On May 6th, 1978, Ipswich Town Football Club faced Arsenal in the most one sided cup final ever. I spent the first part of the day sitting at the foot of the stairs, crying because my father refused to take me with him to Wembley. His words, “Don’t worry, son. Your day will come,” remained with me for 23 years. Once my tears had ceased, I walked to the newsagents for my customary Saturday morning indulgence of a quarter of pear drops, a can of shandy bass, and the most recent issue of Roy of the Rovers.
While returning from the newspaper shop, I decided to stop by the Hogan’s house. It was there a few months earlier that I learned about England’s failure to qualify for the World Cup in Argentina. We played a game of football on the grassy patch near my house, with Patrick and Michael engaging in an argumentative game of World Cup Singles while I went in goal.
One hour went by and the Hogan’s were still arguing, so I decided to head home. My plan was to catch the latest updates on Mr Race’s condition and see if he could miraculously score the winning goal for Melchester Rovers despite his broken leg and temporary blindness. After indulging in two and a half hours of entertainment from Chris Tarrant, Lenny Henry, The Phantom Flan Flinger, and the stunning Sally James (who happened to be my first crush), I eagerly waited for Dickie Davies and the World of Sport team to provide the pre-match analysis for the upcoming cup final.
Tragedy struck when mashed potatoes were served for dinner. I threw a tantrum and adamantly refused to eat the meal my mother had prepared with love. As a consequence, I was banished to my room for the remainder of the day. Back then, having a bed to sleep in was considered a luxury, let alone having access to half of Dixon’s showroom to secretly watch television.
At the tender age of eight, I sobbed uncontrollably for two hours. Thankfully, my mother permitted me to leave my room at ten minutes before three, precisely when Micky Mills was introducing the squad to the Royal family, who were as always taking advantage of their free tickets. I nestled on the floor beside my feline companion, Paddington, and was utterly captivated as the Blues administered the most significant 1-0 defeat ever witnessed at Wembley.
I was sent to bed once more at the end of the game because I threw Paddington across the room in celebration after Roger scored the winning goal against Pat Jennings. I missed out on watching Tom Baker battle the Cybermen and even Ted Rogers and Dusty bin in 3-2-1
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