This summer the attention for footie fans across the globe will be the 20th. staging of the World Cup in Brazil. With this in mind I have decided to regale those of you with a passion for the beautiful game with my memories of the 8th. World cup - of course, it has to be the 1966 finals, England's one and only finest hour.
I was 10 years old in '66, just developing my own passion for the game. Earlier that season (2nd. March to be precise) my dad had taken me to my first ever Leeds match under floodlights, the quarter final first leg of the Inter Cities Fairs Cup (later to become the Uefa Cup) at Elland Road. The opponents were Ujpest Doza, a Hungarian outfit whose line up included a number of well known internationals. It was the time when Don Revie's magicians in all white were beginning to carve out a name for themselves in the annals of the modern game. This particular rainy night though, the boys ran out in a strip of Old Gold, with Gary Sprake, the keeper, sporting all blue. Under the lights they looked magnificent and from that moment my heart and soul belonged to them.
In poor conditions, the mighty whites (Old Golds) took an unassailable 4 - 0 lead, interrupted by a stray dog that ran on to the pitch to cause mayhem and added entertainment for the 41,000 in the ground as players from both sides chased and slithered in a futile attempt to catch the mad mutt.
In the second half, having consolidated their lead and total dominance of the game, Leeds took the foot of the gas, and the play, inevitably, became a bit boring. At this juncture some wag in the crowd shouted "bring t'fuckin' dog back on!" It was the start of my love for the game and my club. I was hooked.
A large percentage of Northern working class families took their annual 2 week summer break at a place called Primrose Valley in Filey, a small seaside town on the English East coast, and during that summer in '66 me and my family were among that legion. Primrose Valley was basically a giant caravan park that also provided your stereotypical redcoat type entertainment for the adults, penny arcades and an indoor pool for the kids, and well, that was about it really, the rest of the time you were left to seek out your own fun.
A good part of my day was spent around the indoor pool, not in the water I might add (although I'd recently won my 1 length certificate, swimming was never my strong suit). My attraction was the fizzy cherryade they sold there under the brand name of 'Zing' if memory serves me well. But the main draw for my daily visits was the juke box and the 2 tunes I played to death with my sixpence: The Kinks' Sunny Afternoon, and The Lovin' Spoonful's Summer In The City. To this day, whenever I hear those numbers I get instant evocative memories of that summer.
One day after gazing in awe and wonder at the gang of mods who used to gather outside the clubhouse on their sparkling chrome and mirror accessorised GS's and TV175's, I came across a bunch of kids playing football on a large piece of open grass. I remember being invited to join in by a couple of older kids, and for that reason as well as being a relatively shy, skinny lad, I did so with reservations. I'd always been a fast runner, but had only ever kicked a ball with mates my own age back home and never knew if I'd be any good in this company. I needn't have worried. By the third day of what became a regular meet I'd become a natural winger and was one of the first to be chosen when sides were being picked. Meeting kids from other regions of Yorkshire and under the realisation that I wasn't half bad at my chosen sport was probably my first proper right of passage as a youngster. I remember it as a magical time.
By now England had reached the quarter finals after 2 wins against Mexico and France and a 0 - 0 draw with Uruguay. Argentina was the opposition in a game that would become infamous for the sending off of their captain, Rattin, and manager Alf Ramsey later describing the Argentinians as "animals". It was the start of a bitter rivalry that simmers to this day. England won the game 1 - 0 with a Geoff Hurst goal. After we'd put the semi's to bed with a 2 - 1 win over Eusebio's Portugal, and hearing that we would be playing West Germany in the final, my excitement was tempered by the realisation that the 30th July was the day we were due to go home. I was worried. On holiday mam and dad weren't early risers. My old man was a shift worker, and he made the most of his two week sabbatical from the daily grind. Persuading them to be up and off early for the 90 mile trip home wasn't going to be easy.
That friday night before we left, I didn't sleep a wink. I remember being so nervous that my bladder started playing up. I lay awake listening to the incessant rain hammering down on the caravan roof and my urge to piss growing stronger by the minute. The communal toilet block was a good three hundred yards away, and there was no way I was about to make that journey in the middle of the night in that weather. After about an hour of writhing about in my bunk I was fit to burst, so I did something that leaves me eternally ashamed - I pissed in the teapot.
Ok, ok, I know, but in my defence I did rinse it out and admit to feeling a little guilty the next day as my parents enjoyed their morning brew while I tentatively took sips of my strawberry Nesquix.
Anyway, loaded up and, on paper at least, in good time to make the journey home for the 3pm. kick off, we hit the road, me on the back of dad's old 650 BSA, mam and my younger brother squashed like sardines inside the totally unsafe Busmar sidecar. Halfway through the journey I began to sense all was not well. The old Beezer seemed to be losing power, and eventually it coughed and spluttered itself to a standstill. Was this my first taste of karma? was this God getting his revenge for me pissing in the teapot? I was devastated.
Dad got straight to work with his spanners, and with bits of engine strewn about the road soon came up with a diagnosis - knackered cylinder head gasket. I was even more devastated. This sounded terminal. Stuck in the middle of nowhere, and I was about to miss the game of the century. I prayed to God for forgiveness and vowed never to be a dirty, lazy little bastard ever again if only he would get me home in time for the final.
Dad had started to rummage around in the shopping bag where we kept surplus food and stuff that we were taking home with us. What the hell was he doing? This was no time to take a snack. He produced a box of cornflakes and proceeded to dump the inner bag on mam's lap.
"You want to get back in time for this bloody game, you'd better get to work," he said thrusting the now empty box and broken gasket at me.
After receiving precise instructions I used the old gasket as a template to trace and cut out two new ones from the cornflake box. Finishing the task I nervously handed the new Kellog's style replacements to my old man who proceeded to put the parts back together again.
After what seemed like an eternity we finally donned our helmets and gave each other a look of uncertainty. A few false starts later, and with a belch of blue smoke the old machine burst into life. I let out a joyus yelp and urged dad to keep the revs up, scared as I was that she might conk again. We limped home on a wing and a prayer, all the while hoping our primitive repair would hold. Bursting through our front door at precisely two minutes to three, I made a beeline for the telly and turned it on. Back in those days TV's took an age to warm up. I cursed and cajoled until a grainy black and white image morphed into view just as they were kicking off.
I remember nothing of the game apart from Hurst's last strike that left Tilkowski, Germany's keeper rooted to the spot and the now immortal lines uttered by Kenneth Wolstenholme. After the game kids from all over the estate poured onto the streets with footballs to reenact those final glorious moments. Everyone wanted to be Geoff Hurst. It was a magical summer.
I was 10 years old in '66, just developing my own passion for the game. Earlier that season (2nd. March to be precise) my dad had taken me to my first ever Leeds match under floodlights, the quarter final first leg of the Inter Cities Fairs Cup (later to become the Uefa Cup) at Elland Road. The opponents were Ujpest Doza, a Hungarian outfit whose line up included a number of well known internationals. It was the time when Don Revie's magicians in all white were beginning to carve out a name for themselves in the annals of the modern game. This particular rainy night though, the boys ran out in a strip of Old Gold, with Gary Sprake, the keeper, sporting all blue. Under the lights they looked magnificent and from that moment my heart and soul belonged to them.
In poor conditions, the mighty whites (Old Golds) took an unassailable 4 - 0 lead, interrupted by a stray dog that ran on to the pitch to cause mayhem and added entertainment for the 41,000 in the ground as players from both sides chased and slithered in a futile attempt to catch the mad mutt.
In the second half, having consolidated their lead and total dominance of the game, Leeds took the foot of the gas, and the play, inevitably, became a bit boring. At this juncture some wag in the crowd shouted "bring t'fuckin' dog back on!" It was the start of my love for the game and my club. I was hooked.
A large percentage of Northern working class families took their annual 2 week summer break at a place called Primrose Valley in Filey, a small seaside town on the English East coast, and during that summer in '66 me and my family were among that legion. Primrose Valley was basically a giant caravan park that also provided your stereotypical redcoat type entertainment for the adults, penny arcades and an indoor pool for the kids, and well, that was about it really, the rest of the time you were left to seek out your own fun.
A good part of my day was spent around the indoor pool, not in the water I might add (although I'd recently won my 1 length certificate, swimming was never my strong suit). My attraction was the fizzy cherryade they sold there under the brand name of 'Zing' if memory serves me well. But the main draw for my daily visits was the juke box and the 2 tunes I played to death with my sixpence: The Kinks' Sunny Afternoon, and The Lovin' Spoonful's Summer In The City. To this day, whenever I hear those numbers I get instant evocative memories of that summer.
One day after gazing in awe and wonder at the gang of mods who used to gather outside the clubhouse on their sparkling chrome and mirror accessorised GS's and TV175's, I came across a bunch of kids playing football on a large piece of open grass. I remember being invited to join in by a couple of older kids, and for that reason as well as being a relatively shy, skinny lad, I did so with reservations. I'd always been a fast runner, but had only ever kicked a ball with mates my own age back home and never knew if I'd be any good in this company. I needn't have worried. By the third day of what became a regular meet I'd become a natural winger and was one of the first to be chosen when sides were being picked. Meeting kids from other regions of Yorkshire and under the realisation that I wasn't half bad at my chosen sport was probably my first proper right of passage as a youngster. I remember it as a magical time.
By now England had reached the quarter finals after 2 wins against Mexico and France and a 0 - 0 draw with Uruguay. Argentina was the opposition in a game that would become infamous for the sending off of their captain, Rattin, and manager Alf Ramsey later describing the Argentinians as "animals". It was the start of a bitter rivalry that simmers to this day. England won the game 1 - 0 with a Geoff Hurst goal. After we'd put the semi's to bed with a 2 - 1 win over Eusebio's Portugal, and hearing that we would be playing West Germany in the final, my excitement was tempered by the realisation that the 30th July was the day we were due to go home. I was worried. On holiday mam and dad weren't early risers. My old man was a shift worker, and he made the most of his two week sabbatical from the daily grind. Persuading them to be up and off early for the 90 mile trip home wasn't going to be easy.
That friday night before we left, I didn't sleep a wink. I remember being so nervous that my bladder started playing up. I lay awake listening to the incessant rain hammering down on the caravan roof and my urge to piss growing stronger by the minute. The communal toilet block was a good three hundred yards away, and there was no way I was about to make that journey in the middle of the night in that weather. After about an hour of writhing about in my bunk I was fit to burst, so I did something that leaves me eternally ashamed - I pissed in the teapot.
Ok, ok, I know, but in my defence I did rinse it out and admit to feeling a little guilty the next day as my parents enjoyed their morning brew while I tentatively took sips of my strawberry Nesquix.
Anyway, loaded up and, on paper at least, in good time to make the journey home for the 3pm. kick off, we hit the road, me on the back of dad's old 650 BSA, mam and my younger brother squashed like sardines inside the totally unsafe Busmar sidecar. Halfway through the journey I began to sense all was not well. The old Beezer seemed to be losing power, and eventually it coughed and spluttered itself to a standstill. Was this my first taste of karma? was this God getting his revenge for me pissing in the teapot? I was devastated.
Dad got straight to work with his spanners, and with bits of engine strewn about the road soon came up with a diagnosis - knackered cylinder head gasket. I was even more devastated. This sounded terminal. Stuck in the middle of nowhere, and I was about to miss the game of the century. I prayed to God for forgiveness and vowed never to be a dirty, lazy little bastard ever again if only he would get me home in time for the final.
Dad had started to rummage around in the shopping bag where we kept surplus food and stuff that we were taking home with us. What the hell was he doing? This was no time to take a snack. He produced a box of cornflakes and proceeded to dump the inner bag on mam's lap.
"You want to get back in time for this bloody game, you'd better get to work," he said thrusting the now empty box and broken gasket at me.
After receiving precise instructions I used the old gasket as a template to trace and cut out two new ones from the cornflake box. Finishing the task I nervously handed the new Kellog's style replacements to my old man who proceeded to put the parts back together again.
After what seemed like an eternity we finally donned our helmets and gave each other a look of uncertainty. A few false starts later, and with a belch of blue smoke the old machine burst into life. I let out a joyus yelp and urged dad to keep the revs up, scared as I was that she might conk again. We limped home on a wing and a prayer, all the while hoping our primitive repair would hold. Bursting through our front door at precisely two minutes to three, I made a beeline for the telly and turned it on. Back in those days TV's took an age to warm up. I cursed and cajoled until a grainy black and white image morphed into view just as they were kicking off.
I remember nothing of the game apart from Hurst's last strike that left Tilkowski, Germany's keeper rooted to the spot and the now immortal lines uttered by Kenneth Wolstenholme. After the game kids from all over the estate poured onto the streets with footballs to reenact those final glorious moments. Everyone wanted to be Geoff Hurst. It was a magical summer.