The first thing I did was steal my Granddad's thunder, being born the day before his 60th birthday and cancelling any family plans he may have had for the following day. My first vivid memory I have of him however doesn't really arrive until one time he looked after me and my brother a few years later in the summer of 1986. Things were better back then: back gardens were bigger, days were hotter. Dog poo used to go white and turn to chalk. Life was great. Granddad bought me and my brother Kinder eggs at the newsagents on the way home and we sat in the front room at 131 Chester Rd and opened them. It was hot outside but we sat inside. My Kinder egg had a little green man with a big hat and a football. Granddad turned our tv on and there was a programme about summer flowers growing on the cliffs of Britain. Then it finished and football started and we watched it with our granddad. And he wasn't mum or dad, but he was looking after us and therefore he must be pretty special. Four years later, me and him would watch Gazza cry in a busy hotel bar in Tunisia together. And when football disappeared off terrestrial telly we would sit and watch boxing instead on late on Saturday nights in his room at Dot's. I'm sure granddad possibly 'tolerated' kids more than enjoyed their company, but I suppose the thing with watching sport together is that the child can feel on a par with an adult and understand them: 'We are boys and this is what boys do', and I think that's why I remember that day in 1986. We found a thing that we could enjoy together, and as I got older and understood more, the more we could talk. I don't have many regrets of things that went unsaid to my granddad, although thinking now maybe I do wish I'd said 'Do you remember that time you looked after me and Ben when the World Cup was on? That's the first time I remember you.'