In the early 1970s, I had a girlfriend who enjoyed football. We went together to many matches. No matter how horrible the winter weather or the behaviour of the fans on the terraces of the London clubs we visited, she never complained. And it wasn’t just a love of ball games that we shared. When she came round to my flat to watch the Cup Final between West Ham and Fulham in 1975 – Bobby Moore’s last match at Wembley – we agreed at half-time that it was stupefyingly boring; so we switched off the telly and enjoyed the rest of the afternoon in bed. I am sure the old hero would have approved.