It was 50 years ago.

 It was 50 years ago.

In the general scheme of things, 1975 would have been just like any other year and yet it was quite unlike any other year you may have experienced thus far. It was a life changing moment, a seminal period of your life, a time of transition, the point when you reached youthful adolescence and as, a proud Jew, finally became a man according to Jewish law. But, hold on, let's scroll back to the real interpretation of what it was really like to be a teenager rather than a fully fledged adult who was allowed to vote and drink a pint of lager in a pub.

It was a half century ago that yours truly began the intensive study of his barmitzvah piece from the Torah from what now seems like some historic tape recorder. Every Tuesday and Thursday during that momentous summer, you were required to step forward and read a passage from the Torah on your barmitzvah. For as long as any of us can remember, Jews across the world have sat down with their cheder teacher and read, quite religiously, so to speak and sing a Parsha from the holiest of Jewish books. 

Now a Jewish barmitzvah or batmitzvah if you're a girl, is a rites of passage day for those who reach the ripe old age of 12 for a girl and 13 if you're a boy. It represents the highly symbolic year when the voice of a young boy suddenly breaks and sounds much deeper than it did beforehand. It is the year when the said 13 year old allegedly becomes a man when the reality is that he's still at school, there's still puppy fat around his waist and all he can probably think about is cars, girls and travelling the world when his academic studies are over. 

So 1975 suddenly happened for you and in hindsight, it was rather like 1974 or any random year since the beginning of the 1970s. There was the sudden discovery and realisation that this was the business end of your life and your decisions and ambitions were being shaped on the forge of uncertainty and utter bewilderment. What on earth would happen in the immediate time frame that followed my barmitzvah? Would you become a rocket scientist, respected lawyer or solicitor, the first Jewish astronaut in space, a highly regarded engineer or inventor, maybe a postman or milkman, accountant or bank manager?

Everything seemed to be trapped in a state of suspended animation, guesswork, conjecture, never knowing for a minute what would happen to me. But in 1975 you were still wrestling with the complexities of French verbs in the past, present and future and an opera loving French teacher by the name of Mr Winters who did his valiant best to teach a highly unresponsive and indifferent class of teenagers about a language we had no intention of using in later life. And yet Mr Winters regularly brought his reel to reel tape recorder to class in the hope that Tosca and Gilbert and Sullivan would make a lasting impression on us. 

In 1975, you were taught by a charming Indian geography teacher, if memory serves me correctly, by the name of Mrs Sachi who would regale us with the wonders of the world map and the geological details that related to mountains, valleys and huge areas of the global landscape that had to be coloured in red with an HB pencil. Then there was the wretched and forgettable woodwork and metalwork, two of the most repulsive and unnecessary subjects you'd ever heard of. You were never technically minded in the first place so who cared if it took you a year to craft a mini bookcase or the most ridiculously amateurish looking shoe horn in metalwork?

Of course history would have been considered an absolute imperative since. Besides if a stranger came up to you and gave you chapter and verse about the Tudor Stewarts or the First and Second World War. You had to give a coherent answer about both the start and end of both of the major Wars because if you hadn't been paying attention to sir or miss, you'd have had no idea what life was like at the beginning of the 20th century. There had to be perspective and context about where you came from and your ancestry. 

But in 1975 the only topic that should have been your only overriding concern or preoccupation was the state of your football team. Personally it was West Ham United, notorious underachievers in the game who hadn't won the FA Cup since 1964 but some of us were just resigned to our footballing fate. Realistically, West Ham would never win the old First Division championship because they were just average, mediocre, rubbish, appalling, unpredictable and simply lacking in any kind of attacking potency. 

So our thoughts returned to the most famous FA Cup, one of the greatest and most highly esteemed and prestigious Cup competitions. As far afield as the Solomon Islands or the Borneo rainforest, they'd heard of the FA Cup on some crackling transistor radio in the middle of nowhere. They would huddle together in remote coffee plantations on some exotic location. And then the BBC World Service would carry the whole broadcast and transmission live of the FA Cup in the old Wembley Stadium. Now how wonderful that must have been!

And yet 1975 would be the year West Ham finally won the FA Cup at an age that you found most relatable and recognisable. The third round had been comfortably negotiated at Southampton's old Dell ground, followed by Swindon Town, Queens Park Rangers, Arsenal in the quarter finals in a mudbath at Highbury, then the fashionable and popular Ipswich Town in the semi finals. We'd come this far so West Ham were destined to achieve miracles. It was almost too good to be true. West Ham beat Ipswich in a dramatic FA Cup semi final replay against Ipswich Town at Stamford Bridge and we were Wembley bound for the first time in my formative years.

Up until 1975 you'd a vivid recall of every FA Cup Final since Arsenal's glorious Double year winning of the FA Cup trophy. Then Charlie George had fired home Arsenal's winner against Bill Shankly's seemingly unbeatable and invincible Liverpool in 1971 but this had stirred your consciousness. You were fascinated and hooked by the FA Cup and 1975 was your year. 

In the world of pop music and the mainstream chart, glam rock was threatening world domination, David Bowie was reinventing himself with zig zag painted stripes emblazoned boldly across his face. Then there was Mud, Sweet, the Bay City Rollers and David Cassidy with the Partridge Family who would delight their fans with a superb fusion of gentle, easy going lyrics we could all remember. There was the groovy soul vibe of Tavares, the Detroit Spinners, the magical Eagles and all manner of disparate sounds that had an iconic significance to them at the time. 

But in 1975, West Ham manager John Lyall recently appointed as boss of the club, would be accompanied by the tactically astute and strategically correct Ron Greenwood, emerged from the old Wembley tunnel in a London derby against Fulham who were making their FA Cup Final debut at Wembley. It was an East and West London derby Cup Final, hardly gladiatorial adversaries but nonetheless evenly matched in a disappointing FA Cup Final although it was one you were never likely to forget.

In goal, there was a local academy product Mervyn Day who'd been causing quite a stir in the old First Division with a series of stunning goal keeping displays. In fact some were considering Day for England recognition. Sadly, that never happened but Day was in cracking form that special day at Wembley. At the back, the defensive unit of Tommy Taylor, Kevin Lock, Billy Bonds and Frank Lampard had anchored the team with a lovely sense of reliability while a blossoming Trevor Brooking, Pat Holland and Graham Paddon were floating away serenely around in midfield. Up front, the Rochdale Rocket Alan Taylor, brought to West Ham for peanuts, would be joined by the spritely, lively and wholesomely supportive Billy Jennings who'd signed for West Ham from Watford. 

The 1975 FA Cup Final came and went without any major incident or singularly little in the way of excitement. Taylor had scored both of West Ham's winning goals and would be appropriately acclaimed as the hero of the 90 minutes. That's all that mattered. When the final whistle went, you were obviously delighted with the result but it all felt a bit overwhelming for this wet behind the ears teenager. So you celebrated privately for a while and then remembered that your education should have been your only priority and football was just a game that just sat comfortably in the background of your imagination. It wouldn't pass important examinations at school and wouldn't determine your future. So you rolled up your sleeves and started swotting up on maths and algebra or French breakfasts or supermarkets.

It's remarkable how certain incidents in your life can appear on your radar when you thought you'd have no recollection of them. But it's now 50 years ago since my barmitzvah and my claret and blue warriors had won the FA Cup and you had seen it on TV for the first time in your lifetime. It's a half a century ago and that really does send a shiver down your spine. Nostalgia can often conjure up pleasant scenarios in our minds because we were there when they happened and nobody could take those images away from us. Ah 1975. Days of schooldays and winning the FA Cup and don't forget the music.