1966, and all that . . .

These are his memories of that glorious decade which reached a pinnacle when England were crowned kings of the world . . .

CONSTANTLY repeated TV images from 1966 have gradually wiped out most of my memories of being present at Wembley for the World Cup Final.

Did Geoff Hurst's shot cross the line? I don't know, and I was a spotty 17-year-old standing on the terracing behind that goal, with a clearer view than most.

The ball seems to cross the line on TV replays, but all I can remember is the feeling of jubilation as our heroes celebrated the vital strike in the stadium.

Roger Hunt from Culcheth, who used to play for Stockton Heath, and moved to mighty Liverpool, before settling with Wanderers, turned away in triumph. He was sure.

The TV debate has continued for years, but we followed the flow. It was the goal nobody really saw.

We certainly knew it was all over when Hurst completed his hat-trick, charging to the other end of the ground and firing home, long before Kenneth Wolstenholme's words became immortal, as the final whistle signalled a 4-2 victory.

It was the Swinging 60s, and while most of that sex and rock 'n' roll stuff passed me by as a schoolboy at Lymm Grammar in Cheshire, it marked the introduction of a new generation of footballing superstars.

Denis Law was my hero, and how many other copycat youngsters used to raise their scruffy school uniform shirted arm in triumph after scoring yet another playground goal?

He was the King of the Stretford End, and with George Best and Bobby Charlton forged a triumphant trio who re-discovered the glory days destroyed on that runway in Munich.

But while Law was the swaggering Scottish talisman, and Belfast Best the fashion guru off the pitch and supreme stylist on, despite never having the opportunity to grace the world stage, it was Bobby who became the nation's hero that summer of 66.

What great times they were: Brazil stayed at the posh Lymm Hotel not too far from my school, strolling in the gardens before taking advantage of Wanderers' training facilities at Bromwich Street.

We used to cycle home, taking a two-mile detour to collect autographs from these strange looking, but ever so polite, dusky coloured men from another Continent, and then compare notes the next day.

My dad Gilbert and I decided nearly two years before to take advantage of the FA opportunity to watch all the North-west group games at Old Trafford and Goodison Park which meant you could also buy a ticket for the Final.

And what experiences they were!

Goodison Park: Swaying terraces; that famous blue criss-cross pattern on the main stand; seeing the fantastic Pele playing "live" - and then almost crippled; "Can I mind your car, Mister?"; The formidable, multi-talented Eusebio, the unluckiest star of his age; Torres, the huge, lanky Portugal centre-forward, affectionately called "Terrarse" from the terraces.

Old Trafford: For once an anti-climax, all the major action was at the other end of the East Lancs Road.

Games to remember to this day:

Portugal 5, Korea 3: The chants for "Korea, Korea" came surging down the terraces, I can still hear them now. Almost half an hour gone and the scoreline was Korea 3, Portugal 0.

It was impossible. A dream. Then Eusebio took the match by the scruff of the neck. One, two, three, four goals. We had never seen anything like it. He was fantastic. And he always smiled.

Brazil 1, Hungary 3: Watching from the old Gladwys Street End terraces, it is still one of my favourite games of all time.

Remember these stars? Florian Albert, the Magical Magyar as the newspapers of the time called him; Farkas, wearing number 10 for Hungary; Then that goal - a pass from Albert to Bene on the wing. A cross, then a volley from Farkas outside the area straight into my face - at least it seemed like that at the time. The crowd had changed allegiance, now it was "Hunga-ry, Hunga-ry."

What excitement. The great Brazil vanquished. And to be there in the flesh!

A double newspaper round and Saturday mornings spent cleaning cars at a local garage in Newton-le-Willows had equipped me with enough cash to watch United at most games, home and away, from the early 60s.

That decade would be a revelation to young fans of today, forcefed a diet of all-ticket matches, in sparkling all-seater stadia, watching just the one team of their choice.

Then you could go when you wanted, and more importantly, where you wanted. As a schoolboy in love with the beautiful game that meant a wide variety of matches: Friday night football at Stockport County, Tranmere or Chester; Massive, atmospheric European nights at Anfield; A sunny Saturday evening at Burnden Park which, if memory serves, saw a youthful Franny Lee floating crosses over for Nat Lofthouse; the specialist free-kicks of a Jimmy McIlroy-inspired Burnley, then one of the top teams in the country, watched by 61,000 at crumbling Turf Moor.

But the World Cup Final weekend in London was a different adventure altogether. Our tickets also allowed us to watch the Third Place game at Wembley, so it was a three-day trip, and a hotel in the capital.

Kippers for breakfast? Yes, it was a bit of a culture shock in our three-star hotel in Russell Square.

I'd been to London on numerous occasions watching United from my first trip as a 12-year-old. But staying in a hotel was a lot different from a midnight train from Warrington Bank Quay, two hours kipping in the waiting room at St Pancras, eggs and bacon in a greasy spoon, sight-seeing in the morning, then the late train back after the match.

The build-up to the Final is still a blur, the game itself overwritten by repeat TV showings, but memories of the post-match celebrations remain.

Gap-toothed Nobby Stiles dancing around the pitch; the feeling of absolute euphoria as Union Jacks waved and the crowd roared.

Heading back into Central London on the Tube, everybody talking. We had won the World Cup. It was immense, although we did not use that word then!

I can remember drinking pints (was it three or four?) of bitter in the Cockney Pride - an underground pub in Piccadilly Circus. Everybody smiling, laughing, talking to complete strangers as though they were your best friend. Friends for life, but never to be seen again. Singing "Land of Hope and Glory", "God Save The Queen", because they were the norm, without any thought of subtle nationalistic, or racist, overtones.

It's a far cry from the "Inger-Land" chants of today.

And I can't remember seeing a single German fan, although there must have been thousands present . . .

Links to other World Cup sites

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click HERE for the latest news from Korea

click HERE for the latest news from the official FA site

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