28 years ago today, Melissa took me to be her lawful wedded whatever. To have and to hold, from that day forth, fifth, sixth and 28th, through sickness and health and 7 World Cups, and counting, for richer or poorer, Love Thy Neighbour. Morecombe & Wise. Til death us do part. Some sitcom of the 60s. Amen. I now pronounce you one thing and another.

Oddly enough, I can remember very little of the actual wedding day, but almost everything about the 1986 World Cup which was playing throughout that summer. Maradona’s ‘hand-of-god’ was the ‘soundtrack’ to our honeymoon. At one point I thought I’d married Terry Butcher.

But the years have been kind. To me, at least. Though in terms of the England and the World Cup, its just the SAME SHIT DIFFERENT DAY. So much for the ‘we can bloody win it’ spirit, why did no-one think to tell that to the team? Stupid, rookie mistake. We, the population of the whole of England, have unanimously decided that this tournament is ours to lose and, for once we are all in total agreement. This is not like European elections, not like local council rubbish, Big Brother households, Best Voice in the Kardashian Home, this is totally everybody. Believing, for once, in our national chances at greatness on an international platform. Everyone in the whole country. Well, everyone I spoke to yesterday anyway. AND NO-ONE TOLD THE FRIKKIN TEAM. No wonder we lost. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

Anyway, its my anniversary, though more importantly (apparently) its Mel’s anniversary, so we’re off walking on the Heath, going to the most expensive ‘Affordable Art Fair’ that’s ever been, and doing whatever it takes to keep me away from the football. So I simply don’t have the time to speak to you any more.

My name’s Andy and I haven’t watched football for 14 hours.

Happy anniversary.

A xxxx