It was 51 years ago yesterday- English football's finest hour at Wembley.

It was 51 years ago yesterday- English football's finest hour at Wembley.

It hardly seems possible now but yesterday English football remembered its finest 90 minutes. Even now some of the most hardened cynics are beginning to wonder whether it'll ever happen again in anybody's lifetime. Cultural historians and football historians  just throw up their heads in horror at the hard core embarrassment that continually haunts the corridors of the FA hierarchy. What a day it must have been though? Cripes what a spectacle. It had to be recorded for posterity. Did anybody have a Kodak Instamatic camera or maybe somebody had remembered to keep a rattle and rosette by way of a souvenir?

Yesterday marked the 51st anniversary of England's mind blowing, spell binding World Cup Final victory against West Germany at the old Wembley Stadium. It still sounds like the most difficult and  awkward sentence ever to be uttered by any Englishman. It's painful, excruciatingly agonising and a reality that is only reluctantly swallowed by those who can barely believe that anything good has happened to the England football team since Vietnam, Harold Wilson and Twiggy was a teenager.

Me? Well I must have been charging around my parents back garden with reckless abandon, oblivious to the world around me and perhaps believing all of the above were just background figures and unfortunate events that were completely beyond my three year old's understanding. But then Britain stopped on its axis, took a sharp intake of breath and, much to our astonishment, did something that most of the nation considered to be some ridiculous fantasy. Besides these things never happened in Britain, still less in England. Who would have thought it? England won the 1966 World Cup. Nobody could possibly have made that kind of rash prediction even without the assistance of a crystal ball.

 Yes, believe it or not England won the football World Cup in front of Her Majesty. It's true, it happened, it wasn't make believe and for one Saturday afternoon at the end of July 51 years ago, England conquered the football world. Would you credit it? What a turn up for the books. It was undoubtedly one of the most pivotal moments in the history of the England football team and now looks just a one off, isolated moment where something that never really looked like happening did - but just for a while.

Still on July 30th 1966 the England football team woke up wide eyed, bleary, incredulous and trying desperately to take it all in, the enormity and magnitude of an occasion that may have overwhelmed them but only took them by complete surprise at first and then just simply confirmed the enduring faith of their most loyal supporter- England manager Sir Alf Ramsey.

Since the very first announcement of England's hosting of the World Cup Ramsey was convinced that England would win the World Cup in their own home backyard. Things may have started in the most inauspicious fashion when, in Ramsey's first match as England boss, England were thrashed 5-2 by France in Paris.

But much closer to 1966, Ramsey kept banging the drum patriotically, almost brainwashing English footballing fans into a conviction that something good and exciting was in the air. When the pomp and pageantry of the opening ceremony had been replaced by the practicality of competitive tournament football attentions turned to the  football on the pitch and this was the time for businesslike pragmatism.

So what happened on that golden and garlanded day for the English football team. Probably it was business as usual where everything seemed to be going according to plan. England had gloriously beaten Eusebio's Portugal in the semi Final as if the whole event had been prepared and pre-ordained to happen.

During that vitally important week the whole of the England team had been kindly invited to see Sean Connery and his thespian acquaintances on the set of a James Bond film. The sight of Bobby Moore, Bobby Charlton, Roger Hunt and Geoff Hurst in animated discussion with James Bond seems like the perfect fusion of two distinctly different art forms. But it did seem to work on the players minds subliminally and then wonderfully successfully.

On the morning of the 1966 World Cup Final, a group of England players set out from their Hendon Hall Hotel headquarters and spread out to the London suburbs with an intensity and purpose that would come to characterise their display later on that afternoon. Some of the players went shopping in Golders Green in North London while others chose to spend their mornings just relaxing and immersing themselves in the day's global significance.

Of course Nobby Stiles, in a search for spiritual guidance, took himself off to a local priest for a confessional in a quiet church. Bobby Moore, ever the fashion conscious man, probably nipped into the West End for a Rael Brook shirt, paisley tie, a 45 record by Manfred Mann or the Kinks and Jimmy Greaves, ever the lovable humorist, may well have invested in some fancy dress or quite possibly a clown's nose. How the crowds loved Jimmy Greaves and with every justification.

Then, with almost poetic symmetry, the band stopped playing before the game and almost immediately the World Cup Final of 1966 flared into life. The whole game seemed to be conducted in slow motion as if belief had, quite literally, been suspended and nobody knew how to react. Naturally the Germans opened the scoring as we always knew they would and the match seemed to drift into a deep state of melodrama and introspection as if once again England would just go through the motions, give up, throw in the towel and just lose pitifully.

Then fate intervened. In a split second it all changed dramatically, heroically, supernaturally and beautifully. Oh our prayers were answered. Oh what a lovely war. But this was no war. Just before half time England were given a free kick. The sartorially immaculate and commanding West Ham defender Bobby Moore, stopped the ball, almost stunned the ball on its spot. Moore looked up, assessed his options, and then noticed out of the corner of his eye that his West Ham team mate Geoff Hurst had stolen into space almost covertly. In fact Hurst had been left almost criminally unmarked and had so much space on his own that he could have happily set out a picnic in the West German penalty area.

Duly drifting into an empty spot. Hurst gleefully jumped for the ball and flicked his header into the German net with a training ground ease and at his very own leisure. Hurst leapt for joy as if  a child had just won Pass the Parcel at a birthday party. At that moment the mood and morale of England seemed to be lifted into some strange state of transcendental meditation. For a couple of minutes both the fans and players tried to imagine what it would be like if we could win this grand occasion of  all occasions.There was a sense that this was it, the time to monopolise a football match, to boss proceedings and emerge victorious. For once in our life, to quote a Motown legend.

 There were a couple of moments of sober reflection, a glance towards the skies and bingo. This was now England's afternoon, England's property, England's time, the moment we'd all been waiting for. We were not about to waste it. Oh no, not now. We had to grasp the nettle, invest all of our innermost emotions, to finally capture the one trophy that had remained so agonisingly elusive for so many decades. In fact ever since the birth of the World Cup in 1930, England had romantically yearned for the Jules Rimet Cup. But do you think we could do it? The answer was that we did but only once to date and that was 1966.

Shortly after half time England took the lead for the first time in the match. After what seemed an eternity the ball spent an almost indefinite amount of time bobbling about aimlessly in the German penalty area. Finally the ball fell almost cordially to another West Ham player. Martin Peters, once referred to as 10 years ahead of his time, who caught the ball with his foot and just thumped the ball low and hard into the German net. Cue mayhem and jubilation unconfined.

 Nothing could stop England now. We were almost there. We were destined to win the 1966 World Cup and as the match entered its final stages most of the fans who witnessed it gasped in disbelief.. The Germans were back on level terms. Utter tragedy and confusing consternation. How dare the Germans do that. Nobody had given them permission or had they?

With the final kick of the game the Germans were presented with their moment of brief sunshine. A free kick was floated into the England penalty area, Nobby Stiles and Jack Charlton were frozen like statues and the Germans squeezed home the equaliser at the far post. For an age the ball hovered and waited for the right moment. It was all so dreadfully unfair, a travesty of justice that had to be addressed and redressed but now was not the time for inquests and recriminations.

Then extra time beckoned and another slice of Chekhov and Shakespeare for those very discerning England fans. It was that Merchant of Venice moment, that Much a Do About Nothing moment. Oh no that would never have been right. But it was that Cherry Orchard hour, when the sweet taste of victory had to be England's for the taking. Oh yes the job specification had to be fulfilled when England would score those spine tingling two goals that would sink the Germans, rip them to shreds, totally undermine them and then finally break their hearts.

Deep into injury time the effervescent and tireless Alan Ball ran onto the ball  and then a cross was floated temptingly into the German penalty area. Eventually the ball seemed to fall almost automatically into Geoff Hurst's path. With the sharpest of turns and the most exquisite of ball control, Hurst swivelled  on his feet, trapped the ball with his chest, turned again before rifling the ball first time towards the German goal. It was now that the very life force of the game had been undeniably sucked out of it.

Hurst's shot was almost deliberately held in a time frame. The shot hit the crossbar with the ferocity of a rocket, then almost inexplicably, bounced onto the line rather like one of those silver balls on a pinball machine. There was a surreal moment of hesitation. But why, when quite clearly everybody inside Wembley on that memorable day knew what had just happened. It had to be England's third goal surely. Why the questioning, why the heated debate, that shuddering uncertainty. The referee would definitely signal a goal. Or would he? The Germans looked around in anguish, then surrounded the referee as if he'd committed the most unforgivable sin. Well he hadn't, hadn't he?

Within a split second the 1966 World Cup Final would hang by the loosest of threads. If this had been a court of law, the judge may well have adjourned for the day. This was just too inconclusive and the evidence could not be proven. Both Roger Hunt and Alan Ball threw up their hands delightedly to celebrate what they felt was the most outrageously certain of goals. They both felt in perfect unison that the ball had crossed the line once it had hit the bar. This could have developed into one of the most complicated legal cases of all time. But the goal was given and England were almost there.

With the last kick of the game and the Wembley crowd understandably invading from all directions, Bobby Moore's magical through ball was lofted over a now extinct West German defence. With Jack Charlton pleading for Moore to dispatch with the most colourful of Anglo Saxon obscenities. Moore aimed the most measured through ball that any England defender had ever delivered in the history of the England football team. It had all the accuracy of a laser beam and the impact was crucial.

Once again Geoff Hurst had almost telegraphed Moore's pass but then it could have been sent by telegram with a momentous message on it. Hurst, with almost the entire pitch in front of him, found himself in acres of empty grassland. The German defence had now vanished into thin air, jumping back straight onto a plane back to Munich and deserting their posts. Hurst loped forward and then galloped towards the German goal as if almost on the point of complete exhaustion.

With the pitch now severely cut up Hurst seemed to memorise where the net was instinctively and then hit the ball as hard and far as his last spurt of energy would take him. Hurst would later relate that the shot could have ended up in Neasden shopping centre. Well not quite Neasden shopping centre but it must have felt like that. A couple of over zealous England fans had now dashed onto the pitch and Hurst simply walloped the ball into the German net as if somebody had given him a precious stone. England had beaten West Germany 4-2 in the 1966 World Cup Final. What a story to tell future generations and even the most sceptical of football followers.

Oh what followed. Jack Charlton slumped to his knees and gazed up at the Wembley skies and not knowing what had just taken place and then realising that it had. Nobby Stiles, with that loveliest of gaps in his teeth, jigged and danced around like a punch drunk sailor, waving the World Cup about as if barely caring for a minute about its eventual destination. Alan Ball was like a child of nature who had now reached full maturity and adolescence while goalkeeper Gordon Banks raised his gloved hands into the air acclaiming one of the  proudest moments of his blossoming career.

But then there was our Bobby. Bobby Moore was the England captain, a spring chicken of a player but so obviously a figure of nobility and distinction, a footballing centre half of the most blue blooded aristocracy. Moore oozed charm, elegance, manners and polish. Moore carried the ball carefully and deliberately forward, anticipating exactly a forward's next mind set, next scheme, next calculated intention.

Four years later Moore would make one of the greatest defensive tackles ever seen at a World Cup. In 1970 Moore would snatch the ball from the Brazilian Jairzinho like a sweet from a four year old. He would then trot away in the draining Mexican heat as if this had been an everyday practice. When Bobby Moore went up to collect the 1966 World Cup from the Queen he would ensure that his hands were spotlessly clean. Wiping any residual dirt from his hand, Moore gratefully received the World Cup, smiled beamingly and then lifted the World Cup for England. Oh happy days.

What happened next? Well Jack Charlton somehow ended up in a Leytonstone garden in London's East End. Apparently he was sitting in a deck chair with, quite probably, a copy of the Sunday Times over his eyes. The rest of the England team ended up in the West End and the plush surroundings of a Kensington hotel, drinking glasses of champagne, clinking glasses of champagne and doing their utmost to get Sir Alf Ramsey into a party mood. Sir Alf, who always seemed restrained and emotionless, never quite understood what was going on around him. When the final whistle went for the end of the end of the match Ramsey insisted that the trainer Harold Shepherdson should sit down.

It all now seems like some crazy dream but 51 years later the English public are still waiting for their next piece of much cherished silverware and that valuable trophy at FA headquarters. You can be sure that brass bands and street festivals will be out in force should such an event of note and consequence occur. When England shamefacedly bowed out of Euro 2016 against Iceland, the world must have looked as if it had come to an end. Still worse things have happened at sea but then football was never played at sea so that's physically impossible.

But it is nice to know that one day that three year old idealist could one day join in with another wild celebration at the Trafalgar Square fountains. Nowadays such escapades are frowned upon as a health and safety risk so it may be for the best that I restrict myself to a small alcoholic indulgence. Or maybe not. We must hope that sometime sooner or later our national sporting dreams come true and 2018 in Russia becomes a red letter day for England. Sorry couldn't resist that one. Come on England.