I'm old. Well, middle aged by commonly accepted terminology. On very rare occasions I'll rejoice to the address of "young man" but that's only from Percy who's run the newsagent on the corner since 1968 and Vi Beale, the barmaid who served me my first beer when my brother took me in the Rose and Crown on my 16th birthday. To millenials and much of Generation X however I am most definitely old. I'm actually old enough to have been alive when England last won the World Cup. Five in fact. Being only five at the time I have absolutely no memory of the day. Nothing. Not even vague recollections of parents or older siblings swearing at Weber's equaliser or screaming with joy at Hurst's fourth. I've tried to remember. I've even asked family members over the years to describe their recollections of the day in the hope a small memory would be jogged free and float to the surface of my consciousness, but to no avail. Compounding my frustration is the fact that almost everyone I've ever met in my life who was just one or two years older than me DID remember. My first flatmate when I started work - one year older - "Do I remember 1966? Yeah it was crazy. Dad was dancing in the street!" My wife - two years older than me - "What a day! Mrs. Trask was screaming next door!" July 30, 1966 - If I'm in the room I don't remember it It's very cruel really. To have been there when it happened. The only time England have ever won the World Cup and perhaps the only time they ever will. To have BEEN there in the vicinity of a television with the match PLAYING. But not to have had the wherewithal to linger, to appreciate the moment, to bloody REMEMBER. What kind of a five year old was I? Didn't I have enough smarts to realize this could be THE DAY for English football? Obviously not. I was probably upstairs spreading peanut butter on my brother's school books or in the back garden stuffing a frog's mouth with marbles. It's just as likely I was chatting up that blonde 6-year old Christine who lived a couple doors down. Clearly I was a five year old who just didn't have his priorities straight. I chose love over Jules Rimet. That, or peanut butter. Or frogs.
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AuthorMark Usher is an Englishman and a passionate supporter of the Three Lions. With many England fans drained of hope long ago, Mark steadfastly retains an unhealthy optimism for the future of his national side. Archivesblogs of noteThe blogs below are all better than this one: "Hope less, |