54 years of hurt.

54 years of hurt.

The years are passing too quickly for anybody's liking. In fact they're flying past us at the most incredible speed. The pain and hurt are still there, the ever-present sense of underachievement always on our minds and the humiliation is such that none of us know quite where to hide our faces such is the length of time since the England football team last won the World Cup for the only time in its chequered history. There can be no explanation except to say that by the law of averages England will eventually win the World Cup again but no date has been set, year arranged or time frame given. Your guess is as good as mine.

Now we know it may not be the end of the world and there are far more important things to worry about than a nation's pathological inability to win again the one cup or trophy that seems to have eluded it for 54 years. But here we are twiddling our fingers, scratching our heads in utter bewilderment and still England are searching for at least one more World Cup- at least for the time being. We surely can't be asking for too much and besides it would give us something to cheer about.

But oh no. That gap is widening to a chasm, millions of babies have been born, a whole host of Prime Ministers have been elected and even Wembley Stadium must be getting fed up. Generation after generation have now been deprived of that precious moment of joy, that one day of national and patriotic rejoicing. England will though win the World Cup one day only not this one or any for the foreseeable future.

Still, on a day of watery sunshine and an old Wembley Stadium pitch still scarred by bumps, divots and one or two bobbly patches of mud, England won the World Cup on this day in 1966. That will remain an undeniable fact for as long as football is played. It is of course a misty, sepia tinted memory, barely noticeable but etched into the country's cultural heritage. Every four years we keep cursing and swearing under our breath, struggling to find any kind of pathetic excuse.

And yet every four years England keep fluffing their lines, suffering from stage fright, crippled with nerves, asking themselves questions, suppressing oaths and profanities, looking for maybe a psychological flaw in the team's make up. Admittedly we did get it right in 1966 but that may have been because it was in our own back yard, London, England when Sir Alf Ramsey was the right manager and Bobby Moore was undoubtedly the best captain.

Admittedly, the 1990 World Cup, the 1996 European Championship in England and the World Cup in Russia two years ago, were the nearly years for England. They were the years of dreadful anti-climax, mounting frustration and those now iconic years when it might have happened but then was snatched away from us when we were on the verge of greatness only to discover that the fickle finger of fate was wagging at us teasingly.

Even now we clutch our heads in despair, hide behind the sofa and generally feel pretty rotten about those lingering disappointments. We drown our sorrows in reflective alcohol and always blame the manager because we know for a fact that our choice of England manager could do an infinitely better job than that man the FA always seem to lumber us with. So the backstory drags on interminably and we must place our unwavering faith in Gareth Southgate, a bright and competent coach with vast reserves of knowledge at every level of the game.

So where were we 54 years ago on that magical day of what must have felt like a footballing fantasy? Were we washing our cars in the morning and then mowing our grass in our garden? Did we pop into the local betting shop for the most fleeting of flutters. Or did we, on this most special of all Saturdays, simply guess that Bobby Moore would respectfully wipe his hands on that purple cloth before lifting the World Cup from Her Majesty the Queen. If so hats off to you for remarkable foresight because nobody else could possibly have imagined this to be the case. Still, well done everybody. Bobby did and you were right.

But seriously jokes aside this was the day when a beautifully composed script was written on a day that defied description. Who would have believed that the West Germans would take the lead since they were not supposed to score first? That was England's prerogative because we deserved it and we had every right to do so. It was all in the stars, divine intervention, being in the right place at the right time and besides we'd never won anything at all of any significance since Fred Perry became the men's tennis singles winner at Wimbledon and that had been ages ago.

The sequence and narrative told their own stories. The West Germans took the lead and then time was frozen for the next twenty or twenty-five minutes or so. A couple of minutes before half time, Bobby Moore was in possession just inside his own half when, suddenly, there was a bolt from the blue. Moore, perhaps cleverly inviting the tackle, was recklessly brought down. The Moore free-kick resembled the most classic of oil paintings. Stopping the ball with his hand, Moore looked up immediately at the unfolding events in the West German penalty area. The ball was floated into the West Germans penalty area rather like a dark orange balloon and the now Sir Geoff Hurst jumped unmarked to meet the Moore free-kick, nodding a downward header firmly into the net for the equaliser.

Hurst, in that most televised of all sporting images, leapt into the air with both knees raised and the exuberance of youth on his side. England were on level terms and the second half would reveal a half of the most dramatic intensity with a delicious twist and climax. After Hurst's cultured West Ham team-mate Martin Peters had drilled the ball home for England's second goal, a vast majority must have thought that was that. The Germans had been poleaxed and flattened, they were a spent force, a travesty of their former selves particularly after a narrow 2-1 defeat of Russia in the semi-final.

Then as if the game had been deliberately slowed down, a low free-kick into the England penalty area was arrowed towards England goalkeeper Gordon Banks with minutes to go of the 1966 World Cup Final, the ball seemed to bounce off a whole posse of German bodies before creeping across England's suddenly exposed goal line. A last gasp equaliser was scrambled scruffily into the net to leave poor Gordon Banks, that most reliable of England goalkeepers, stranded. Heartbreak but maybe not.

In extra time, the repressed and wretchedly misunderstood Sir Alf Ramsey wandered around his deflated England players rather like a school headmaster chastising his students for just being careless. So, with that now inspired rallying cry, Ramsey ordered his players to win the game again. It was almost a moment of re-invention that would culminate in the ultimate resurrection.

Now there would arrive one of those remarkable incidents that would transform the whole dynamic of that injury time period. Alan Ball, a 21-year old Blackpool midfield player, full of tireless running and ferocious commitment, ran into space on the edge of the West German penalty area, manoeuvred himself into position before crossing sharply and diagonally towards Geoff Hurst and the West Ham man gave himself just enough room to turn smartly and, in the same movement, swivelled his body and cracked the ball powerfully towards the West German net. What happened next is completely open to interpretation.

Hurst's snap shot hit the crossbar, dropped down onto the German goal line and to this day none of us will ever know whether it was a goal. The legitimacy of the goal has been questioned endlessly in a million pubs and clubs across England but the goal was thrillingly given in England's favour. Such are the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. An end to end, fluctuating World Cup Final which will surely go down in history had come down to this. The West Germans were out on their feet, exhausted beyond exhaustion and wondering when the next plane back to Munich would land for them.

When the impeccable Bobby Moore once again picked up the ball in his own penalty area the whole country and Jack Charlton, standing yards away from Moore, told the captain where to despatch the ball. Most of us were in unanimous agreement. Moore, with all the perception of a night owl on early evening duty at Wembley, sent a legendary through ball over the top of a by now disintegrating West German defence and that man Geoff Hurst, shepherding the ball, ran forward with not a single white West German shirt anywhere near him. Hurst, summoning a strength even he thought must have been beyond him, dragged his legs for one final spurt on goal. Puffing out his cheeks, Hurst strode forward and whacked the ball thunderously but accurately into the net when perhaps he thought the ball would end up at Wembley Park train platform. Cue the greatest goal celebration in the world.

The fans, who knew that Hurst would score, almost felt a genuinely smug vindication. What did they tell you? They raced onto the pitch with not a single policeman in sight, wildly flinging their arms into the air, correctly anticipating that final whistle. England had won the World Cup for the first time and there could be no argument. Jack Charlton slumped to his knees, Nobby Stiles jumped and skipped around the old Wembley Stadium with that trademark toothy grin as if somebody had told him that he'd come up on the Pools rather than Viv Nicholson had only a couple of years before.

Alan Ball, England's most electrifying influence in midfield, its most explosive spark plug, kept covering his face with his hands, smiling like a teenager who'd just won first prize in a talent contest. Then Bobby Charlton, the graceful Bobby, almost fell into the arms of his brother Jack theatrically, tears flowing like a bathroom tap that somebody had forgotten to turn off. Jack and Bobby Charlton, brothers in arms, were now united in England's almost Olympian sporting victory, wrapping their arms around each other with a sentimental hug. If only England could win the World Cup all the time.

In the cold light of day an England World Cup-winning performance now seems just a sad irrelevance given the fact that only briefly have they hinted at an addition in the Wembley trophy cabinet. The redemptive optimism of the 1960s after the bleak austerity of the 1950s may have come to England's emotional rescue when nothing seemed possible. But here we are 54 years later and still the horizon is a wasteland, a trail of broken dreams and far fetched hopes. We look around us and the rest of the world and of course we are grateful for good health because that's all that matters. There can be no harm in hoping though that the elusive Coup Du Monde trophy may take up residence on England's famous shores once again. We have to believe that it could just happen.