GREG DYKE: Sadly it was not to be, but something long pent-up in the English ...

Like almost any Englishman old enough to remember, I can still picture exactly where I was when our team lifted the World Cup trophy in 1966.

I was staying with my aunt in Wales and a dozen of us were gathered around a tiny black-and-white television, watching the game being broadcast live from Wembley Stadium.

I was 19, and in the feverish grip of a lifelong obsession with the beautiful game that had started in childhood courtesy of my father — another obsessive — and would culminate in my chairmanship of the Football Association many years later.

That nail-biting victory — in which England beat our old foe Germany by four goals to two — was a moment immediately sealed in the hearts and minds of every English football fan, and in the national consciousness.

How utterly delirious we were then — and how naive! For looking back, I don’t think any of us swept up in that wave of national euphoria could possibly have imagined that it would be more than 50 years before we would reach another final of a major international tournament.

I had no idea that I would be an old bloke before my team would once again provide us with the chance of lifting a trophy.

Sadly, it was not to be, but on their dazzling journey to last night’s epic encounter with Italy, this England team has generated a sense of jubilation that has been felt viscerally up and down the land.

Following the defeat of Denmark last Wednesday night, there were fireworks, flag-waving, dancing in the streets, car horns honking, shouts and cheers into the night. It was as if some great frustration, something long pent-up in the English soul, had at last been released and we were free.

After a rotten 18 months of pandemic misery and anxiety and the limitations of life in lockdown, how wonderful it was truly to celebrate — and how right, how inevitable that football was the catalyst.

Because, for better or worse, football remains the crucible of our nation’s emotions and our shared identity — and you don’t have to be a season ticket holder to appreciate that.

Millions of people have found themselves transfixed by our team’s exploits: a vibrant, supremely talented collection of young men of all races and backgrounds, whom I truly believe represent a new era in football.

Yes, they may be multi-millionaires with the flash cars, mansions and toys that go with it. But they also seem to be blessed with a set of admirable values, deploying their youthful energies into campaigning for social cohesion, tolerance and respect — and, most crucially, playing as a team and not a collection of spoiled individual stars.

Every one of them has something to be proud of during this tournament. But who can fail to be especially inspired by the story of Raheem Sterling, a young man whose father was murdered on the streets of Jamaica when he was just two years old but who has grown into a footballer whose astonishing flair is recognised across the world — and who has used his fame to campaign so admirably against racial abuse.

The gentlemanly bearing of our captain Harry Kane, meanwhile, seems to echo something of 1966 and our more modest footballing past. Married to his childhood sweetheart, he has a down-to-earth steadfastness that reminds me of Bobby Charlton all those years ago.

We may have been the losing side last night, but there is much to look forward to and build on now that the national game has been so revitalised.

Like so many, football has always been the thread that tied my family together. I was born in 1947, the youngest of three sons, into a football-mad household in the West London suburb of Hayes.

It is no exaggeration to say whether my brothers and I won or lost on the pitch mattered more to my father than anything we did in the classroom.

I remember Dad’s pride when the manager of our local team, Brentford, came to our house to persuade my eldest brother to join them as a junior. But Dad drew the line at him ever becoming a professional player: back then, with a maximum wage of £20 a week, a footballer’s earnings bore no relation to the ridiculous salaries players now command. For all his humility, let’s not forget that Harry Kane takes home about £200,000 a week!

My dad thought my brother should get a proper job.

My two brothers were dyed-in-the-wool Tottenham supporters: our grandmother ran a pub where Spurs players from the 1950s would drink and throw darts. So my siblings took a dim view when, owing to a contrary streak in my nature, I decided to support Manchester United instead.

It’s a passion that has never left me: although to this day, like a man juggling a wife and a mistress, I have split my affections with Brentford FC,

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