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It was the final of 1979, with Alan Sunderland’s dramatic under-the-wire winner, which made me collapse longingly at the feet of football forever. Throughout the 1980s and 90s, the FA Cup Final was one of the most important days of the year for me, as joyfully anticipated and relished as Christmas Day and my birthday.

The television coverage began around midday. As the opening drumbeat of the Grandstand theme rang out, I would eat my first handful of crisps or, in later life, crack open my first lager, of the big day.

The build-up was curiously compelling: roving reporters collaring kooky fans for interviews on Wembley Way; helicopter cameras following the team buses as they inched their way to the stadium from their respective hotels; the be-suited players’ pre-match stroll on the turf, during which they would gaze around the stadium as if they had never seen turf, terracing or floodlights in their lives.

I’ve written for the Daily Telegraph about the lost joys of cup final day. You can read the rest of my article here.