Sunday 1^st July 1990
9:38pm
31 Manor Road, Streetly

‘Let’s wind Mom up!!’

It was a cruel suggestion, but it made my brothers and I giggle with anticipation. We were watching the 1990 World Cup quarter-final between England and Cameroon. It was rare for the three of us to be together watching football, as Paul had been at Bangor University for two years, but he was now back home for the summer, and the three of us therefore began to hatch a plan.

The four years between Mexico 86 and Italia 90 had been all about football, football, football for me – with a bit of Five Star thrown in for good measure. I had become a soccer nut – every Christmas and birthday saw my room filled up with Shoot! and Roy of the Rovers annuals, as well as Aston Villa memorabilia of all shapes and sizes. The whole childhood Star Wars thing had totally passed me by – I was obsessed with football. When I wasn’t playing it in the garden – commentating on my career as I did so (the neighbours thought I had Tourette’s) – I was playing football games on the ZX Spectrum or reading old books and programmes that were stored under Gareth’s bed and had been forgotten about for years. All of this absorption had given me an encyclopaedic knowledge of league champions and FA Cup Final winners, which led to me being put on display at the dos of friends and family to answer questions put to me from a succession of grown-ups. Villa Park had also become a second home as my Dad and I watched Villa get relegated in 1987, promoted a year later, before the 1989/90 season where they miraculously came close to winning the league, eventually finishing second to Liverpool.

So as you can imagine, I was looking forward to the 1990 World Cup eagerly. But for a time it seemed as though I was in the minority. Hooliganism was still in its pomp and football attendances were down. Stadiums were decrepit and the Hillsborough Disaster of the previous year had been a horrific, dreadful, final straw. Added to the fact that England manager Bobby Robson had announced his resignation – albeit after the forthcoming tournament – following the most horrendous abuse from newspapers of all description, and there wasn’t much to smile about.

The idea, then, that a bunch of Mancunian druggies would change the image of the game was more than unlikely. But that’s exactly what happened. Unbelievably, the usually stick-in-the-mud Football Association had asked New Order to provide the official song for England’s World Cup campaign. The song they came up with – ‘World in Motion’ – was a reflection of the changing culture of the time: an alternative acid-house tune that had more to do with Ecstasy pills than Jimmy Hill. I absolutely loved it – the song that is – as did the rest of the nation. The playground of Manor Primary School, where I was plodding through my final few weeks before starting secondary school in the September, echoed to the sound of the song every lunchtime (well, possibly once or twice, but I’m trying to be nostalgic and wistful here), and even non-football fans were caught up in its brilliance. And as for John Barnes’ rap, well, that was just a thing of beauty…

But as England’s World Cup campaign started, all of the excitement was well and truly snuffed out. They struggled through their group, with a dismal 1-1 draw against Republic of Ireland followed by a goalless draw against Holland. We then stumbled our way to a 1-0 victory against Egypt, and amazingly finished top of our group. The only bright spark was the England shell suit, which had been sported so wonderfully by England’s miserable looking bunch of substitutes and coaching staff. Everyone wanted one – they looked spectacular (at the time) – so when my Mom told me that she would buy me one, I was thrilled. We didn’t have a lot of money, so such a purchase was going to be very special. However, I should have known something was afoot when, instead of going to Debenhams or John Lewis, we headed for Walsall market. Yes, the shell suit in question was not quite ‘official’, shall we say. I think it lasted about three washes.

The last 16 game against Belgium provided one of the tensest moments I had so far experienced as a football fan, with David Platt scoring his infamous winner in the last minute of extra time. As you can imagine, we went nuts – a Villa player scoring such a vital goal for our country, it was just great. However, England had been lucky. Belgium had outplayed us, hitting the woodwork on a couple of occasions, before Platt stepped off the bench to save the day. One thing was for certain, they couldn’t play like that during the quarter-final. The only problem, of course, is that they went and did exactly that.

Cameroon were lighting up the tournament with their brand of carefree attacking football (and random, hilarious bouts of violence). They had shocked the world by beating the holders Argentina in the opening game, and had beaten both Romania and Columbia too, thanks to two goals in each match from their secret weapon, Roger Milla, a 38-year-old substitute who many suspected to be at least twice that age. His habit of coming off the bench to devastating consequences were by now legendary, as was his fantastic corner-flag wiggle which he would do whenever he scored. The Indomitable Lions were no pushovers, so it was odd to read the papers of the time suggesting that they would be just that on the eve of England meeting them in the last 8.

It’s such a shame that the England side seemed to believe all that the press were saying, because as the game kicked off, they just never got going. Cameroon were immediately pressing for the jugular, with Peter Shilton (now 84) being forced into a series of good saves. It was tense stuff. So when David Platt headed England into the lead after 25 minutes, we all let out a cheer which was akin to ‘Thank goodness for that’. It was relief rather than joy. England were ahead and normal service would now be resumed.

Fat chance. Cameroon just continued where they left off, playing fantastic one-touch football that had a beautiful rhythm to it. Although England went in at half-time 1-0 ahead, they were clinging on somewhat. What Cameroon needed – and England didn’t – was a bit of Milla magic, and when he came on at the start of the second half, he completely changed the game. Suddenly Cameroon had direction to go with their skill and enthusiasm, and they were pressing and pressing towards the England goal.

And this was the time when my Mom started to panic. You see, my lovely Mom isn’t too good when it comes to tense moments during a football match. She spent the entire period of extra time during the 1966 World Cup Final hiding in the kitchen, which was the place she always went to when things were not going the way of Villa or England. She spent a lot of time in the kitchen. Anyway, she began to really get restless as Cameroon got more and more dangerous. In the 61st minute, all of their pressure came to fruition when Milla got into the England box and was brought down by Gazza (as he was now known). The resulting penalty was converted by Emmanuel Kundé and Cameroon were level.

My Mom would last another four minutes in the living room. Cameroon were now dominant – buoyed by their equalizer – and a one-two between Eugène Ekeke and Milla totally split the English defence in half. Milla weighted his ball perfectly and Ekeke ran on to it and slotted the ball past Shilton. 2-1 to Cameroon, and completely deserved it was, too. As for my Mom, she couldn’t take any more.

‘Oh, I knew it!! What’s the matter with them?! They always do this!’ she exclaimed as she rushed past us into the kitchen. Paul, Gaz and I just sat there as our World Cup dream was fading away. England were simply playing terribly, and there seemed to be no way forward. They just couldn’t cope with the Milla magic. We were surely on our way home.

But then, with eight minutes to go, came a lifeline. As a Stuart Pearce free-kick was headed out of Cameroon’s area, the loose ball came back towards Gary Lineker who fell down under the challenge of Benjamin Massing, a huge centre-back whose claim to fame was that he fouled the Argentinean winger Claudio Caniggia with such force in the opening game that his own boot flew off, thereby confirming him as a legend in the Evans household. However, this time was different. He didn’t seem to have made any contact with Lineker, but down our man went anyway.

‘PENALTY!!’ we all shouted as the referee pointed to the spot. Mom was delighted, but remained in the kitchen as she couldn’t take the tension of watching the penalty being taken. This is where our plan came into action. The three of us decided to trick Mom by agreeing that, if Lineker scored, we would give the impression to Mom that he had missed. It was very cruel but very funny, and we waited for Lineker to take his kick. He duly ran up and put it past Thomas N’Kono into the top-right hand corner of the net. 2-2.

‘OH NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!’ We shouted as the rest of the nation were cheering. We were probably the only England fans who greeted Lineker’s penalty with that reaction, and it certainly surprised Mom who came running in to see what had happened.

‘Only joking. He scored. It’s 2-2.’

‘Oh, I don’t believe you. Fancy doing that!’ My Mom was smiling, though. It was a little joke, but it had been done with a huge amount of heart. We were delighted that we’d equalised and that Mom could now join us for the rest of the game.

The incident would be the pivotal moment in England’s World Cup campaign. They suddenly seemed to wake up to how near they were to going out of the competition, and when the final whistle went a few minutes later, Bobby Robson appeared to be telling them the same thing. When extra-time started, they were a different side. They were now in charge and on the stroke of half-time, Lineker broke free again. N’Kono came out to him, with Massing chasing, and he went down. It didn’t look like there was much contact again, but the referee duly pointed to the penalty spot.

‘YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!’ This time, the reaction was different as Lineker blasted his penalty into the net, straight down the middle. My Mom was in the living room this time, and we were able to share in the country’s celebrations, which is what we did again 15 minutes later when the final whistle went. England had scraped through, rather undeservedly, but they had done so nonetheless, and were now in the semi-final.

We all know the story from this point. Parker’s deflection, Lineker’s equalizer, Gazza’s tears, ‘Have a word with him!’ and the eventual heartbreaking exit to West Germany on penalties, but it was the first penalty by Lineker in that Cameroon match that changed everything. Without it, England would have gone home miserably without putting up much of a fight, but after the semi-final defeat in Turin, they returned home as heroes, with football fully established as part of popular culture once again. The game hasn’t looked back since.

As for my Mom, she still spends more time in the kitchen during football matches than in front of the TV, but we wouldn’t have it any other way – and she has now forgiven us, just about.