Most would agree that England enjoyed its finest hour on a July afternoon in 1966; the occasion was the Jules Rimet football World Cup at Wembley stadium. We’ll always remember Nobby and Bobby dancing around the old stadium, the World Cup in their hands. They encapsulated every emotion that made the Sixties so special.

But the Seventies provided us with a golden age. Sir Alf Ramsey’s England began the 1970 World Cup as red hot favourites but were swept aside by the breathtaking brilliance of the beautiful Brazilians. The samba kings were at their most stunningly sublime, as Pele, Jairzhino, Rivelino and Tostao ran rings around the footballing world. Brazil’s 4-1 World Cup Final victory against Italy was the greatest exhibition of football ever seen on any pitch. It had a style and majesty that few international teams have ever matched.

Two years later the Munich Olympics were overshadowed by death and tragedy. Nine Israeli athletes were murdered in one of the most brutal episodes in Olympic history. Kidnapped in the Olympic village, they were rounded up as hostages and cold bloodedly killed. The world of sport bowed its head in shame and paid its respects.

On the track and field British athletes were capturing our hearts and winning gold. In the space of two weeks Mary Peters became the darling of British sport. From Commonwealth Games glory in Edinburgh, the Liverpool-born Peters shot-putted, long jumped and ran her way to an Olympic gold medal. In her native Northern Ireland she was crowned the queen of Belfast.

Among other Olympic heroes throughout the Seventies were Alan Pascoe, Brendan Foster, a middle-distance runner of superb judgment and American swimmer Mark Spitz who not only won seven gold medals but broke every record on earth. For Britain, Dave Moorcroft and Dave Bedford were two of the most imperious athletes British athletics has ever produced.

In the gymnastics hall two sportswomen would dominate the Seventies in a way that few had done before. Olga Korbut swung, jumped and somersaulted her to Olympic gold and Russia rejoiced. Her mesmerising dance routines and impish smile were the talk of Munich. When little Olga cried with joy the rest of the world joined in. It was sporting perfection the like of which few of us have ever seen. The Romanian gymnast Nadia Comaneci reached similar heights of greatness. Her extraordinary displays of grace, strength and flexibility were the toast of Bucharest.

The world of tennis had been spoilt for choice. During the Seventies the names and characters rolled off the production line. Wimbledon, for so long the home of middle class refinement, produced legend after legend. The conveyor belt positively oozed with class and the strawberries and cream never tasted sweeter. Crowds of teenage girls flocked from far and wide as hysteria took over the Centre Court and manners were replaced with John Mcenroe.

One figure though took Wimbledon and tennis into a new and glorious era. Bjorn Borg strolled onto the Centre Court in 1973 with all the nonchalance of a cowboy striding into a saloon. For the next seven years he was everything that tennis had ever dreamt about. He prowled the baseline, bounced lightly on his heels and only seemed to sweat at match point. Borg’s poise and composure came as naturally to the Swede as sleeping. For five years he marched away with the men’s title, flicking forehand winners away as if from memory and dropping volleys at the drop of a hat.

The other Wimbledon faces were those we would never forget. Jimmy Connors was the ultimate American rebel. Connors had everything: he was argumentative, rebellious and permanently mischievous. Whenever Connors threw his toys out of the pram the Centre Court would laugh until their sides hurt.

Wimbledon also had a more genteel side to its nature. The late Arthur Ashe was the very model of elegance and would later campaign vigorously on behalf of his country. Ivan Lendl was undoubtedly the unluckiest losing Finalist ever to appear in South West London. There was a dapper English gentleman called Roger Taylor who reached the semi final of the men’s title and then bowed out gallantly. We also had the enchanting Gerualitis brothers, Stan Smith and the lovable Ken Rosewall.

For the ladies Wimbldeon was the perfect stage. Chris Evert decorated the Centre Court as if she owned it. Evert played the game with an almost effortless ease and when it came to fashion, her dresses were certainly among the most eye catching. Yvonne Goolagong, of Australia and the American sweethearts Rosie Casals and Billy Jean King were all prettiness and attractive fluency.

During the Seventies golf went through a whole range of dramatic moods. Ryder Cups switched hands on a number of occasions but the players never lost their sense of occasion or humour. There were the undoubted masters. Arnold Palmer is now the elder statesman of the game but when Palmer was on top of his game, the swing was a work of art and the putting faultless.

Golf also had its cheerful clowns and music hall comics. There was the delightful Lee Trevino, a golfer of the finest vintage. Here was artistry on a golf course. Trevino joked his way out of bunkers and fairways were something you had fun on. We had Tom Watson, an American who represented genius and Jack Nicholas who remains one of the stateliest players ever to pick up a golf club. In Britain, Tony Jacklin, Peter Ooseterhuis and Nick Faldo were ambassadors supreme.

Above all the Seventies gave us football that always enthralled and never disappointed. Seventies footballers were the court jesters and villains of their time. There was Stan Bowles, a QPR midfield maestro with a magician’s touch; Rodney Marsh, always unpredictable and one of life’s schemers: Tony Currie, full of craft and carefree impudence. And then there were the natural leaders. Kevin Keegan and Gerry Francis, were men who believed in miracles and were committed to the cause.

Cricket was the game we played on village greens and next to churches. In 1975 England hosted the first World Cup and brought together its most gifted exponents. Australia had two of most terrifying quick bowlers the sport had ever created. Dennis Lilee and Jeff Thompson used to frighten the life out of batsmen with high speed bowling. Their opponents in the World Cup Final were the once mighty West Indies, a side overflowing with talent. Viv Richards and Gordon Greenidge were powerful opening batsman with every stroke in their repertoire: thumping straight drives for six, glorious hooks and handsome cover drives. They also had Andy Roberts and the late Malcolm Marshall to fire down the fastest bowling you’re ever likely to see.

English cricket had its very own battlers and grafters. A man named Geoff Boycott opened the batting and by the end of the third day Boycott was still there. Boycott was a patient accumulator of runs and no-nonsense in his approach. If shots were there to be measured, Boycott would be the man to do it. His partner was John Edrich, a rugged, head down player who supported Boycott ably. English bowlers were at their meanest and menacing. John Snow and Chris Old were familiar sights in Test matches and when the ammunition was at its fiercest, Snow and Old didn’t hold back. Derek Underwood gave us gentle off spin that turned cartwheels before it reached the batsmen and skipper Tony Greig an all rounder who gambled with bat and ball.

So there it was. Sport in the Seventies survived and prospered as the rest of the world looked towards the future. Through wars, revolutions, political upheavals and changes of government, sport presented a positive face. When obstacles got in its way sport, at every level, proved once again that winners can share centre stage with losers