In those days you needed to present numbered tokens printed in match programmes to buy a cup final ticket. You stuck them on a sheet. I was a couple of tokens short, so I cut the missing numbers out of the previous seasons programmes, when we won the league and prayed they wouldn’t be spotted in the busy ticket office. It worked - and ticket arrived in the post. Got home from school, tucked the ticket under a heavy mirror over our coal fire and sat on the sofa to admire it. Mam came in and the draught when she opened the door disturbed the ticket and I watched it waft down past the tiled mantelpiece and into the coal fire. Never moved so fast in my fucking life, stuck my hand in the fire and snatched the ticket - which had just slightly crisped down one side but still intact.
Went down to Wembley on Connolly’s coaches from Gorton and watched Buzzers goal and Tony Book lift the cup. Unforgettable day.
