A big publisher once approached me to write a book.  When I gave him my idea, which I judged to be brilliant, he nodded furiously before telling me it would never work. Because, he said, he didn’t know which section of the bookshop it would go in. “It’s always a good indication of what will and won’t work,” he told me sagely. And that was that; I never heard from him again.

 I doubt he’d have given Out of Time much consideration. It’s a bit about football; a bit about social history; but mainly it’s an exuberantly brilliant memoir. There’s a way we football fans have of clapping with our hands above our heads. There are many passages in Peter Chapman’s book – even single sentences – that make me want to do just that in sheer admir­ation. For good measure, perhaps I’d throw in a cheer and an expletive of delight too.

Chapman tells us of his life as a writer before, during and after the 1966 World Cup. The picture he paints is pin-sharp and vivid, if monochrome. I was born in 1967 so I can only see those times in black and white, because the film available of it was, largely, in black and white. Perhaps these are the appropriate colours in which to see the post-war years.