I no longer measure my age in years but in terms of World Cups.

Argentina, 1978, was my first 'birthday'. As Mario Kempes and co destroyed the Dutch I was curled up on the sofa under a comforting paisley-patterned blanket, which now offers comfort to the dog.

But it was well past 9pm and the fact I had still not been packed off to bed was much more exciting than watching the fleet-footed Ardiles wind his way through a maze of orange shirts.

Spain, 1982. Robson scores possibly the fastest goal in World Cup history and I learn at a tender age what it means to be bitter, to have your hopes raised and then dashed. After promising much, England go out of the competition undefeated. Football can be a cruel game.

Mexico, 1986. Maradona's famous hand of God and now I take my first swig of alcohol. A single glass of wine at World Cup barbecue proved one too many for one so young.

Italy, 1990. Gazza's tears and my first World Cup spent in a pub. My first car. A day spent strawberry picking so I could raise a glass of Tetley's as Chris Waddle blazed his penalty kick, and the hopes of a nation, over the bar.

USA, 1994. The end of university. With no cash, no job and seemingly no sense of direction, my mates and I took root in front of the television. Games of Monopoly and cards passed the time away between matches with crisp sandwiches washed down with Strike lager.

France 1998. The cards and board games replaced by Nintendo, the butties by takeaways, the lager by wine, the optimism of my infant years replaced by pessimism. I've learned from past experiences; one good England performance does not guarantee World Cup success. I've come of age.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.