October 17 1973

Ah, now let me see. 43 years ago on this day the England national football team suffered one of its frequent bouts of indigestion and discomfort. It is a day carved into football folklore for all the wrong reasons, an evening that was bitterly disappointing, deeply tragic and almost anti-climactic. In fact most of us were tempted to switch over to Gardeners World or University Challenge with Bamber Gascoigne such was the magnitude of the shock that registered with all football fans.

On October 17th 1973, England met Poland at the old Wembley Stadium, a fixture destined to haunt English football supporters for many a decade. It was the final World Cup qualifying fixture and the omens were so deeply encouraging, We had to win, We knew we could win. None could stop us. But then very few were expecting any kind of resistance to what seemed an almost routine qualification to another World Cup Finals.

That night I'd prepared myself for a night of unbridled and lucrative prosperity. All the bookies were convinced that England would grab hold of the Poles, tear them to shreds and then subject them to an almost heartless humiliation, a destructive blow to a heavily damaged morale. Nobody thought Poland would ever present any kind of problems or obstacles to England's easy qualification route to the World Cup of 1974 to be held the following summer in West Germany. The knockout punch would be final and Poland would fall like one of those big industrial chimneys in a controlled explosion.

Back in the September of that year, England opened their international fixture list with a friendly against Austria. The final score that night suggested more than ever that Poland would be lightweights ready to face their execution.

England thrashed Austria at Wembley with a 7-0 demolition job that some of us could never have anticipated in our wildest dreams. I can still remember watching high- lights of the game on my grandparents TV and wondering whether any team could ever match, emulate or surpass that magnificent score- line.

It was now only a matter of time before England would quite naturally deliver a royal command performance. Here they were England against Poland. It had been a tough and occasionally punishing qualifying group with Wales troubling England and all not quite as  hunky dory as it might have seemed.

Still, most of England, was a hundred per cent certain that Sir Alf Ramsey's boys would triumph quite handsomely against one of world football;s serial under achievers. We all sat down to watch the game. There was the traditional introduction and pre-amble. There were the amusing adverts for Oxo Cubes, Fry's Turkish Delight, Black Magic chocolate, Opal Fruits made to make your mouth water and Steak and Kidney Pies, appetising and mouth wateringly palatable treats.

Then it was cue Brian Moore. It was cue, if memory serves, Derek Dougan, Bob Mcnab and the inimitable Brian Clough. They were our footballing second family, our very own footballing community, an amalgam of wit, humour and severely critical voices.

Until that point my footballing consciousness had been sharply heightened by stirring FA Cup Finals dating back to the 1971 FA Cup Final between Arsenal and Liverpool. Now dear old Wembley Stadium looked grander and nobler than I'd ever seen it before. The pitch looked big, wide, lushly green and gloriously spacious. The old Twin Towers gazed down on the crowd like radiant sun beams.

And yet it all went terribly and catastrophically wrong. It all fell apart at the seams and by the end of the game England were rather hoping that the ground would swallow them up. That night England bombarded the Polish with their heaviest artillery and ammunition. They threw everything at Poland in the hope that the whole of their fortress would just crumble and finally crash to the ground with the loudest thud.

There was Norman Hunter, the rock at the heart of the English defence ably accompanied by his buddy Roy Mcfarland. Both were footballing giants, grizzly bears with a mean, moody and menacing air about them. We had Tony Currie, a silky smooth midfield player who controlled a football with delightful ease. Up front we had Mick Channon, a classic goal scorer whose famous windmill goal celebration would illuminate many a wintry Saturday afternoon. We had Martin Chivers, a powerhouse of a centre forward who would bulldoze defences with his muscular presence, formidable goal scoring instinct and admirable nose for a goal. When all was said and done England had an attacking flair and match winning authority that even Poland would never challenge.

But they did and the match finished in a 1-1 draw. England had to beat the Poles to qualify for the World Cup proper and that job specification had not been fulfilled. They'd faltered, stumbled and collapsed at the final hurdle. England would not be going to the World Cup of 1974 because somebody had told the England team that Upstairs Downstairs had just started and their concentration had been disturbed irreparably.

Perhaps Sir Alf Ramsey had just been told that Mr Hudson had just told off Ruby in the first edition of Upstairs Downstairs. Maybe the middle classes of England had received a rude cultural shock. It was all very upsetting and instantly forgettable. Gadocha and Lato had led the England defence a merry dance and scored that heart breaking first goal. Allan Clarke levelled the game with a face saving penalty but it was too little too late and England were out of the World Cup Finals.

So there you have it. October 17th 1973 still sends a traumatic shiver down every England's supporters spine. It was the night Brian Clough called the Polish goalie a clown and Sir Alf Ramsey just shrugged his shoulders. There is something about English football and gallant failure that still rankles and that night even the Bellamy household dimmed its lights, For Upstairs Downstairs read down in English football's basement. Still we must look to the future with hope and forget about that October night at Wembley Stadium. We have to believe.