Euro '96, that was only about five years ago, surely? | Blaise Tapp

Kids are nothing if not astute and our wise owl of an 11-year-old, was completely on the money when she pointed out that her Old Man’s bearded mush more closely resembles Brian Blessed than George Clooney.

Although not breaking news, her assessment did give me brief food for thought, which was handy because I wasn’t eating actual food that morning, due to the fact that I’d ‘over-celebrated’ our wedding anniversary on Friday.

I always felt that ‘overdoing it’ was a phrase used only by men who dress exclusively in brown and beige and go by the name of Derek, and not by blokes young enough to have attempted to use Lynx Africa as an aphrodisiac.

But overdoing it was exactly what I was up to last Friday and boy, did I pay for it afterward.

Mrs Tapp and I ventured out for a meal together for the first time since October and I was determined to make up for lost time.

The biggest steak on the menu, the two starters, the completely unnecessary dessert, not to mention a bottle of red, were all consumed by the over-excited chap in the dimly lit corner of a smart new restaurant, designed for people who don’t fancy a pizza.

The phrase ‘your eyes are bigger than your belly’ has never worked on me, because I have always regarded it as a war cry or a motivational tool, designed to make me prove the naysayers wrong.

But, during the early hours of Saturday morning, I suddenly understood that there was genuine meaning to the expression.

Unable to get to sleep due to the sheer weight of food and drink I’d consumed a matter of hours before, I came to the devastating conclusion that my days of living it large were long behind me.

My mood wasn’t helped by the media’s current obsession for 1996 – the last time meaningful tournament football was played on these shores – the year I turned 19 and ended up being arguably the most eventful 12 months of my life.

It was a year when I could easily slip into slim-fit jeans, would think nothing of walking three miles home if I missed the last train, and routinely pulled all-nighters before clocking on for a 12-hour shift at my weekend job.

I ate and drank what I pleased, didn’t give a second thought to what I wore and, although I didn’t fully appreciate it then, was genuinely carefree.

I’ve long held the view that the 1990s were the best of all the decades partly because, unlike the ’70s and the ’80s, the fashion doesn’t seem that ridiculous in retrospect.

During the 5,000 times that Gazza’s wonder goal against Scotland a quarter of a century ago has been shown on television the past week or so, not once have I winced at the haircuts both on the pitch and in the stands.

It all seems perfectly normal to me and my generation.

The music was largely brilliant and, apart from the odd European hardcore dance anthem, the classic tunes of the time still sound fresh today.

The trouble with anybody who did their growing up in the 1990s is that we still won’t accept it wasn’t five years ago.

The shock of seeing ’90s’ icons like Damon Albarn and Denise Van Outen on the telly today in their middle age serves as a brutal reminder of why those heady days are now regarded as historical events.

It has taken me years to accept the fact under no circumstances am I considered young, despite the fact that Gaviscon tablets long ago replaced fags as my must-have accessory on a night out.

As a Columbian songstress didn’t once sing, the chins don’t lie.

I’m knocking on and I’d better get used to it.