A long time ago - 34 years to be precise - I did a heinous thing which I have never been allowed to forget. Let me set the scene. It was July 1, 1990: the quarter finals of the World Cup. Scotland had long since been knocked out (obviously). England were about to play Cameroon. The England squad included such heroes as Gary Lineker, Peter Beardsley and David Platt. The Cameroon players were very much the underdogs.
I was 22 and loving my first proper job as a trainee on the Leicester Mercury. The news editor - aka the boss - had invited a bunch of young reporters to watch the match at his house. The guest list included three Scots: me, my husband-to-be and our mutual friend, who had only just joined the paper. We were being plied with drinks and snacks. It was a privilege to be included.
At first it was a lot of fun. The alcohol and banter flowed. In the 26th minute, David Platt scored. If the Scottish contingent were less-than enthusiastic, it went unnoticed in the general hullabaloo. At half-time, England were still 1-0 up. So far, so congenial. But then, in the second half, events took a dreadful turn. As Emmanuel Kundé shot past Peter Shilton, something primeval possessed our pale Scottish bodies. The three of us jumped up as one, all decorum abandoned to the thrill of seeing the Auld Enemy briefly bested by a team scorned as footballing minnows.
You have to picture the following seconds in slow motion (as I have relived them all my life): beer cans halted mid-way to mouths, peanuts freeze-framed as they hurtled out of upturned bowls, faces contorted into Daumier-esque caricatures of dismay, disappointment, fury; my news editor lunging to smite the ingrates who had so flagrantly abused his hospitality.
The carnage was still ensuing three minutes later when Eugène Ekéké scored a second. I can no longer remember how a massacre was averted. England went on to win and I assume we cheered their next two........