LITMIR.BIZ

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up to shake his hand, I studied what Joan Collins was wearing - a crocheted mini-dress and Courrèges boots, under one of those angled Mary Quant bobs.

      ‘That’s the last time anyone ever catches me in a knee-length dress and false hairpiece,’ I thought. ‘This is it. The big time. From now on, it’s sink or swim.’

      A few weeks later, I was faced with the choice of sinking or swimming again but this time literally. The government of Malta had invited Bobby and me to visit the island as representatives of the World Cup winning squad and we set off in great spirits, excited about seeing Malta and the neighbouring island of Gozo. Met by a tumultuous welcome, we felt close to achieving Royal status as we were taken on an open-topped motorcade tour of the local stadium.

      That was where the problems started. Before the trip, inspired no doubt by my close proximity to Joan Collins, I’d had my blonde locks cut short at Vidal Sassoon. It was a disaster! I hated my new geometric hairstyle so much that I invested in a long blonde wig. It made me feel more like myself, but by the time we were roaring around Malta in the motorcade, it was shifting in the breeze and I wasn’t feeling very optimistic about its future prospects.

      The wandering wig set the tone of a trip that had us alternating between shuffling exhaustion and convulsions of laughter. We had a very tight schedule and although the Maltese people were fantastically warm and hospitable, we were finding things very draining. Bobby only had to appear at the window of our hotel room in the mornings to be greeted with cheers and applause for, as he put it, ‘the great feat of opening the curtains’.

      So we were very grateful when they gave us one afternoon’s rest, which allowed us to spend some time on a local businessman’s yacht. The weather was gorgeous and we were offered the chance to water-ski. I had to refuse the invitation in case the blonde wig went walkabout, which was quite galling, although we did get to go on a speedboat and with the help of a red scarf I managed to keep my hair on. At the end of a fabulous afternoon, the speedboat bore us back to port where we were due to meet a prominent Maltese monsignor and a couple of government ministers.

      It so happened that the day before our yacht visit, Bobby and I had run into Mike Winters, one half of the Mike and Bernie Winters comedy duo, and his wife, Cassie. They were holidaying out there. Cassie, who was heavily pregnant, turned out to be not just a lovely person but a real character. Not only that, but she must have been psychic as well. Her parting shot to me was, ‘I’ve got a feeling about you. You’re going to be front page news one day.’

      In fact, her prophecy was proved right a little bit quicker than that. Within forty-eight hours the front page of The Maltese Times was carrying huge banner headlines saying: MONSIGNOR AND MRS BOBBY MOORE IN SEA DRAMA.

      What happened was this. As our speedboat reached the shore, a gangplank was extended for us to climb off. Very gingerly I stepped onto it. At that moment there was a slight swell and I grabbed at the bishop’s extended hand. It caught him off guard. Over my shoulder went one priest. As he went flying towards the water, the Minister of Sport tried to catch hold of him and fell in with him. With me already on the gangplank and Bobby about to step onto it, the boat rocked, the gangplank gave way and we went into the briny too.

      It gets worse. The wig which I’d so carefully guarded all day was soaked and dyed red from the scarf. I must have looked like a victim of a shark attack, especially as my knees and shins were grazed and bleeding. I was wearing a navy crepe mini-dress and that was up to a daring new high, so it was just as well the monsignor’s glasses had fallen off and sunk to the bottom.

      BOBBY MOORE IN HEROIC SEA RESCUE ATTEMPT? No way. He was far too busy desperately trying not to crack up with laughter, in case he hurt anyone’s feelings. But the funniest thing was what my mother -ever my publicist - said when a reporter rang up for her reaction: ‘Oh, I’m sure Tina’s all right. She’s a very strong swimmer.’

      I was in the Cipriani restaurant recently, chatting with my friend Marilyn Cole, the British Playboy bunny who became Playmate of the Year, and we were talking about England’s 2004 European Championship defeat by Portugal. I can’t imagine that forty years ago a glamorous woman like Marilyn Cole would have been discussing whether a divot had caused David Beckham to miss a penalty.

      It’s different now. Can you imagine the World Cup winning captain of England going back to his Essex semi to sip lager and watch TV? Can you imagine the hat-trick hero being able to wash the car outside his house the next day without being mobbed?

      There’s no way today’s up-and-coming football apprentice would have to bump up his pay by working as a labourer. Bobby did. In his teens he had a summer job at William Warnes, the factory where his mother worked. As it happens, that job and the chores he had to perform as a colt for West Ham - sweeping the stands and rolling the grass - were things he liked doing because they built him up; although he had strong thighs like tree trunks, his arms were like twigs. I think he knew he had the makings of an Adonis!

      That Saturday in July 1966 changed everything. The minute Bobby held up that trophy at Wembley, football was never going to be just a sport any more. It wasn’t only the fact that England won, either. There was something about Bobby himself, his blond good looks, his style, the way he carried himself. You don’t often hear a man described as beautiful, but that’s what Bobby was. He looked like a young god - one who happened to play football.

      He was a complicated young god. As a husband and father he was warm and loving. As a player he was cool and undemonstrative. His temper was so controlled and his tackling so accurate that he was almost never booked. He had a ruthless, calculating streak - if someone hurt him in a tackle, he would never react in the heat of the moment, but store it up for later and make his point when the time was right. To have that icy self-control turned against you was devastating, as one day I would discover. But those qualities were part of what made him the great England captain we all so admired.

      Bobby and I were the first to experience the good and the bad of post-1966 football. We bought the dream house and lived the fabulous lifestyle. We were courted by Prime Ministers and befriended by celebrities. We had to cope with the glare of the media and the tensions which that caused in our marriage. We had kidnap threats to our children. All firsts.

      Bobby’s bonus for being part of the World Cup winning side was £1,000. Now that seems like a pittance, but in any case to him that wasn’t what it was about. It was about putting on that shirt with the three lions on the chest and hearing the roar of expectancy when he led the team out of the tunnel. Some kind of charge went through him the moment he put on that shirt. He seemed to turn into a lion himself.

      I can see him now, the ball resting on his hip. Then he’d knock it into the air with the back of his hand before breaking into a jog, running with those little short steps and holding down the cuffs of his long-sleeved shirt with his fingers.

      He was so proud of being an England player. He liked the fame, he loved the big crowd and above all he believed in his country. He showed it by the way he played. I think that’s why he’s remembered with such love and why so many people continue to look on him as the greatest English footballer there has ever been.

CHAPTER TWO

       Wilde Women

      If my mother and I hadn’t been riding in a taxi along Ilford High Street that day in 1958, perhaps my life would have turned out very differently. Perhaps Bobby would have given up hanging around the local shops in the hope of catching sight of me. Perhaps he would have met another nice girl at the Ilford Palais and someone else entirely would have ended up with Judith Hurst clutching her arm at Wembley on 30 July 1966. Perhaps . . . But I’d better begin at the beginning.

      My mother’s name was Elizabeth Wilde, although everyone knew her as Betty. She was that rare combination - a woman who was beautiful and funny. We’d walk down the road together and men would whistle at her, not me. Even when she was in her late forties, they admired her. After Bobby and I

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