The current gourmand’s feast of football at the European Championships reminds me of an incident 55 years ago, almost to the day.

They say there are some events in world history by which you can remember exactly where you were and what you were doing at the time.  This was one of those and in that respect is probably shared by every man of my age.

As a 14-year old boy I was suffering a two week holiday with my mam and dad at Hookhills Campsite, near Paignton, Devon.  It was the World Cup Final and England was playing West Germany at Wembley.  We didn’t have a radio to listen to the match, let alone a telly, but a neighbouring tent had one and the commentary was loud enough for us to hear from outside ours.  Me and my dad settled into a couple of folding chairs and surreptitiously  ear-wigged from a distance.

Until, that is, after about 10 minutes a little snot of a kid came out of their tent, clocked us listening and ran back inside bleating, “Dad, them men are listening to our radio”.  When his dad seemed to take no notice, the little shit turned the radio off.

I wished him a rotting eternity in Hell.

As it happens, the owners of the site had rigged up a telly in their courtyard, around which 200 or more campers were stood.  It was a broiling hot sunny day so we watched barely discernible images on this sun-glared screen from a distance of 30 yards.

I have ameliorated since then my thoughts on that spiteful, little turd but I still fervently hope his life has been one huge disappointment.