ground with Dad on 4^th May 1975 for the visit of my Somerset team. Even huddled on the benches just gazing across the greensward towards the pavilion at the figures in white gave me an intoxicating buzz. Eventual victory in that Sunday League encounter for Somerset, achieved with a Viv Richards six, awarded me a natural high hitherto unsurpassed. I even leapt off my plank seat, mercifully without causing those on either end to be catapulted over the boundary rope. The feeling of euphoria ensured this wasn’t a one-off, even if I never saw Somerset play at Chelmsford again. Since enjoying another taste of success against Gloucestershire in Bath six years later, watching my county has been a tough gig. In limited-overs cricket, it has been a string of five defeats, whether in Southchurch Park, Taunton or Cardiff. The anticlimactic T20 Finals Day of 2012 was perhaps the hardest to take.

Three visits to Lord’s, the ancestral home of the sport, also stand out. My first came with a complimentary ticket courtesy of my then boss and local club captain, Peter Finucane. At first reading, Old Hill vs Reading might not seem an unmissable fixture. However, this was the 1985 final of the national club knockout tournament and so there was much at stake. For a neutral like me, there was the bonus of watching the ex-Pakistan and Northamptonshire all-rounder Mushtaq Mohammad bowling his looping leg-breaks for Old Hill. Sadly, rain set in by lunchtime and I abandoned my Tavern Stand seat to mosey around the grand old ground.

The famous red-brick pavilion was out of bounds for riff-raff like me but since then I have been lucky enough to strut around the Long Room three times without attracting the attention of security. The first occurred following a Radio 3 Awayday (the station’s genial Controller, Roger Wright was an avid Lancashire supporter), and I also sat in the great space to enjoy a special Radio Authority panel event to mark a Test Match Special anniversary. However, on 13^th June 2010 I was granted the opportunity to actually watch cricket from the Pavilion. Friend, former work colleague and Middlesex Member Dipesh secured us both tickets (surprisingly inexpensive) for a T20 clash with Essex. The only concession was to wear a jacket and tie and I had free rein to roam the hallowed halls. I took full advantage, initially viewing proceedings from the balcony adjacent to the Middlesex dressing room then later from the Long Room door. The cricket itself proved quite exciting. Home skipper Adam Gilchrist, then little-known David Warner and the likes of Morgan and Malan set Essex an awkward target. A fabulous 102 from Ryan Ten Doeschate took the visitors close but after the allotted twenty overs they were five runs short.

My first Test match had been on a sunny August Bank Holiday 1991, when Sri Lanka were still only grudgingly permitted one-off contests with England. I’d taken the train from Billericay and bought a ticket at the ground, finding an excellent vantage point in the Compton Stand. Just looking at the Pavilion was enough. The cricket wasn’t particularly scintillating but when I went with friend Andrew Blunt six years later, I was fortunate to witness one of the greatest bowling performances ever seen at Lord’s.

It was the Saturday of an Ashes Test, a highlight of the middle-class sporting calendar. However, the weather wasn’t playing ball and the occasion was ravaged by a stream of short, sharp showers. Nonetheless, in the sunny interludes, we observed from the old Grand Stand the masterful Australian pace bowler Glenn McGrath ripping through the home side, concluding with awesome figures of 8-38. Despite England’s obvious problems, the atmosphere remained upbeat, enhanced by the cheery banter with a line of dry-humour of Aussie fans behind us. While a lot of play had indeed been lost, it had been an afternoon to remember. Coincidentally my only other experience of an Ashes Test, at The Oval in 2013, was also abbreviated by London rain. On the plus side, when play was eventually possible, it effectively made Steve Smith’s Test career (he reached his maiden century with a straight six) and strangled Simon Kerrigan’s at birth.

This wasn’t my last experience of a Test match. On 31^st August 2015 I nipped down to Sophia Gardens for a Twenty20 double-header of England-Australia cricket. The men’s contest was the main course (and a tasty one it was, too, thanks to a mix of Moeen Ali, Eoin Morgan and that man Smith again) but the women served up an appetising starter. I’d begun to take more of an interest in the newly-professionalised women’s international scene, and so the afternoon’s opener was to me on equal footing as the more publicised match later on. Indeed, it was the final fixture in the multi-format Women’s Ashes series and, although Meg Lanning’s side had already clinched their version of the urn, Charlotte Edwards’ team were desperate to snatch a compensatory victory. 

Predictably, it wasn’t a high-scoring affair but, after Anya Shrubsole ripped out the world-class Aussie top four, Natalie Sciver’s 4-15 and unbeaten 47 saw England home by five wickets. After receiving their series trophy, Lanning, Perry, Healy et al were joined by the English squad to cheerily sign autographs at the boundary. If my pen hadn’t given out, I’d surely have collected more scribbles on my scorecard. 

Two very different matches linger in my mind because the cricketing gods ripped up the script. In 1996, Essex Member Andrew bought tickets for their Nat West Trophy final appearance against Lancashire at Lord’s. It all started so well on that September Saturday. Tidy bowling restricted Mike Watkinson’s team to just 186 from their 60 overs. Victory would surely be a mere formality. Er, no. Glen Chapple’s 6-18 and Peter Martin’s 3-17 annihilated Paul Prichard’s men, bowling them out for 57.  Andrew was distraught and understandably refused to join me on the pitch to observe the prize-giving ceremony (below). It had been an embarrassment.

Fast forward to 13^th June 2017 in Cardiff, and England were favourites to win the Champions Trophy. I was there to witness their expected steamrollering of Pakistan in the semi-final. The green flag-waving fans were just there to enjoy themselves come what may. Nevertheless, everyone was surprised at the way Hasan Ali in particular choked Morgan, Stokes, Buttler and co before Azhar Ali and Fakhar Zaman laid the foundation for an eight-wicket demolition job. It was no flash in the pan either, because Pakistan went on to defeat India in the final, too.

Perhaps the most memorable of all matches I’ve attended so far was also a Champions Trophy encounter. Four years earlier I’d applied successfully for the opening fixture at Cardiff, to be contested by India and South Africa. What elevated that fifty-over match to the pinnacle was not just the cricket itself. 638 runs were scored, Shikhar Dhawan’s century was undoubtedly brilliant and Ravi Jadeja’s all-round performance also impressive but it was all about the incredible atmosphere fostered by the India supporters, who comprised maybe 90% of the crowd.

I’d no preconceived plan of favouritism but the heady mix of Indian fan fervour and watching all-time greats like Kohli, AB De Villiers and Dhoni in meaningful competition was contagious. It was such a happy vibe. Had it been raining serotonin in Cardiff or was it merely an injection of cricket causing such joy? We needed neither booze nor those blasted taped bugle blasts to get us going; this was what sport should be about. I’ll never forget it. 

My Most Memorable Rugby Matches

While the three rugby games I’ve seen in the flesh have not been classics, there have been many memorable matches over the years I’ve enjoyed on TV. With the help of a trawl through old diaries, and the further memory-jogging aid of YouTube, I’ve come up with a selection of the best I have watched.

They tend to fall into a small number of categories. Some stand out for being agonisingly close encounters, often with dramatic conclusions. Others are memorable for their significance, while my contemporaneous notes indicate the warm, fuzzy feeling engendered by superb attacking play. Then there are the pleasant surprise results or the frankly bizarre.

The first Five Nations fixture which has stayed in my mind without any recourse to research was the Scotland-Wales clash in 1971. Seen in black and white, of course, it now serves as a reminder of how bewitching the Welsh side were in their early-Seventies pomp, how small the players look compared with today’s giants and also how loose defensive tackling could be in those days. For all the thrilling tries by Barry John, Gareth Edwards and Gerald Davies, the definitive image I have in my head is that coolly-taken towering conversion decider by the flanker John Taylor.

That ended 19-18, but I also waxed lyrical 28 years later when France and Wales served up a 34-33 cliffhanger in Paris. The peroxide-haired Tomas Castaignede and triple try scorer Emile Ntmack starred for the home team but Neil Jenkins’ boot made the difference. I was with Kim at the time so didn’t watch many rugby matches but I was thankful for the opportunity to witness this one. Six weeks later, well into April, the final Five Nations championship was determined by another nail-biter, although sadly this one eluded me. In the very last game, Wales came from behind to defeat the English favourites by a single point and hand the trophy to the free-scoring Scots.

More recently, the Scots were on the receiving end of another emotional cliffhanger. In the 2015 World Cup, they were robbed of a semi-final place by a dodgy penalty decision as Australia pipped them by 35-34. Ouch! However, for sheer disbelief, nothing can ever compete with the astonishing finale to the France-Wales encounter in the 2017 RBS 6 Nations tournament. At eighty minutes, the Welsh were five points ahead thanks to Leigh Halfpenny’s six penalties. However, a controversial reverse substitution, relentless French attacks and desperate defence created an incredibly tense situation. France were awarded a sequence of penalties but needed a converted try to win. When Chuly finally bundled over the line, the clock on the screen registered 100 minutes. Record-breaking for the tournament and heartbreaking for Wales, while as a TV spectator I felt totally drained.

That match didn’t affect the destination of the overall trophy but there have been many dramatic title-clinchers watched by me from one settee or other over the years. An early example came forty years ago, when Wales claimed a Grand Slam by beating France 16-7 at the old Arms Park. Much as I loved the French at the time, there was something awe-inspiring observing Edwards and Bennett in tandem. And three drop-goals was almost unheard of in the Seventies.

Two years later, it was England’s turn to win all four matches, including an “exciting, free-flowing” 30-18 defeat of the Scots at Murrayfield. It must have been a brilliant performance for me to praise England! Fast forward ten years and the Five Nations went to a last-game shootout between the same countries. On this occasion I cheered Scotland to a 13-7 triumph and their second Grand Slam in six years.

In the new millennium, since the arrival of Italy, it has been harder to achieve a 100% success rate and yet there have been several Grand Slams. 2009 produced another winner-takes-all finish, although Wales needed to beat Ireland by more than 13 points to take the Triple Crown and overall title.  It proved an attritional contest with the men in red 6-0 up at half-time. However, with skipper Brian O’Driscoll crossing the try line yet again and Ronan O’Gara kicking the goals, the Irish won 17-15 to achieve their first Grand Slam for 61 years.

In 2012, I was in the process of becoming an honorary Welsh citizen. With perfect timing I was able to absorb the very special Grand Slam fever which permeated the entire principality. It wasn’t a new experience for my fellow Cardiffians; Wales had won in both 2005 and 2008 with a new adventurous style. Whilst the dashing Shane Williams had retired, by 2012 Sam Warburton was leading an array of talent and, despite having scrambled wins against Ireland and England, went into the last day determined to beat France. They didn’t disappoint. Alex Cuthbert scored the only try, Dan Lydiate tackled like a trojan and even football fans went wild with delight.

Low-scoring attritional forward battles can make for absorbing television but for me, creative running is what rugby is all about. In this respect, two matches in particular have stood out. Both involved Wales, but in different ways. In 1991, after watching France romp home 36-3, my diary reported: “Brilliant back play in massacring Wales was so heartwarming to watch. Magic”. Twenty-two years later my loyalty was directed towards the men in red as they put the preening primadonnas of England to the sword by 30-3.

In 1993, too, Wales got the better of England but it was a much tighter affair. Will Carling’s side were the favourites but Ieuan Evans’ pace and resilient second half defence ensured a surprise 10-9 result. “One in the eye for the jingo boys”, I wrote breathlessly. In 2015, England were again hotly fancied, this time in their own World Cup. They were drawn in the group of death with Australia, and Wales were expected to miss out. The home team played all their fixtures at Fortress Twickenham so it was especially extraordinary to watch the Welsh upset the applecart with a vibrant 28-25 victory, having once been ten points adrift. That tournament also featured a match I missed but so wish I hadn’t: Japan’s nailbiting injury-time finale against South Africa. An astonishing upset.

A couple of summers previously, no fewer than ten Welshmen were in the British Lions XV in Australia. I’d never shown much interest in Lions tours. They take place in the cricket season, the games often kicking off at inconvenient times on the other side of the globe, and I struggle to understand what the Lions represent. 2013 saw a significant shift in my opinion.

It felt like we were watching a powerful Wales outfit (plus a handful of guests) take on the Welsh bêtes noires, the Wallabies. The first two Tests had been decided by extremely narrow margins and the whole series came down to the Sydney decider on the morning of Saturday 6^th July. We had been renting a cottage in the Carmarthenshire village of Llansteffan, and had to be out after breakfast. Luckily we were granted permission to keep our car outside in order to hang around for a few extra hours so we could sit in the Castle Inn and join the locals watching the rugby. The atmosphere was wonderfully convivial, boosted by the pleasure of experiencing a resounding 41-16 thrashing, So what if we faced lengthy jams on the M4 in a heatwave; we were on a rugby-induced high!

The background story can be the crucial ingredient in what makes a match memorable. My final choice is a perfect and unique example. It was Italy’s Six Nations fixture against Wales on 26^th February 2011. With exquisite symmetry, I saw the first half in an Italian restaurant, the second half in a Welsh pub. The score was irrelevant. What made it unforgettable was that it was my first date with Angie. For the record, Wales won the game but I won The Match!

United Kingdom United

As a child, football was a gift which kept on giving – unless you were a player, in which case the season must have seemed interminable. If your club wasn’t in the Anglo-Italian Cup, the British Home International Championship might grab you instead. 

There was none of yer here-today-gone-tomorrow UEFA Nations League nonsense. For a hundred years, each domestic season was wrapped up by a week of fixtures involving each of the home nations, England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland. These days, eyebrows are often raised when any two of the above are drawn against each other in qualifying groups for the World Cup or Euros, but until 1984, we could enjoy not two but six matches every single year. For me, they were as much a part of the season as the FA Cup Final. 

Many of the Scots played north of the border, fuelling the success of Celtic, Rangers and Aberdeen, but almost all the men in red or green were familiar faces in the Football League alongside their English counterparts. England and/or Scotland reached the World Cup Finals in 170 and ’74, respectively, but come May I welcomed the opportunity to watch the likes of George Best, Pat Jennings, John Toshack and Leighton James in their national colours.

I don’t recall whole matches but isolated incidents have stayed with me. An imperious header against England by Southampton’s Ron Davies – it must have been in 1969 - had Saints fan Dad in absolute raptures: “He was away above Moore”. And indeed he was. However, Wales lost that game, as they did most of the ‘Home’ internationals they played against their more populous neighbour.

A rather more famous incident two years later also sent my normally placid father into a state of heightened animation. For the opening fixture Northern Ireland were hosting England at Windsor Park, presumably hoping to snatch a goal against Sir Alf Ramsey’s men. George Best was at his peak, a constant thorn in any goalie’s side, and at one point he cleverly spotted a chink in Gordon Banks’ armour. Noting how the English number one tended to throw the ball high when attempting a drop-kick clearance, he tracked Banks from the side then, with the ball in the air, flicked a left boot to clip it over the ‘keeper’s head and nodded it in the empty net. Genius, and entirely within the laws of the game. Banks protested and the goal was shamefully disallowed. Dad, of course, had been a goalie but we recognised a perfectly legal goal when he saw it. The ref’s decision cost the Irish not only the goal and the game but also the championship which at that time they had never won outright.

In 1975 I remember watching in amazement as a rampant England, so feeble in their previous games, ripped Scotland apart at Wembley, and the legend of the Incompetent Scottish Goalkeeper was born. Poor Stewart Kennedy may have been a Rangers mainstay but he had an absolute nightmare in the 1-5 humiliation and never played for Scotland again.

Two years later, Scotland gained their revenge. I don’t remember it as a classic match, although the uncompromising centre-forward Joe Jordan roughed up the England defence as only he could. However, the images of the raucous Scots celebrating a 2-1 victory on the Wembley pitch culminating in the destruction of one of the crossbars not only increased awareness of hooliganism in British football but also hastened the end of the championship itself.

By the Eighties, only the oldest rivalry in world football, the England-Scotland clash, roused much passion – too much for the stadium owners and London councils. 100,000 could pack into Wembley or Hampden Park but there wasn’t much enthusiasm for a rain-soaked Tuesday evening at Ninian Park. The growing fear of hooligan incidents, coupled with the political situation in Northern Ireland, only hammered the final nails in the tournament’s coffin.

I couldn’t help feeling sad, despite recognising the reasons for the ruling. The Championship was dying on its feet but, paradoxically, was becoming more interesting as the Welsh and Irish teams were more competitive than they had been for years. Wales had one of their more memorable moments in 1980, a glorious 4-1 triumph over a mediocre England at Wrexham. The hundredth tournament was to be the last, in 1984, and who were the final champions? None other than Billy Bingham’s Northern Ireland. It may have been achieved on goal difference but the trophy remains Irish FA property for as long as the Championship is consigned to history. George Best et al had the last laugh.

World Cup Memories - 2018

And finally we come to 2018. For all the shenanigans around the selection of Russia as hosts, and the potential of the whole month being an almighty Putin vanity project, this World Cup has been celebrated as one of the most exciting in living memory.

Did we miss Italy or Holland? Not a jot. From the first night, when Russia’s much-maligned side smashed five against Saudi Arabia, to the six-goal finale, there was so much to enjoy. At home, participation in the global FIFA Fantasy league added an extra dimension. Amidst all the action there were many brow-furrowing hours spent contemplating transfers, captaincy selections, balancing the huge stars like Messi, Modric and Hazard with the less familiar names from Egypt, Colombia, Poland, etc. But really it was about the football!

The thrilling Iberian derby on day two left us licking our lips in anticipation of further riches. Against Portugal, Spain seemed to have done enough before Cristiano Ronaldo produced a trademark free-kick in the 88^th minute to complete his own hat-trick and a three-all draw. However, European champions Portugal were surprisingly weak and not even CR7 could haul them into the last eight. Apart from one sublime goal which only he could score, the other giant of the game, Lionel Messi, was also a subdued figure. His lacklustre, ageing Argentina side were awful against Croatia and they, too, bowed out in the second round.

The reigning champions Germany were also woefully off-form and were sensationally eliminated in Group F after losing to Mexico  (an excellent match) and South Korea. Meanwhile, the Germans’ 2014 bunnies Brazil had bounced back to their best in qualification and apart from a 1-1 draw with the Swiss, were looking ominously good. Coutinho provided some magic but I’m afraid their flamboyant forward Neymar will be remembered only for his pathetic diving and play-acting. His 10,000 volt jerks against Mexico will – sadly – live long in the memory. I missed Brazil’s quarter-final elimination at the hands of Belgium – attending India v England cricket at Cardiff – but, for all Neymar’s undoubted skills, I didn’t miss the preening prima donna at all in the final week.

Belgium had been rather fortunate themselves to meet Brazil. In their Round 2 fixture against Japan, I was enthralled by an amazing second half in which their unfancied opponents soon went two-up. With under half an hour left, Belgium seemed down and out yet ended up 3-2 winners after a fabulous injury time breakaway finished by Chadli. Phew!

Spain were also chock-full of household names, from De Gea to Iniesta, Pique to Busquets, Isco to Ramos. But, faced with the host nation and their fervent fans in the Round of 16, the superstars were surprisingly tamed. Penalties decided the matter and Russia advanced. It seems unthinkable that we will probably never again see many of these great players on the global stage.

Like Russia, Nobody had given England’s new-look side much chance of reaching the knockouts let alone challenging for the Cup itself. Only two of their wretched 2014 Eleven – Henderson and Sterling – were in the first-choice starting line-up. However, while Harry Kane was falling over and banging in the penalties, and Stones and Maguire were leading the defensive line, optimism built steadily. England slammed an unprecedented six past Panama and found themselves with a relatively simple path to the semis via Colombia (and a successful penalty shoot-out!) and Sweden. Suddenly, that refrain of “Football’s coming home” was everywhere. Massed streaming even sent The Lightning Seeds’ masterpiece of hope over expectation, ‘Three Lions’, back to number one in the charts after twenty-two years. Manager Gareth Southgate’s elegant waistcoat transformed fan fashion and even Kyle Walker proved popular.

In the semi-final versus Croatia at the Luzhniki Stadium, Kieran Trippier’s fifth minute free-kick sent the fan-zones delirious under a fountain of beer, but Luka Modric and his mates weren’t giving up. After the interval, Croatia clawed their way back into the game. Their efforts were rewarded when first the hard-working Perisic fashioned an equaliser, then Mandzukic nipped in behind Stones for the winner.

And so the tournament reached its climax in Moscow. Not with Brazil v England, as I had so naively predicted, but France v Croatia. On paper it appeared a delicious final but showpiece games are notorious for their ability to disappoint. As in so much of the 2018 World Cup, tradition was ripped up. With Modric pulling the strings, Rakitic and Perisic running with purpose and the full-backs haring down the flanks, Croatia ripped into the formidable French defence but couldn’t break through. I was aghast that France went one-up following a Griezmann dive. Perisic equalised then came another highly dubious penalty decision, this time courtesy of the controversial Video Assistant Referees (VAR). I began to lose interest when France widened the gap in the second half but had to admit a 4-2 World Cup Final is one to savour, whoever emerged the winner.

Like England, the redeveloped French team is remarkably young. Didier Deschamps was widely derided for omitting stars such as Martial, Lacazette and Payet but his squad delivered the goods. Their brilliant full-backs Pavard and Hernandez are only 22, the outstanding centre-back Varane is 25 and then of course there is the electrifying 19 year-old winger, Kylian Mbappe. The old guard of Messi, Ronaldo, Iniesta, Modric, Suarez, Cavani, Hummels and Marcelo probably won’t be around in four years’ time but a new generation of galacticos are already in place.

After Russia, the 2022 tournament will be a different kettle of fish. Located in the desert state of Qatar, dry as a bone but awash with cash for FIFA votes, it will take place in the heart of the European football season to avoid the searing summer heat. With the youthful players at their current disposal, France must fancy their chances once more. But if 2018 showed us anything, it is that the top nations can’t take anything for granted, even the champions. Four years is a long time but I’ll have to be patient. Roll on the next World Cup!

World Cup Memories - 2014

Two years before Rio hosted the Olympics, Brazil also staged the global footiefest that is the World Cup. As so often happens, the tournament was played out as a backdrop to personal and family dramas, but there were opportunities to stay up late for some cracking matches.

After four years mesmerising opponents and fans alike with their Guardiola-inspired possession football, Spain immediately came crashing down to earth. Their fellow 2010 finalists Holland gained revenge with an amazing 5-1 drubbing. Del Bosque’s dream team were given a lesson in finishing by Louis van Gaal’s formidable side featuring skipper Robin van Persie, Arjen Robben and their wing-backs Janmaat and Blind. Spain were eliminated in the groups and the Dutch eventually finished third. After that, the side seemed to disintegrate but will surely rise again.

Argentina and Belgium had flawless groups and Brazil dropped points only against Mexico. However, it was three other Latin nations which captured the imagination with fast, free-flowing attacking football.  Chile took the hosts to penalties in Round 2 while Colombia, boosted by the goals of James Rodriguez were possibly the most entertaining of all. They, too, were drawn against Brazil, losing 2-1 in the quarters.

However, Costa Rica were the surprise package of 2014. They served notice of their talent when beating both Uruguay and Italy and held an already- humiliated England to a goalless draw. Pirlo apart, this was a weak Italian squad and they joined England in the disgrace race to the airport. At least Chiellini left Brazil with Suarez’s gift of bite marks on the shoulder. A half-time orange was never enough for the Uruguayan. Nevertheless, I had to admit his class as a striker was the difference against the English, a game for which I gladly stayed up late.

In the middle of the World Cup, straddling my birthday, Angie and I spent a week at the Hotel Jacaranda on Tenerife. Amidst the intense worry over her Mum’s health, we did watch a few matches in the Piano Bar or in our room. The most memorable were the Round of 16 clashes between Costa Rica and Greece (“cracking”) and then the highly-rated Belgians and the spirited USA. I’ve never seen such an enthralling nil-nil. The end-to-end battle continued into extra time when de Bruyne and Lukaku combined to take Belgium through 2-1. The true man of the match was undoubtedly the American goalie Tim Howard who was credited with an incredible sixteen saves, but his oppo Courtois was also kept busy. Like Costa Rica, though, Belgium’s run ended in the quarters.

Meanwhile, the Germans were once more on the charge. A Thomas Muller hat-trick had tamed the Portuguese 4-0 in the group opener but they struggled to defeat Algeria over two absorbing hours in the knockouts. Their best was yet to come. After getting the better of France in the last eight, Germany travelled to Belo Horizonte where the hosts and red-hot favourites lay in wait. Everyone was predicting an all-South American showdown in the final but that didn’t materialise. Argentina fulfilled their part of the bargain against Holland but Brazil collapsed in the most astonishing manner.

I’ve never in my life witnessed such an electrifying first half, during which the masterful Germans ripped the Brazilian defence to shreds. Having endured all the usual pro-Brazil media hype, I cheered every goal they conceded, five in the opening thirty minutes alone. The bewildered expression on David Luiz’s face was a joy to behold, on its own well worth the TV licence fee. It seemed a cruel twist, in the last minute, that Oscar should spoil Manuel Neuer’s deserved clean sheet. 7-1. SEVEN-ONE! Brazil had never suffered such a devastating defeat, and on their own turf.

Luiz wasn’t the worst player, either. The ludicrously-monikered Hulk had possibly the worst match of any individual in World Cup history and was substituted to a chorus of boos. Nevertheless, let’s not forget how brilliant Ozil, Muller, Kroos, Kedira et al were that evening, and they reaped their rightful reward in the final when substitute Mario Gotze’s extra-time chest and volley secured the trophy. They would go on to be the team to beat for the next four years but could they retain the World Cup?

World Cup Memories - 2006 and 2010.

World Cup openers tend to be dull, cagey affairs, more often than not decided by a single goal. In 2006, the host nation Germany immediately played against type. The young wing back Philippe Lahm, not yet the Bayern Munich legend he would become, scored a screamer inside six minutes and his side beat Costa Rica 4-2.  With World Cup goal machine Miroslav Klose claiming the Golden Boot, plus the likes of Ballack, Podolski and a fit Bastien Schweinsteiger, it seemed acceptable to like the Germans for a change. They only scored once against Poland but it was a game I enjoyed watching.

For all that, I supported their opponents Italy in an epic semi-final. Unfortunately I couldn’t give it my full attention because at the time I was in a large garden marquee on the lawns of a Cambridge college in the middle of a Radio Festival quiz! My colleagues and I did cast frequent furtive glances at the big screen TV to note an entertaining game heading for penalties until the Italians conjured up a late brace, the second by the evergreen Del Piero, to win 2-0.

A few weeks earlier, Italy had won their group, just ahead of World Cup debutants Ghana. I was seeing a Ghanaian woman at the time so my antennae were twitching whenever the Black Stars were mentioned. They weren’t given much hope of progressing but surprised everybody by defeating the highly-fancied Czechs, who boasted Nedved, Rosicky and Podborsky in their pomp. Driven by Chelsea’s Michael Essien, Ghana brought a sense of fun and attacking flair to the party and only Petr Cech prevented an absolute rout. If only Asamoah Gyan could learn how to take penalties, of which more later….

England had a promising young side, managed by their first foreign coach, Sven Goran Eriksson. David Beckham was by now an elder statesman, but with Gerrard, Lampard, Owen, Rio Ferdinand and Wayne Rooney in the side, much was expected. We reached the quarter-finals and met Portugal in Gelsenkirchen on my birthday. Mum and Dad had taken me to their favourite haunt of Hyde Hall gardens so we missed the first half. I was present, though, to witness the infamous Rooney red card, deservedly brandished for plunging a boot into Carvalho’s unmentionables. The 21 year-old Cristiano Ronaldo was castigated for his subsequent wink but Rooney only had himself to blame. We lost on penalties – of course – with Owen Hargreaves the only man on target. 

Mr Ronaldo would go on to even bigger and better things but 2006 would be the last chance for Portugal’s ‘golden generation’ to secure international success. They had missed out in their home Euros to Greece two years previously so beating England was vital for the likes of Deco, Luis Figo, Carvalho et al. They were so determined that they played Holland in Round 2 and found themselves involved in what became known as the Battle of Nuremberg. They won 9-7 – in terms of yellow cards! There were also four reds after a succession of stupid, sly or plain reckless fouls. The Russian ref was criticised for losing control but, quite frankly, it was the players who lost control amidst the cascade of cards.

The final had its moments of excitement but will be remembered less for the football than for Zinedine Zidane’s heinous head-butt on Marco Materazzi. And so the great man departed for retirement in disgrace. Another disgrace was the FIFA decision to make him the Player of the Tournament. He had one good match, was suspended for another and sent off in the biggest game of them all. In my humble opinion, the best on show was no galactico but the Italian captain and centre-back Fabio Cannavaro: only 5 foot 9, but a giant in defence alongside another Italian legend Alessandro Nesta. His reward for winning the Cup was a big-money transfer from Inter to Real Madrid, the alma mater of Zidane.

The goal of Germany 2006? For once I agreed with those who decide these matters. It wasn’t a 30-yard blockbuster, nor a devilish dribble and drive. No, it was a patient 25-pass move in the group stages. The Serbs could merely watch as Argentina pushed and probed for a full minute before Cambiasso finished decisively. It was the second of the South Americans’ six that day. The last was scored by a teenage substitute called Lionel Messi….

The young Barcelona superstar returned in 2010 as part of an Argentine squad brimming with talent. After whistling through the group stage they were many people’s (including mine) favourites for the title. This was the first World Cup to be staged on the African continent, with South Africa the chosen hosts. While the incessant blaring of the vuvuzela horns became tiresome in the extreme, the organisation passed all the tests with flying colours. The same could not be said for some of the top footballing nations.

Both the previous finalists failed to reach the knockouts, and Spain lost their opener to Switzerland who themselves experienced the extraordinary achievement of being eliminated without conceding a goal! Meanwhile, Holland and the aforementioned Argentinians didn’t drop a point. But in the ‘round of 16’ the tournament dynamic shifted sharply at Bloemfontein. It was there that England, still bearing fond memories of their 2001 annihilation of the Germans in a qualifier, met their frequent nemeses and found them in superb form. While many tried to use the incorrect disallowing of Lampard’s ‘goal’ as an excuse, the truth was that England were simply outclassed.

The Germans maintained this momentum in their quarter-final against the hitherto all-conquering Argentina. Instead of a tight contest, Joachim Low’s young guns were, in my contemporary words, ‘scintillating’. Despite fielding an attack boasting Messi, Higuain and Tevez, Argentina were ripped apart. Klose and Moeller put the ball in the net but Mehut Ozil and Bastian Schweinsteiger in midfield were outstanding.

That summer, I didn’t watch many games in the first fortnight. I’d moved to Somerset two years earlier but already my personal life had plunged into a deep bucket of shit. I had alternative priorities such as searching for somewhere else to live! However, things settled down slightly by the end of June and I felt free to seek solace in the footie.

I’d retained a soft spot for Ghana so I, and millions of neutrals, backed them to the hilt against Uruguay. Win, and they’d become the first African nation to reach the last four. At one-all in a pulsating game, Ghana attacked at the death in extra time. A penalty area scramble resulted in a goal-bound header. In a split-second, a certain Luis Suarez pawed it off the line with both hands. Off he went but I was disgusted to hear ex-players praising his "quick thinking". He‘s a cheat! Anyway, all Gyan had to do was convert from the spot and Ghana were through. He went for power – and rattled the top of the bar. I was screaming like a madman at the telly. Needless to say, Ghana lost the shootout and probably their last chance of global success. It was heartbreaking.

To their credit, Uruguay showed their footballing quality in the 3^rd/4^th place ‘final where they and Germany put on a genuine show. I described it as the best match of the World Cup. The result didn’t really matter, the pressure was off, and Sami Khedira’s late winner made it 3-2 to the Germans.

The next day, Spain would meet Holland in the final. I was delighted that there would be new champions this time. However, I was unsure whom to support. By the interval, my mind was made up: the Dutch were so dour and dirty, desperate to break up Spain’s ‘tiki-taka’ rhythm by any means possible, that I was firmly in the Spanish camp. Ref Howard Webb flourished umpteen cards and, in my own blunt word, it was “crap”.. Eventually I cheered my lungs out when Andres Iniesta volleyed an extra-time winner. Back then Iniesta was to me an unknown quantity, but from that day forward he was my favourite player. Forget Ronaldo, Messi, Neymar, Rooney et al: the little graduate of La Masia academy became my modern-day idol.

World Cup Memories - 1998 and 2002

Two years after football ‘came home’ for Euro 96, the World Cup was hosted just across the Channel in France. Buoyed by the fun and euphoria from the previous tournament, England fans expected great things from Glenn Hoddle’s squad after missing 1994 altogether. Baddiel and Skinner updated their lyrics to the Lightning Seeds’ stirring anthem ‘Three Lions’ and pipped ‘Vindaloo’ to the number one spot. The comedians’ daily live BBC2 show “World Cup Fantasy Football” was required viewing in our household, too. And everyone wanted to see how David Beckham, Alan Shearer and 17 year-old boy wonder Michael Owen would fare on the greatest stage.

Expanding to include 32 countries, this World Cup would be bigger and brighter than ever and, with many matches scheduled for peak time viewing over here, interest and audience figures were high. I particularly enjoyed the spectacle of colourful walls of fans, from the vivid orange of the Dutch to the red-and-white chequerboards from Croatia. Nigeria (green/white) and Cameroon (green/yellow) were typically exuberant and it was great to see Jamaica’s ‘Reggae Boyz’ represented for the first time. They didn’t get very far but nobody seemed to care very much; everything was irie, man.

There were shades of 2018 in that England faced both Tunisia and Colombia but as usual, we bowed out to one of our two wartime nemeses, Argentina, this time in the first knockout round. The commuter trains home that Tuesday evening were full of blokes anticipating the clash determined not to miss the kickoff from St Etienne and it was certainly a classic. Two dodgy penalties inside the first ten minutes ignited the blue touch paper on a footballing firecracker. It wasn’t always pretty but young Owen’s carefree gallop into the area to fire England 2-1 ahead in the sixteenth minute really got the nation buzzing. However it was even-stevens again by half-time. Afterwards came one of the most infamous incidents in England’s World Cup history, although I was on the phone when it happened! A floored Beckham flicked a petulant kick at Diego Simeone under the very nose of ref Kim Nielsen. Up thrust the red card, Gabriel Batistuta nodded his approval and the floppy-haired Man U winger trudged off to a summer of ridicule and castigation. Still, it didn’t exactly wreck his career, did it?

Down to ten men, England reverted to the much over-rated Dunkirk spirit and battled away admirably in a ten-man defence to survive extra time, after which penalties awaited. The nation uttered a collective groan the players could probably hear in the middle of France. Ince and Batty duly missed theirs and we were out.

The tournament didn’t end, of course. There were some strong sides and outstanding individuals on show that year. Chile had Ivan Zamorano and Marcelo Salas up front, JJ Okocha (Nigeria) and Denilson (Brazil) performed some breathtaking tricks and flicks, Denmark boasted Peter Schmeichel in goal and the Laudrup brothers, while Rekdal and Tore-Andre Flo combined well for Norway to beat Brazil 2-1 in the group stage. My diary also lauded Norway’s opening draw with Morocco (“That’s what football‘s about”) and Iran’s “exciting” 2-1 revenge on USA.

European champions Germany only squeezed into the quarters thanks to a late brace by Klinsmann and Bierhoff before being taken apart 3-0 by Croatia, for whom Davor Suker was excellent up front. They went out in a niggly semi-final to France but deserved their eventual third place. Meanwhile a fine Dutch side was also progressing to the last four. Unfortunately they succumbed to Brazil in a shootout but there will always be this fabulous winner against Argentina converted by Dennis Bergkamp. I think the commentator liked it, too!

And so it all came down to a Final between the host nation and perennial favourites Brazil at the Stade de France on 12^th July. After all the pre-kick-off hoo-hah over whether Ronaldo would actually play – more ins and outs than the hokey-cokey – it wasn’t only the star striker who looked lacklustre and mentally out of sorts. France dominated the scoreline thanks to Zinedine Zadane’s two headers and Petit’s coup-de-grace but for me the over-riding memory was of right-back Lilian Thuram thwarting every attack that came his way. For all Rivaldo’s eye-popping stepover sequences, the defender gave a masterclass on how concentration on the ball can frustrate the fanciest of fancy-dans. Hours after Didier Deschamps lifted the trophy, I wrote “I still have an inane smile on my face”.

Four years later, when the World Cup was shared by Japan and South Korea, France flopped miserably. I didn’t see much of the early games as I was on a Mediterranean cruise holiday. However, I do recall buying ice cream in a small Sorrento café where the owner was diverted by a TV in the back office. I heard some tinny cheering so asked him who had scored. It was Senegal, taking the lead over the champs in the opening fixture. Things didn’t improve and they finished bottom of Group A, goalless!

For a change, England found themselves in the ‘group of death’. However, against the odds, they survived. They even gained revenge by beating Argentina. I’d already taken the whole week off so, with Billericay bedecked in flags of St George in place of the recent Jubilee bunting, I was able to watch it on the telly. Typically I missed the only goal, David Beckham’s 44^th minute spot-kick.

Because of the eight-hour time difference, most matches took place in the morning or early afternoon. When England met Brazil in the quarter-finals, I had the game on whilst preparing for the Friday commute. Michael Owen pounced early on but Rivaldo equalised whilst I was donning my shoes. The rail journey into London was already affected by football fever. The newsagents were closed and trains had been extended earlier in the morning to cater for those intending to watch in the office. Approaching my Broadcasting House destination I recall strolling up Regent Street and hearing cheers from an open window. Surely England hadn’t won? No, they hadn’t. Ronaldinho’s audacious free-kick over Seaman’s helpless ponytail had settled the match despite the flamboyant Brazilian’s red card with half an hour remaining. I noted that evening: “Now I can enjoy the World Cup without the interminable hype”.

There were other moments to savour: for example, Senegal’s stunning counter-attacking goal against Denmark. Robbie Keane’s late goals also carried Ireland into the last sixteen before Spain sent them packing on penalties. However, the tournament will be remembered more for some disgraceful bent refereeing and players’ play-acting. In particular, South Korea’s progress to the semis was eased considerably by an easy group and appalling decisions against Italy and Spain in the knockouts. A shame because they had a decent side and brought out several saves from Buffon in the Italy game. As we had witnessed at the Seoul Olympics, the US satellite nation were notoriously prone to corruption to gain sporting advantage.

I also remember my incredulity at Rivaldo’s disgusting histrionics against Turkey. Obviously a boyhood influence on Neymar, the Brazilian’s reaction to a ball kicked against a thigh (rolling around clutching his face) would have been laughable had it not resulted in Hakan Unsal’s straight red. In the end, the two best sides, Brazil and Germany, met in the final, with Ronaldo’s finishing against Oliver Kahn proving decisive. And let’s not forget the referee: the peerless Pierluigi Collina, surely the most famous official in football. Respect to his bald head, alien eyes and good humour. He was often more watchable than the football!

World Cup memories: 1990 and 1994

Italia ’90 is widely considered to be one of the poorest World Cups, largely because of the dearth of goals. It’s true that many teams seemed happier to adopt an ultra-negative approach and ‘play for penalties’ rather than attempt to win in normal play. Sadly it’s a strategy that, despite their abysmal record in shootouts, England have also used and many teams still maintain to this day.

However, for me it was one of the more entertaining tournaments. Perhaps it was because I had an additional perspective. My job at the time was in the BBC’s Broadcasting Research department so I would analyse both official and ‘overnight’ viewing figures, pick out newsworthy stats and compile a report at the end. Like Luis Suarez, the World Cup gave me plenty to sink my teeth into and I paid particular attention to the live games shown by the Beeb, which would generate some of the highest ratings of the year. Some things don’t change.1990 was the first time I became aware of the seriously competitive nature of broadcasters with regard to their estimated audiences for sport. Don’t let anyone tell you that ratings only matter to the commercial companies; we wanted to win as much as England did.

What helped this time around was the progress to the semi-finals of England and the surprise advance of Jack Charlton’s Republic of Ireland – half of whom seemed to be English players with Irish grandmothers, or just a penchant for Guinness - to the quarters. The UEFA ban on English clubs because of incessant hooliganism had been served but the violent minority amongst England supporters was still a huge concern. Fortunately most of the headlines were made by the players on the pitch, especially when Paul Gascoigne was on the scene. And then we had the twin soundtrack of Pavarotti’s ‘Nessun Dorma’ and the unofficial anthem ‘World in Motion’ by Englandneworder, including that John Barnes rap. The feelgood factor was high.

The tournament got off to a sensational start when holders Argentina were beaten by lowly Cameroon who also had two players sent off. It’s true they couldn’t defend, and too often their tackling consisted of crude bodychecking, but their unsophisticated, devil-may-care approach was strangely endearing. So were the corner-flag dance routines of Roger Milla, the 38 year-old striker who managed to perform his hip-swivels four times during that summer. They also saw off Romania and Colombia and had been 2-1 up in their quarter-final against England before two well-taken Lineker penalties knocked them out. I felt they were extremely unfortunate to lose this rollercoaster of a match.

In their first ever World Cup, Ireland surprised everyone by making the last eight and yet, in their five matches, they scored only two goals. Having said that, Argentina reached the final and collectively managed only five (including this magical Maradona-Caniggia combo to knock out Brazil), one fewer than Toto Schillaci, who was an unexpected revelation up front for Italy. Dad and I watched Italy at their best against the Czechs in their Group B encounter, including a brilliant goal by the mercurial Roberto Baggio. “Oh, yes!” He was also one of the stars in 1994, of which more later.

Elsewhere the competition witnessed x-rated tackles and an insidious prevalence of cynical dives, with West Germany’s Jurgen Klinsmann one of the worst offenders. However, probably the most disgusting incident involved his strike partner Rudi Voller and Dutch defender Frank Rijkaard. Holland were highly fancied having won the 1988 Euros at a canter. Their world-class trio of Rijkaard, Ruud Gullit and Marc van Basten played for AC Milan, while Germany’s Andreas Brehme, Klinsmann and captain Lothar Matthaus represented city rivals Internazionale. Voller was also in Serie A with Roma. When the two countries met in Round 2, all the historic rivalries surfaced and reached an awful apex when Rijkaard spat at an angry Voller not once but twice as their altercation resulted in red cards. My diary records that ITV’s coverage of the match was, appropriately enough, followed by the hit satirical show, Spitting Image. Say no more!

The final was a miserable affair won by West Germany, the disgraceful behaviour on the pitch matched only by John Motson’s pious commentary. The 3^rd-4^th place ‘final’ between England and Italy was far more entertaining, open, fair and good-natured But for me and most Britons the highlight of the World Cup was the semi-final between the Germans and England. We had sneaked through by the odd goal here and there but suddenly there was a genuine chance of reaching a first final since ’66. Bobby Robson had moulded a very good side around the talented Gazza, Lineker, centre-back Terry Butcher, veteran ‘keeper Shilton and skipper Bryan Robson although the latter suffered his customary serious injury in the group encounter with Holland.

Frustratingly I missed the first half but was very much caught up in the tense drama of the second half, extra time and those blasted penalties. Brehme’s deflected free kick over Shilton’s head looked to have won it before the lethal Lineker equalised. After that, it was all about Gazza’s yellow card and babyish blubbing, Chris Waddle blazing over and manager Bobby Robson’s rueful smile in defeat. It had been so close.

It was also a case of ‘so far’ as indeed was the 1994 tournament. With Graham ‘Turnip’ Taylor in charge and a largely new-look side, England failed to emerge from a group including Holland and Norway, whose total dominance against us in Oslo was the decisive result. As in 1981, our boys “took one hell of a beating”.

The next World Cup was one of my least favourites. With none of the home nations competing, Ireland became honorary Brits for three heady weeks in June. It also offered up the most turgid two hours of football ever seen in a final: a nil-nil more cagey than a night at the zoo. Thus the defining image of a tournament held in the USA, a country with no idea of what football was about, was of the ponytailed one slumped in despair on the Pasadena pitch after firing his penalty miles over the bar.

That was a shame because there were more positive elements to remember. The stadia were full, the spectators enthusiastic and Mexican ‘keeper Campo’s jersey was such a kaleidoscope of colour that it hurt your eyes (“I wouldn’t wear a shirt like that”, said ex-goalie Dad, predictably).

There were also a few surprises. The USA pushed Brazil close and South Korea scored two against Germany. Ray Houghton’s speculative lob beat Italy but Ireland were as goal-shy as they had been in Italy. It was fun watching highlights of Russia’s demolition of Cameroon; Oleg Salenko scored a World Cup record five goals!

I didn’t see many live matches; Rotaract and the small matter of moving house frequently intervened. However, I was able to catch a few gems. I was ecstatic when Stoichkov and Letchkov helped Bulgaria beat the Germans in the quarter-finals but the most thrilling attacking encounter was the second round clash between Argentina and Romania, for whom Hagi and Dumitrescu were outstanding. A drug-fuelled Maradona had already been sent home in disgrace so it was left to Brazil’s twin strike-force of Romario and Bebeto to bring some Latino flair to the closing stages. Roll on, France 98….