They say you should never meet your heroes, but I did, briefly once, maybe 1971. A friend and I were on The Heath at Petersfield when Bobby Moore came round a corner with his wife. He was polite, couteous and signed a scrap of paper we produced, sadly now lost. How many times did he do that? He truly was a national hero, embodying everything good about our island nation. Not a saint, he liked a drink, was obviously fairly gullible and eventually left his picture-perfect family. Its too late now, I went to the first match at West Ham after his death and will never forget it. I stood in front of a group of rock hard cockney geezers, whose conversation seemed to consist of cutting and slicing, blagging and fencing. Then Ron Greenwood, Marin Peters and Geoff Hurst bought out his iconic No 6 shirt, there was a minutes silence and these harder than hard blokes all started blubbing. When I think of all the ennobled crooks and chancers, the way we fawn over celebrideees with no talent for anything vbut self promotion I marvel that Bobby Moore was never knighted, at the end grubbed around for work, writing for a sleazy semi porn mag newsrag and doing bit parts for the radio, well, to paraphrase Greg Lake "The society we get, we deserve....