Sometime in the 1990’s it became a cliché to say that football was ‘the new rock ‘n’ roll’. Back in 1966 however, the only new rock ‘n’ roll was rock ‘n’ roll. That’s how Geoff Hurst's World Cup hat-trick slipped by photographer ‘The Saturday Man‘ because while some people were on the pitch, he was hanging out with Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley & the Duchess. Back then the rules of life were simple: you liked football, or you liked music. And no one with any sense or ambition would have picked football. Football - like baths and sex, happened once a week, twice if you were lucky, or had coins for the meter. The British game existed in stasis, the process of watching matches unchanged for fifty years, the terraces a wall of drab, damp gabardine, stinking with Victory V throat lozenges, Brylcreem, Woodbines and beef tea. Compared to the rumbling guitars, the ostrich-feathered finery, revolutionary politics and the frugging It girls, football was a cold affair, played by men apparently aged before their time: cheeks the colour of lard, ration-book teeth and saloon bar hair.