Sweet FA

I am naturally concerned about climate change.

The seasons are very erratic with recent trends of exceptionally cold winter months, a very dry spring, wet and unsettled summer and a balmy, dreamy autumn.

There are freakish conditions leading to flash flooding in very localised areas, a single valley or even an individual street. Tornado's can rip through a city centre in the UK to resemble downtown New Orleans. A heat wave can send ginger haired people into a frenzy to source the highest possible factor sun cream, wear an outrageous hat or just seek shelter indoors.

What was once a 1 in 100 year or more probability in weather terms now seems to occur with regular and more intense frequency.

My own perception of the changing climate is based on the weather prevailing on the day of the FA Cup Final.

It was that particular event just yesterday under dull, overcast and intermittently wet conditions. Yet, in my childhood you could guarantee, without any prospect of contradiction, that the Saturday in May on which the Cup Final took place would be the most gloriously warm, sunny and dry.

I was really into football from an early age up until the time spent on that particular interest was re-allocated to cycling followed by cars and girls.

The day was special

A bitter sweet combination. On the one hand there was the promise of a momentous pageant, a televisual feast from early morning with all of the support and themed programmes followed by the game itself, a rarity of a live game on mainstream TV and the post match festivities or mortem dependant upon your allegiances.

It did not matter, in reality, which two teams were in battle because the sheer heritage, pomp and circumstance won through. To the impartial onlooker it was a spectacle. Wembley Stadium (the old one with the twin towers), the build up ,the singing of Abide with Me and the anticipation of the kick off.

Of course, if your team was there the additional factor of nerves and pride kicked in. It could be the shortest, most pleasurable of days if they were at the top of their game. It could be hell if they were not.

The bitter element, as the downside, was that, unlike the modern staging, the FA Cup Final did represent the finale to a football season.

There were no additional competitions of Play-Offs or straggling fixtures held over from a frozen week in the February.

In my year of football it was the main event.

I would be sad, certainly. There may be a European Cup Final or a major Tournament every 2nd or 4th year but club games were my favourite.

It was always a very long season.

In the preceeding summer I would eagerly await the availability in the shops of the collectable football cards. My album from the 1970-71 season is still within reach even today and I have strong regrets over not saving up my pocket money of the time (7p rising to 8p on my respective birthday) to send off for the small number of cards that evaded my purchase from the corner shop or could not be traded, even for a cash consideration, from my schoolmates.

If I stayed over at my grandparents on a Saturday I would be allowed to watch the grainy black and white broadcast of Match of the Day on FA Cup days. I really enjoyed the company of Grandad Dick who had, by all accounts, been a keen player in his younger days.

The FA Cup knockout competition started for the main league teams in the depths of winter. The broadcast highlights would be of very bare and muddy pitches, equally cack encrusted teams and steaming ranks of spectators.

The giant killing exploits of part-time non-league outfit were a thrill, particularly if the scalp was of a high flying Division One team. The early season football magazines would have freebies of wall charts with slottable, interchangeable tags for each participant in the leagues or a huge poster sized sheet for the Cup with sections to hand write in the fixtures and results in descending numbers until the last two combatants.

Everything built up gradually to the actual day of the Final.

I would wake up with a master plan in my mind. There was little time to think about eating or doing anything else apart from concentrating on how the day would pan out.

I would already, most years, have my copy of the official programme. This was following my stumbling across, in WH Smiths, one year of a pile of these glossy publications. Not a guide to the game but the actual match programme. Thick, glossy and in no way to be allowed to fall into the sticky or grubby hands of siblings.

The TV Schedule would start at 9am with the likes of a Cup Special Swop Shop, then a meet the fans type programme or an It's a Knockout with the teams represented by ordinary folk. Grandstand would start earlier than usual with a full run up to kick off. I would be riveted to the screen and annoyed at any distractions or intrusions by same sticky and grubby handed siblings.

If I chose my moment well I could also find time to cycle down to the local shop to stock up with a big paper bag of sweets. Those were, of course, the days when 1p bought 8 Blackjacks or 8 Fruit Salad chews. A pocketful of bronze, small denomination coins went a long way towards a high sugar, high E-number and unhealthily artificially coloured feast.

Everything was nicely prepared for the start of the game. My parents would accept my fanaticism but would try to encourage me to at least pop out into the fresh air for a few moments on such a glorious day of weather.

The weather, oh yes. As I said you could always rely on it being good for the whole of the day. It was immaterial for the duration of my personal Cup Final schedule but was all important after the game had finished when the re-enactment of the key moments and goals could take place in the back garden.

It was then that the even more sticky and grubby siblings became of use taking the role, for any leftover goodies, of the losing team. I made sure of that just to round the day off nicely. There would be no upsets in the glorious sunshine, just a few tantrums and tears before bedtime.