Wedding parties, the Hand of God and Lineker – The Big One invades summer like nothing else | Matthew Engel

‘Brides with weddings planned for ages suddenly find themselves competing with must-see matches.’ Illustration: Gary NeillView image in fullscreen‘Brides with weddings planned for ages suddenly find themselves competing with must-see matches.’ Illustration: Gary NeillWedding parties, the Hand of God and Lineker – The Big One invades summer like nothing elseMatthew EngelForget the Olympic and the rest.

People across the planet remember where they were for their biggest World Cup matchesThe connection between King Lear and the 1966 World Cup is little known, mainly because it affected very few people at a now defunct boarding school. I had been a surprise selection to act in the school’s production of Lear (yes, I played the Fool; yes, I was typecast). The day before one of the performances I fell and twisted something and was a doubtful starter for a part that required a lot of dashing about.

Matron prescribed sleeping pills. That night England were playing Mexico in that now-sanctified tournament – almost a must-win after a goalless start against Uruguay. I went to bed early, tucked my transistor under the pillow to hear the commentary, went spark out and only heard the result next morning: England 2 Mexico 0.

The rest is national history.Tartan Army toast Scotland’s World Cup return: ‘It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity’Read moreAlso, the invalid recovered enough to get a rave review in the Wallingford Herald and embarked on the dream of theatrical stardom which, sadly, had to wait for another 30 years before I made the big time as a Teletubby in the village panto.The point of the above burble is that the World Cup, more than any other sporting event, is not just global but personal.

It invades the English summer like nothing else. Brides with weddings planned for ages suddenly find themselves competing with must-see matches. Pubs empty if they don’t have screens.

Wimbledon grumpily finds itself playing second fiddle. Ditto Test matches.People across the planet remember where they were for their own biggest matches and who was with them.

Olympics, forget it. Unless it’s held down the road, it never takes over like The Big One.View image in fullscreenBobby Moore kisses the Jules Rimet trophy as England celebrate winning the 1966 World Cup at Wembley.

Also in the picture, from left: George Cohen, Geoff Hurst and Martin Peters. Photograph: Keystone/Getty ImagesAnd surely every English teenager of that time remembers where they were on the Great Day: the Soviet linesman; Kenneth Wolstenholme: “It is now”; Bobby Moore’s smile. All in black and white.

Imprinted in our memories like JFK’s murder and the moon landing. Even now, when we can’t remember where we put our specs, phone or car keys.We might by now have a more nuanced view of that epic.

The ineptitude of allowing the trophy to be stolen, which was followed by Joe Mears, the chair of the Football Association, trying to claim the reward for himself rather than the owner of Pickles, the dog who found it.But my schoolboy innocence disappeared only when I read the work of the football writer Jonathan Wilson: Argentina and Brazil being given training grounds with no goalposts; the foreign press treated as muck; South Americans being picked on by European referees; Pelé being kicked (literally) out of the tournament. The voyage to Port Stanley had some of its roots at Wembley.

Ah, well. My family was never that football-crazy. But somehow the World Cup infiltrates itself everywhere.

In 1970, my brother, Richard, arranged his wedding in a London hotel on the day England played Brazil in Guadalajara: the match when Gordon Banks made that save from Pelé. Barring fire alarms, no wedding party has ever dispersed so quickly. The bride and groom went upstairs to their room, but instead of the customary post-nuptial activity he insisted on watching the match.

It still rankles a bit with my sister‑in-law. But they did have their 56th anniversary this week.England skipped the next two World Cups, after Brian Clough described the Poland goalkeeper, Jan Tomaszewski, on TV as “a clown” at half-time in the crucial qualifying match for 1974.

For clown, read genius. Next morning the Sun headline read “THE END OF THE WORLD”.View image in fullscreenA football moment where everyone remembers where they were: Diego Maradona punches the ball past a despairing Peter Shilton in the 1986 World Cup quarter-final at the Azteca Stadium.

Photograph: Daniel Motz/AlamyThere followed the fatalistic years when English football – dull, grubby, violent fans – found itself challenged as the nation’s leading sport. When, in 1986, England had a sniff of success they were thwarted by Maradona and the Hand of God. By 1990, with three football tragedies fresh in the memory – the Bradford fire, the Heysel riot and the Hillsborough horror – with Mrs Thatcher trying to make it illegal to attend football without permission – England’s national game was at its nadir.

Bobby Robson, the England manager, was