When I was in love with football in the 1960s and ’70s I could name every goalkeeper in the First Division and the majority in the second.
In fact I have just paused from writing this and can still name them. I can also name the 1966 World Cup-winning team at any given moment.
I can bore my wife into a stupor with such things. She tells me I have to get out more.
Last week I saw a photograph of the England team on the steps of the aircraft on which they were to fly to the Euros in France.
I could only recognise two people.
One was the England manager whose name I could not immediately recall, the other was Wayne Rooney. The rest, not a clue.
Is it any wonder I have fallen out of love with the great game?