My love affair with the greatest game in the world owes a huge debt to the radio. Growing up in the Far East in the 1980′s meant that music and fashion were always a few months behind the UK, but you could keep your finger on the pulse of the game via the BBC World Service or the BFBS (British Forces Broadcasting Services).

At weekends, me and my pals would find ourselves at a party and while they concentrated on body popping and chatting up the talent, I retreated to the kitchen and had my ear to the radio. I’d meet plenty of young maidens in distress who sought refuge from my pals and their embarrassing breakdancing, and did so via a trip to the fridge where the bevvy was waiting.

Conversations were brief, though.

I’d invariably miss their opening gambit, concentrating instead on Alan Green’s description of another John Barnes sortie down the wing. When I finally did notice them I’d mistakenly assume they had enquired about the score, and upon me providing an update, they were gone as quickly as they had appeared. More often than not they’d be looking at me over their shoulder like I’d just shat in the kettle.

I met one of my first loves at such a party. It was an affair which was to last about 15 years before ending in tears. Last weekend we met up for the first time in a while and, for a few precious moments, it looked like it could be just like it was before. Unfortunately the chances of it reigniting are slim. But it’s not impossible.

Her name was The F.A. Cup. The affair ended when Manchester United, as holders, pulled out of the competition to attend the World Club Championship in South America. (The F.A.’s fault, not United’s.) Last weekend Paul Scholes, the Manchester derby, and Thierry Henry made me think the love was back.

But the quality of the Manchester derby coupled with the majestic return of Scholes had nothing to do with the F.A. Cup. Neither did the wondrous return of Thierry Henry. The F.A. Cup was just the lucky bystander. Just as it was the unlucky bystander to the disgusting threat from Liverpool to ban for life the fan who screamed racist abuse at young Tom Adeyemi (the feeling of disgust born from the realisation that this famous and magnificent club were in effect saying that it’s one rule for rich and famous players and another for the man on the street who pays to get in). Pot calling kettle… oh dear, let’s just leave it.

Where was I? Oh aye, the rekindling of my love affair with the F.A. Cup.

Reconcillation is simple. The top three in the league get Champions League qualification and the fourth spot goes to the F.A. Cup winners. Can you imagine the tension and drama which would surround each and every round of the cup if that was what was up for grabs? The mind boggles and quite simply it would reignite this once great competition and put it right back up there where it belongs. It’s been too long, and I miss her.