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longer and costs more. Is gambling more or less harmful than smoking? It ’ s hard to say. Ultimately, I suppose it depends on the individual, but they are both slow destroyers. Smoking slowly murders your vital organs whilst gambling attacks the brain, breaks down your self-control and sucks out your spirit. I wish I had known that back then. If only! Back then all I knew was that we were on the crest of a wave and I headed off to the match with a newly acquired black and white scarf and a rattle, full of the joys of spring. Bolton were in Division Two back then. Division Two was a different league then to what it is now. There were no Premierships and Championships back in those days, just Divisions One, Two, Three and Four. Simple! Bolton, I think, were near the top of the league and Wolves were the top, so it was a promotion battle. Bolton scored twice but they were both disallowed, whilst Wolves scored once and it counted, so that was that. Wolves won 1-0. I thought it was fantastic. Twenty thousand excited people captivated by the actions of twenty two. I wanted to go again and again. Dad took footballing defeat better than horse racing defeats, probably because there was no money involved and I remember the three of us walking back to the car wit h Dad imploring us to tell the k ids at school on Monday that we had been to the mighty Burnden Park. I did tell them, but we lived in Aughton, a village twelve miles from Liverpool and a mile from Merseyside so near enough everyone supported Liverpool, who at the time were European Cup holders, with a smattering of Evertonians for good measure, so the boys were about as interested in Burnden Park as I was in kissing Faye Williams (dog breath).
    That Saturday was a turning point for me though. As my Dad twiddled the knob on his car radio, trying to get a good enough reception to pick up the racing results, I knew, as well as a seven year old could know, that my Dad was an unreliable sort. I knew this was a one-off and no matter how much I begged him, he would not be taking me to football matches every other weekend. What I also worked out on that car journey home, was where the window of opportunity could be found and the following morning I clambered through it. By eight o ’ clock that Sunday morning, I was ful ly dressed and ready to go out. I skipped five doors along to my Nan and Grand d ads house to recount the story of the previous day. They were my Mother ’ s parents and were not my Father ’ s biggest fans, so the fact that my Dad had clambered up off his big fat arse to take us, was a shock to their systems. I didn ’ t miss a detail, carefully dropping the bait, telling them how great Burnden Park was and how I loved every minute of the whole experience.
    “ Burnden Park , great? ” my Grandad scoffed, “ wait until you see Goodison! ”
    “ But my Dad won ’ t take me to Goodison, Granddad, he supports Bolton not Everton ” .
    “ Of course he won ’ t Richard, but I will! Next season you and I and your brother if he ’ s interested, are all going to have season tickets at Goodison Park! ”
    For the following four years everything revolved around football. I started playing for cubs, (Aughton St Michaels 40 th Ormskirk pack - “ Tuesdays ” - there were also 40 th Ormskirk “ Wednesdays ” , the rivalry was fierce!) and the school team and every other Saturday, Granddad and I went to the Everton match. James was offered the opportunity too, but he turned it down. James was into other things such as Lego, Meccano and as he grew older, Dungeons and Dragons. I hated all of them with a passion. He was the practical one, I was the sporty one.
    My lifelong love affair with Everton Football club started to gather pace in 1978 and over the following four years it became so strong, girls were not given a second thought. Then, in 1982, things changed. Rachel Cookson, seemingly overnight, grew the most fantastic pair of breasts I had ever seen in my entire