I watched the 1966 World Cup Final on TV yesterday afternoon – the first time I’d seen it in colour. (Colourised?) I was impressed by (a) the lack of play-acting after fouls – victims got up quickly and even shook hands with their assailants; (b) no black players; (c) the divine Bobby Moore, Mr West Ham; and (d) the Duke of Kent (I think it was) smoking a cigarette in the stands. The Sixties really were a better time. (Not of course if you were a woman. Or gay. Or black. Or allergic to cigarette smoke.) – But now I’m sounding like a boring old fart.

I actually went to one of the group matches then, courtesy of a Canadian friend who got tickets from his High Commission. I think it was the infamous Argentine game. That was a nastier affair.

I’ll be watching this evening, fuelled by an afternoon carvery dinner at my favourite Hull pub (named after Philip Larkin). It will be nice if the game is as gentlemanly as that Final in 1966. If it is, I won’t be too worried about the result. But then I’m a boring old moralist, too.