Imagine that World War 2 only finished in 2004. That’s how close the 1966 World Cup was to the end of the actual war, and even closer to the end of rationing.

The 1960s are often described as “swinging” – take that as you will – but in reality life was tough for working people. Family cars and “two week” holidays were only for the lucky few. Flights to Spain were as fanciful as flights to the moon so the prospect of a major sporting event coming to these shores was a real boost. 

My dad was a real football fan. He first took me to the Baseball Ground in August 1962 to make sure I saw Stanley Matthews play. Stan didn’t play but I was hooked and from then on took the little steps that my grandad made me (he came too) and propped them against the wall in The Paddock to see the action. We booked tickets on a bus from Swains Coaches in Somercotes. Does anyone else remember them?

When it was announced that the World Cup was coming to England my dad was as happy as a dog with two tails. Along with three work colleagues he started a savings plan to prepare for the tournament. They booked a “ticket package” which would take them to matches all over the country and included tickets for the final. They wanted to savour it.

It must have been quite an adventure using 1960s transport. Roker Park one day, Goodison Park the next, then Hillsborough to see mysterious teams from all over the globe. He must have met a few celebrities on his travels. He brought me the autographs of the entire North Korea squad as well as those of Wimbledon Champions Margaret Smith and Ann Hayden Jones.

He saw Eusebio for the first time. We both saw him again when The Rams spanked Benfica a few years later.

He told me about “that dirty bugger” Rattin in the semi-final. Then, as Alf Ramsey had always told us, England made it to the final.

The big day arrived. My dad was getting ready to set off and there was a knock on the door. We didn’t have a phone but the neighbours did and they had taken a message that one of dad’s mates had fallen down the stairs and was injured. Suddenly I was going to the World Cup Final!

It’s all a bit of a blur. I hadn’t been expecting it. I wasn’t building up to it but here I was, on my way to Wembley.

In truth my memories aren’t very detailed. I recall the excitement of walking up Wembley Way. I remember Helmut Haller giving West Germany the lead. I remember grown men in tears when Weber scored the last ditch equaliser.

But most of all I remember Nobby Stiles doing his toothless dance on the Wembley pitch.

A few hours later I was walking home down Castleton Avenue in Riddings waving my little flag and grinning from ear to ear. Me and my dad had seen England win the World Cup! I’ve still got my ticket stub somewhere.

Last September I went to see “An Audience With Geoff Hurst” at Loughborough Town Hall. I bought a framed seat from the old Wembley that Geoff had signed. When I went to collect it from him I was a bit disappointed that he didn’t recognise me.

I certainly recognised him.