1. White Male “Privilege”

London, England

May 22, 2025

Jack Campbell took a seat in the posh penthouse boardroom. On the docket: Corporate Excellence Through Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion. Good Lord. Jack despised the nonsense and would tell you as much in private.

But he didn’t say so publicly. No one did. Not in UniBank’s hallowed halls. Because DEI demanded respect and wielded power. Some UK institutions were pushing back, following the Trump/Musk juggernaut in America. Not UniBank. They remained all in. Diversity is at the heart of everything we do.

Jack played along, even put pronouns in his signature. He learned early in his career – corporate life involves indignities, even occasional soulselling. This was merely another hoop to jump through.

He was a Senior Executive at UniBank, one of the UK’s largest financial institutions, a behemoth with tentacles in over a hundred countries. He joined in 2003 and worked his way up the ladder. He had a sharp mind, a steady hand, and his baritone carried a natural authority. He was the archetype white male executive – tall, handsome, charming. Ruthlessly efficient.

His workday was a steady stream of strategy sessions, high-stakes calls, and complex (sometimes shady) M&A deals in far-flung locations with regulatory grey areas. This had been Jack’s world for twentyplus years. It was rough and tumble – full of ego, conflict, and testosterone.

He mostly stayed above the fray, navigating the politics with finesse and building alliances to consolidate power and influence. Despite layers of bureaucracy, Jack was known as a man who got things done, no fuss.

He knew how to play the game, but the game was changing. Correction: the game had changed. This insidious Wokeism Beast had slithered and squirmed into the bank’s corporate corridors – as if red tape and regulation wasn’t bad enough.

It seemed harmless at first, but like an infection, it morphed and mutated and grew to the point that it seemed it may eventually destroy its host. Jack had seen it destroy a few careers and put a glass ceiling on others. Inevitably, its victims were that once alpha species known as the white male. They deserved it, so said the doctrine.

Jack studied the instructor. Chantelle Williams was a black female. No surprise, they almost always were. The fake eyelashes, fake nails, and blonde weave combined to give her a clownish countenance. Ghoulish even. She was also morbidly obese, but for her it was not a bother. Her self-esteem was off the charts.

The bank was paying her great gobs of money to shit on everything in sight, especially white people. We’re lucky to have her, said the Director of HR, another black female. Chantelle had the jargon down pat – allyship, microaggressions, intersectionality. Words that didn’t exist a few years prior.

When the Orwellian torture session mercifully ended, Jack said a prayer of thanks and bolted for the door. Not only was it 5:00 p.m. it was Friday. And it was his birthday. Fun times awaited.

On the tube home, he observed the same sign he saw every day: Hey Straight White Man, Pass the Power. He shook his head. The insolence. The audacity. All taxpayerfunded, of course.

He shook it off. Nothing was going to dampen his spirits.

2. Another Lap Around the Sun

Lily and the kids greeted Jack at the door. “Happy Birthday, Daddy!” Finn and Lucy screamed in unison.

“Thanks, kiddos,” he swooped down for a hug and a kiss before turning attention to his wife. “Hello, beautiful. I survived another week.”

“You survived another year,” said Lily. “Happy forty-third, darling.”

“Bloody heck Nora, I’m forty-three, am I?”

Lily nodded with a grin. “Fifty’s right around the corner.”

“I need a drink on the double.”

“Go on, Ozzie’s already here.”

Jack strolled with purpose into the living room.

“Welcome home, sir.” Ozzie bowed solemnly.

“Stand up straight you silly man.”

“Sorry, me Dad taught me to respect me elders.”

“I’m younger than you, mate.”

“Will you get the old folks’ discount at the pub now?”

Jack mixed a generous gin and tonic. “Where is everyone? I’m not stuck with you all night, am I?”

“Hey, it’s your party.”

Jack grinned at his best pal. “You were right about the struggle session.”

“Oh yeah, not letting up an inch?”

Jack shook his head. “Pedal to the metal.”

“Told ya.”

“That kiss-ass Morgan lapped it up. What a broken man he is.”

“Sorta like Steady Eddie?”

“It’s an issue of class, not race,” Jack mimicked their liberal friend Edward. “Tell ya what, I may be VP, but I’m low man on the totem pole at these bloody events.”

“You’re not allowed to say totem pole.”

Jack feigned shock and horror. “This bloody wokeness thing, whatever it is, it’s taken over at the bank.”

“Be honest, mate. It’s taken over the bloody country. The commies are in charge now.”

“I should’ve explained that to the instructor,” said Jack.

Ozzie scoffed. “She wouldn’t appreciate the nuance. Too stupid, I guarantee it.”

Just then, young Finn dashed through the room – a blur of youthful energy. “Slow down, champ,” Jack scolded with a grin. My God, what will England be like when Finn comes of age? A scary thought, and not the first time it crossed Jack’s mind.

Edward Squire and his wife entered, pulling Jack from the rueful reverie. “Steady Eddie,” he and Ozzie called out in unison. The nickname, coined years ago, had stuck like glue. Eddie was calm, cool, collected. Nothing fazed him. Not even the rape and pillage of his native land. He was a raging lefty, and a target of ridicule for Ozzie.

Another couple followed, then another. The room swelled with hearty greetings and banter among familiar chums. Cocktails were proffered and before long conversation turned to football, as it often does at English gatherings.

“Don’t start. Our side always comes round.” Ozzie was a United supporter, and his Red Devils were off to a terrible start. “We’ve more trophies than your lot could dream of.”

“You’re living in the past, Ozzie.”

“Ha, I would if I could.”

“Don’t get him started,” said Eddie.

“We’ll be on top again soon, don’t you worry.”

“You’ve been saying that for years. Christ, how many managers you had since Fergie?”

“We’ve got history, mate. What’ve you got with bloody Arsenal? Sweet sod all.” Ozzie and Jack bellowed laughter.

“Keep laughing, lads,” said Eddie. “We’re playing beautiful football. Odegaard’s class. And Saka’s better than half your team combined.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Jack chimed in. “You’re good ’til Christmas, then you lot fold like a cheap tent.”

“We’re runner-up the last two years.”

“Christ sakes, he’s proud o’ second place.”

Jack lapped up the banter. Friendly fire now but with Cup Matches it could come to blows. Literally. Jack was a Liverpool man, like his Daddy, and his Daddy’s Daddy.

“And for what it’s worth,” Ozzie added, “I lost interest years ago. Bunch of feckin’ foreigners wearing English kits and a bunch of cucks watching ’em, more concerned with their team winning than saving their dying country.”

“You always say that when your team’s in the dumpster.”

Both statements were true – Ozzie was as politically right as they come, and one of very few ethnic British males unafraid to speak his mind. To get a sense of Ozzie, picture Conor McGregor, but bigger, bolder, and English. For Ozzie, the Prem was another tool to distract Brits from their dispossession.

“Stop watching, lads. Stop supporting the bullshit.”

“Ah, come World Cup time, you’ll be there with the lot of us.”

Scoff. “I see we hired a German to manage our squad of Africans.”

“We’ll have black players and white players,” said Eddie. “As it should be.”

Bigger scoff.

“Don’t forget,” said Eddie, “it was Kane who missed the penalty against France.”

That stung. When England crashed out of the last World Cup, Oswald (Ozzie) Fletcher was devastated, despite what he might otherwise say. He was inconsolable. All the lads were.

“Wouldn’t it be something if we won,” said Jack wistfully. “What a day that would be.”

“It could happen,” said Eddie.

“It should happen,” said Jack. “We invented the bloody game.”

“Back in ’66, my Dad got finals tickets for ten bloody shillings,” Jack added. “What’s that now, eight quid?”

“Yeah, and back then the competition actually meant something,” said Ozzie. “The Dutch team was Dutch. The French French. Believe it or not, we fielded a roster full o’ English lads.”

“Imagine,” said Jack grinning.

“We even had the remnants of our Empire. But the bleedin’ traitors were selling us out fast.”

“To this day,” Jack continued, “my Dad says it was the greatest day of his life. Better than his wedding, he says. Even Mum knows it.” Jack had heard the story so many times, it was like he’d been there himself, back in 1966, a full thirteen years before he was born.

The night went according to script. Plenty of good-natured banter with a dose of sarcasm and vitriol, for good measure. Always was with Ozzie in the room. Unfortunately, Jack’s parents didn’t make the two-hour trek down from Newfordshire. They weren’t getting any younger and, truth be told, England’s streets weren’t getting any safer. There was also London traffic. Always a bitch.

The kids took centre stage frequently. “For my birthday, I want a football cake,” Finn declared. “And pizza.”

“Better than Paul’s lad,” Ozzie whispered discreetly. “That kid probably wants a frilly skirt.” The twelve-year-old in question had recently announced he wanted to be a girl. The mother was delighted. The father, not so much. “If the alphabet people get their hooks in your kid,” Ozzie proclaimed, “not much you can do.”

The birthday cake made its appearance, and the obligatory Happy Birthday was sung, followed smartly by a rousing rendition of For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.

“Blow out the candles, honey,” Lily said. “Don’t forget to make a wish.”

Jack didn’t hesitate. I wish I could go to the World Cup Final in 1966. Then, remembering the godawful DEI Seminar, he went a step further. I wish I could go back to the England of old. The real England.

Zing.

A surge of energy ran through him like a jolt of electricity. For a few precious moments, a vision appeared. A crystal-clear image of Wembley Stadium. Old Wembley. The very stadium that hosted the 1966 World Cup Final.

“What’d you wish for?” Ozzie demanded. “You didn’t waste it on those Liverpool foreigners, I hope.”

Jack came back to reality and made a zip-the-lips gesture.

Cake was served and the sugar blast sent the kids into overdrive. They were bouncing off the walls, and with alcohol on board so were some of the adults. By the time it was over, Jack was done and dusted. He couldn’t wait to lay his head down. He’d probably be asleep before it hit the pillow.

“That was some proper good fun,” said Lily.

“It certainly was,” Jack agreed. “I’m rightly knackered now though. Didn’t even have that much to drink.”

“You’re getting old, dear.”

“Hey.”

She grinned. “You go in and rest, I’ll do the washing up and check on the kids.”

“Aw, thanks honey.”

Her grin morphed into a leer. “Don’t fall asleep, though, loverboy. I’ll be in later with a special present.” She was a vixen, Lily was.

Jack grinned back in anticipation.

3. The Time Tunnel

In the bedroom, Jack was overcome with a sense of wellbeing and gratitude. He was a blessed man, his troubles trivial. But this particular spirit of goodwill was above and beyond the norm.

Birthday-related, perhaps? Or something to do with that vision of Wembley? What was that by the way? Some weird premonition?

Zing.

It happened again.

Another flash of Old Wembley. More than a flash. A vision. Distinct and real, no detail spared. This one was more powerful. More prolonged. More persistent. He gazed into Lily’s vanity mirror and a surreal outline of his visage stared back, the likeness blurred, an aura of light surrounding it.

Jesus.

Quite suddenly, a strange sensation engulfed him – mind, body, and spirit. He felt weightless as the image in the mirror blurred further, yet he still perceived it with absolute clarity. In fact, he perceived everything with perfect clarity.

Clarity of thought.

Heightened consciousness.

A deep and fearless curiosity to see what this was all about.

It was no medical event. Not a heart attack. Jack felt threatened not in the least. On the contrary, he felt an overwhelming urge to succumb entirely to…whatever was happening.

Bright light filled his field of vision. His body relaxed, his breathing and heartbeat slowed. He surrendered…and was soon floating through…was it space? Time? Yes, and yes. There could be no doubt. He was travelling through the cosmos, backward in time, observing a parade of visions pass by.

Life events. Momentous events. The COVID pandemic. The Manchester bombing. Brexit. The Fall of the Berlin Wall, a stalwart Ronald Reagan demanding, Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall! Chernobyl. The John Lennon assassination. The election of Margaret Thatcher. Jack witnessed and perceived them all and many more.

At the same time, his personal life was laid bare: his wedding day, the birth of his children, the death of his beloved Grandad. It was as if he was on a three-dimensional – scratch that, multi-dimensional – moving walkway. Actually, more like a tunnel. A Time Tunnel.

He was perceptive to the events around him. He could see, hear, even smell everything as he observed time pass in elaborate waves of sensory profusion. He felt the wind in his hair, the smells of childhood, the emotion of each moment. But Jack wasn’t overwhelmed. On the contrary, he comprehended with effortless clarity.

Otherworldly clarity.

Then he saw his destination. How did he know? Was it instinct? Or did it just happen? He wasn’t sure. But it made sense, notwithstanding. July 30, 1966. Saturday. Wembley Stadium.

He panned the swarming crowds and gradually zoomed until he was transported inside. He saw the pitch, the players, the fancy electronic scoreboard. The infamous thirty-nine steps leading to the Royal Box where players collected trophies.

This was old Wembley.

The Time Tunnel slowly faded as visions crystallized into reality and Jack’s consciousness settled into this time and place.

Boom.

He was there. In the flesh.

4. 1966 World Cup

Jack had arrived. In 1966. In his seat. Section 38. Wembley Stadium. The place Pelé once called the Cathedral of Football.

He glanced about, wide-eyed, as the crowd buzzed. He spotted West German flags, but Union Jacks were dominant. The skies were grey and bore the threat of rain. But rain would not come. Jack knew this well because his Dad had told him.

His Dad had told him everything and cor blimey, Jack was living it now. As if he’d been transported onto a movie set. But it wasn’t a movie set. It was real. Every detail.

How is this happening?

Jack pinched himself. Nothing happened. He pinched himself again. Still nothing. What the? If it’s not a dream and it’s not reality – what is it?

He surveyed himself. Same green shirt and plaid pants he’d had on at the birthday party. Thank God he’d been wearing sandals. For that matter, thank God he hadn’t changed into pyjamas. Is that how this thing worked? He checked his pockets. No wallet, but his trusty mobile had come along for the journey.

He took several deep breaths and got his bearings. He was a few rows up from the action and could clearly see the lush turf – perhaps a wee bit slick from earlier rain. And the players themselves, from both sides, warmed up on the pitch. He could see them clearly, right down to the expressions on their faces. His eyesight, sans glasses, was perfect. He had the eyesight of his younger self.

There was England’s most beloved footballer, Bobby Charlton. A legendary figure, ambassador extraordinaire for the sport. That’s how Jack knew him. On this day, Sir Bobby was twenty-eight years of age, but his mythical status was already fully formed. Eight years prior, he’d survived the Munich Air Disaster which claimed many of his teammates. He scarcely skipped a beat, going on to win the FA Cup, League Titles, the European Cup, and (spoiler alert) soon to be World Cup. Off the field, Mr. Charlton was humble, as the British are. But on the field, he was renowned for stamina, grit, and a ferocious strike, no matter left or right foot.

There was the twenty-eight-year-old version of Norbert “Nobby” Stiles, the hardnosed five-six defensive midfielder. The Iron Tackler, they called him ’cause he always went in hard. Some say too hard. And of course, the great Geoff Hurst – substitute for the injured Jimmy Greaves. Not a single fan knew it – save Jack Campbell – but Mr. Hurst was about to produce a performance for the ages.

Jack scanned the fans in his vicinity. Mostly commonfolk it appeared, living their best lives – buoyant, joyful, full of expectation. To say the English squad had the country behind them was understatement. Nay, this team carried the dreams of fifty million Britons. Today, team and nation were one and the same.

As Ozzie said, England was still a real country in 1966. Still ninety-nine percent ethnically English. Yes, this means ninety-nine percent white. Based on what Jack could see, Ozzie was bang on. Jack had yet to see a non-white face – in the crowd or on the pitch. That included the West Germans, so it did.

At that moment, the chap two seats over held out his hand. “Good day, sir. I’m Sheldon Cook.”

“Hello, sir.” They shook hands. “Jack Campbell.”

“I heard you were coming,” the man stated. “Peter cancelled last minute, and his brother made some calls. Seems you were the lucky recipient. How do you know Peter?”

Jack hadn’t considered who was supposed to be in this seat. But by some divine providence, it had become available to him.

“We go way back,” said Jack. “Haven’t seem him in a while, mind.”

Sheldon nodded smilingly. He was a family man, with two bright-eyed youngsters either side of him. Introductions were made and Jack was taken by the joy on their faces. Pristine, untainted happiness.

Sheldon was roundabout Jack’s age – the 2025 version of Jack, that is. Am I forty-three here? He wasn’t sure what the hell he was.

“Think we can take ’em today?” Sheldon asked.

“I’ve a good feeling,” said Jack.

“Me too, but me nerves are shot.”

“My Dad told me they’d win. He guaranteed it, and he’s usually right about these things.”

“I wish I had his confidence. Is he here?”

The question threw Jack for a loop. Good Lord, his Dad was here. Jack opted to lie. “Unfortunately, not. But he’ll be watching on the telly.” Jack was starting to relax. He made a grand show of asking the young lads about their own sporting exploits. They were near in age to young Finn.

“My own boy and girl play, too.”

“Your girl plays football?” The boys laughed in unison.

Jack shrugged toward the boy’s father. “She’s a tomboy.” Note to self. It’s a different era. Girls don’t play the Beautiful Game in 1966.

A vendor wandered into the vicinity and barked out his offerings. Meat pies, crisps, fizzy drinks, tea. Sheldon got the man’s attention and ordered the works for his kids, including a glossy Match Programme. He turned to Jack. “What do ya need, mate? My treat.”

Jack smiled sheepishly. He had no money. “Very kind of you, I’ll take a Coke. Thank you, Sheldon.” As the transaction unfolded, Jack came clean. “Appreciate it, mate. Truth is, I lost my wallet earlier.” He gestured vaguely: “Been a hectic day.”

“Sorry to hear, old sport.” In modern-day England, there’d be high suspicion toward a move like that. But here, trust and goodwill were in abundance. “Tell you what, I’ll get you a programme, too. You need one to enjoy the match.”

Sheldon waved off Jack’s protests. “We’re on the same team today, laddie. We’re all family.”

Jack skimmed the publication with interest. There were articles about key players, their respective sides, their respective countries. By modern standards, it was an amateurish production, but this only added to its charm. For the first time, it sank in – England’s opponent was West Germany. My God, this truly was a different world. A world where the Iron Curtain still divided Europe.

Jack studied the rosters and player bios – nothing but white faces on both sides. And just look at those English lads. Proper English lads, they were. Jack felt a surge of National Pride such as he’d never felt. Englishmen weren’t supposed to feel such a thing. We’re supposed to feel guilt and shame.

Sorry, not today.

Jack had seen a copy of the programme once before at a festival. It was a sought-after collectible, worth a fortune. This copy was obviously mint condition. Hot off the presses. Without thinking, Jack whipped out his iPhone to snap a few photos.

A split second later, it dawned – the space-age gadget wouldn’t jive with the time. Heck, these people barely had colour TV. For them, an iPhone was outright sorcery. In some parts of time and space, they’d burn him alive for witchcraft.

Too late. One of the bright-eyed youngsters, the older of the two sitting to Jack’s left, got an eyeful. “What is that? Wow, look Daddy.”

Jack quickly shut the phone off, but not before Sheldon got a glimpse. “Don’t know, me boy. What have you there, mate?”

Jack sheepishly attempted to cover the phone with his hands. “It’s just a, uh, a special kind of camera.”

“Looked like a miniature television to me,” said the kid.

Sheldon nodded. “Who are you, James Bond? You get that from Q, did you?” Both youngsters giggled.

Jack regrouped. “I…uh…I work for the government.” He said it with a serious tone, then grinned and pocketed the phone. “Not for Q. I’m not allowed to talk about this device. It’s a prototype.”

Sheldon looked at him quizzically. He wanted more, and the awkward moment lingered. However, blessedly it was three o’clock and the game was starting.

Another note to self: No photos! And no Googling players. He grinned. There’s no internet here, you silly goose. Probably no Wi-Fi either, he chuckled at the absurdity of explaining Wi-Fi to Sheldon.

5. Victory

The wait was finally over for the packed stadium. Jack knew from memory, 96,000 in attendance, ten percent of them German. Pre-game festivities were brief – national anthems and not much else – and the referee’s piercing opening whistle was bang on 3:00 p.m. local time.

Both teams looked smart in the classic 4-4-2 formation. England in their iconic kit – red jersey, white shorts, red socks. Nothing flashy. No gauche sponsor logos, just the classic embroidered Three Lions crest. The West Germans sported white jerseys, black shorts, white socks. Elegant simplicity.

London bookies made England the 1-2 favourite, but not a single English fan took anything for granted. The game found rhythm quickly. Less than a minute in, free kick Germany fifteen yards outside the England penalty. Moments later, Bobby Charlton with a wonderful touch. Then, a twenty-year-old Beckenbauer – Der Kaiser in the flesh – making superlative plays on the ball. He was a midfielder on the day, not yet the magnificent sweeper he’d become. But he was already special.

For the umpteenth time, Jack marvelled at what he was witnessing. This was straight from a science fiction movie. Going back in time?

How is this happening?

Yet it was happening. It was as real as the stars in the midnight sky, and Jack embraced it. Why not? This was a game for the ages and he might as well savour the moment.

The crowd didn’t have to wait long for a goal, but not from the side they wanted. At the twelve-minute mark, poor clearance by the English defender allowed Helmut Haller to put the ball past keeper Gordon Banks.

Yikes. Germany up 1-nil.

It momentarily took wind out of sails, but six minutes on Geoff Hurst tied the match with a powerful header, and English fans were redeemed. By halftime, the game remained all square at one.

The crowd was in fine spirits and Jack and Sheldon relived the tying goal, and a few other close calls. But the youngster to his left soon interrupted. “May I see your camera again, sir?”

Jack smiled at the young man, who was about a year older than Jack’s own lad. Showing off the iPhone was tempting. Oh, the fun he could have playing wizard to these folks. He resisted the urge. It felt…dangerous. Already, Jack was sensing the burden and responsibility of time travel.

“I wish I could, son. But I’m under NDA.” Neither the boys nor Sheldon knew what that meant but Jack didn’t dwell. “Whereabouts you live Sheldon?”

“Notting Hill. Born and raised.”

Jack frowned. “How’s the neighbourhood?”

“We love it. So vibrant. Full o’ culture, y’know?”

Jack’s frown deepened. He was aware of Notting Hill’s embrace – that wasn’t exactly the correct word – of Caribbean immigrants starting as far back as 1948 with the fated Windrush arrivals. In 1966, few Londoners felt threatened by the influx. After all, this was England. Their England.

Jack knew different. In fact, the inaugural Notting Hill Carnival was set to occur just a month hence. By 2025, the event would be known for violence, with bookies posting an over-under on the number of stabbings. Vast swaths of Notting Hill would eventually become inhospitable to white Britons – Jack knew well – like so many other areas.

The Great Replacement – ethnic cleansing Ozzie called it – would be rapid in Sheldon’s neck of the woods. Already it was in full force, and poor naive Sheldon was putting positive spin to it, God love him.

Jack was tempted to warn the man – get out now – but Sheldon was still talking. “…close to everything, Stamford Bridge for one. We’re Chelsea fans, you know. Blimey, it took us just fifteen minutes to get here today.”

“You drove?”

“Course we did, mate.”

Jack raised his eyebrows in appreciation. In modern-day London, traffic and parking made driving near impossible. On the day of a World Cup Final? Crikey, forget about it.

“Wha’bout yourself, Jack? Where do you live?”

“I’m in Twickenham.” Jack decided to be honest.

“Ah, you’re a rugby fan, then?” It was the home of English rugby.

“Ah sure, but it’s a distant second to this great game.”

“Beautiful spot. Pricey.” Sheldon rubbed thumb and forefingers together. “Government’s paying well these days, yeah?”

Jack shrugged noncommittally.

“I suppose if you’re coming up with space-age gadgets like the one in your pocket, it’s money well spent.”

Another shrug.

“Soon, we’ll have flying cars and men on the moon,” said one of the youngsters.

Jack smiled at the shiny optimism.

“And smart robots,” added the other. “My science teacher told me people in the future won’t even have to work. Not if they don’t want to.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Jack offered. It was obvious he was being cagey, but he didn’t know what else to do. He didn’t know the rules in this strange…circumstance. Erring on the side of caution seemed advisable.

Again, mercifully, the match started and all eyes turned to the pitch. “Here we go again,” Sheldon announced.

For thirty minutes, the two sides battled fiercely, trading chances including a glorious one by Bobby Charlton himself. To Jack’s mind, the English lads had the edge in play, perhaps buoyed by the crowd’s rousing rendition of The Saints Go Marching In, which had become England’s theme song this World Cup. They also belted out a menacingly loud and powerful Rule, Britannia, and it touched Jack’s soul like nothing before ever had.

My God, he felt the full force of English blood and soil. And then, heightening the moment to a state of pristine ecstasy, a magical moment unfolded. In the 78^th minute, following sustained pressure, Martin Peters took a nifty pass from Alan Ball, and struck a clean winner past keeper Hans Tilkowski. The Wembley faithful went into a rabid frenzy.

With just twelve minutes left in regulation, it had to be the clincher. The Cup was England’s. It must be. And as the minutes ticked by, it became more and more obvious. England had this. The trophy was finally coming home.

However, tragedy struck in the 89^th minute. After a goalmouth scramble, Wolfgang Weber put home the tying goal with a minute in regulation. West Germany had pulled off a miracle. The shock equalizer forced thirty minutes of extra time. The singing stopped and the smiles vanished. A hush came over the stadium, save ten thousand Germans who were predictably ecstatic.

The anguish in the faces of Sheldon and his boys was enough to break Jack’s heart. He wanted to console them, tell them it was all gonna work out fine. Again, he resisted the urge.

Why, he wondered. Fear? Caution? Uncertainty? Yes, that was it. Uncertainty. For all he knew in this strange parallel universe, West Germany wins. Was there a guarantee the game would play out according to the historical reality?

It had so far. Thus, chances are, it would continue to. “Chin up, lads. Extra time it is. We’ve got this.”

“We were this close, Jack.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve a good feeling.”

“Blimey, me heart can’t take much more o’ this.”

“We’ll be fine.” Jack offered a confident smile, and it seemed to cheer them. Their mood was lifted further by England’s play out of the gate, with Alan Ball, Bobby Charlton, and Geoff Hurst all leading aggressive attacks.

Sensation came in the 101^st minute when Hurst took Allan Ball’s cross deep in the penalty and blasted a shot from close range. It slammed the underside of the bar and bounced straight down, appearing to hit the goal line, before being cleared by the German defender.

Confusion ensued. The Swiss referee signaled for a corner, but England protested. Shockingly, the Russian linesman took England’s side in adamant fashion. It was a good goal, he proclaimed. Despite passionate protests from the West Germans, the decision stood.

“It was in,” screamed Sheldon, and his boys echoed the sentiment. Like any proper Englishman, Jack had seen the replay a million times. He’d be first to admit, it was questionable. A portion of the ball certainly crossed the line, maybe most of it. But the whole ball? He wasn’t about to bring that up now, though.

No sir.

Because again, he was lost in the elation. The singing was back with greater fervour and the minutes ticked away. At the 120-minute mark, more theatrics. Close to the final whistle, the referee checking his watch, and Germany pressing for an equalizer, Hurst caught the German defence napping. He found space down the left flank and bore down on the German keeper. He struck a left-footed laser from inside the box and it found the back of the net.

My God.

It had to be the clincher, and it completed Hurst’s hat-trick, cementing him in football lore for eternity. But again, controversy as English supporters had stormed the pitch early. No one cared. Nor did history. Asterisk or otherwise, a win was a win. As with Maradona’s Hand of God, it only added to the lore.

And it was a win. A 4-2 final. English fans were intoxicated with joy and pride, Jack included. England was on top again, right where she belonged. Jack forgot he was in a different era.

He forgot about everything except the precise moment he was living.

6. Rule, Britannia

West German grumbling did nothing to dampen spirits of the rabid English fans. They were in a state of mass delirium, as was Jack.

England were World Champions. Finally. Glory restored where it belonged, to the country that gave football to the world. Forget Germany. Forget Latin America. Forget talk of the Southern Hemisphere growing dominant, producing not only the best teams, but the best players. Forget all of that.

England was king of the hill. Top of the heap. Like a phoenix from the ashes, National pride rose up in an unstoppable tsunami of ecstasy. When Bobby Moore collected the great trophy from Queen Elizabeth II, Prince Philip at her side, the Duke and Duchess of Kent looking on, Jack knew in his heart – this was bigger than football. It was spiritual. A religious experience.

No country could match England’s pomp and circumstance, and now, no country could match England on the pitch. He wasn’t the only one who felt that way. As fans poured out of Wembley, he picked up random snippets of conversation: “I can’t believe we’ve bloody done it.”…“I never doubted our lads, not for a second.”…“This is surely the first of many.”

Pride and happiness swelled in Jack’s chest, so powerful he felt he may explode. It wasn’t only the win, it was the atmosphere. The people. The English people. Smartly dressed all. No ballcaps, no trainers, no hoodies. Not a drug addict nor aggressive panhandler in sight.

And let it be said, not a burka to be seen, either. Not a hint of violence in the air, even as West Germans mingled among English. The Progressive beast hadn’t spoiled England. Not yet. Even here in the heart of London.

“I’m meeting me mates at the Lion’s Pub,” said Sheldon. “We’ve a table waiting. Fancy joining us?”

“I think I shall,” said Jack. The thought of a few pints was irresistible.

“We witnessed it together, mate. Brothers for life now.” The two embraced, and the young lads looked on approvingly.

The crowds in the street were thick and energetic, and Jack marvelled at the orderliness. The people were well–behaved and courteous. Even mild-mannered in this, their moment of great glory. And the city itself – English to the core. For once, the people matched the architecture.

Jack had heard of these days, when you could safely walk London’s streets day or night. When everyone spoke English, and practically everyone was White. The rumours were true. He suddenly realized, he hadn’t seen a person of colour the entire day. If he spoke the term – person of colour – odds are no one would know what he meant.

He was witnessing British people in their natural habitat. British people as they were meant to be in nature. The unabashed joy in Sheldon and his lads was a thing to behold. Unlike Jack, Sheldon didn’t fret for his children’s future.

“Are you quite alright, Jack?”

Jack exited his reverie with a grin. “Never better.”

“You were lost in space for a second there.”

“Just enjoying the moment.” Jack gestured toward three gorgeous lasses strutting past in miniskirts. “Can you blame me?”

“Not at all, mate.”

It was the start of the Swinging ’60s, and risqué garments were all the rage. A symbol of cultural change, perhaps not in the right direction, Jack reckoned. Despite the showy display, the women were decidedly more chaste than their 2025 counterparts. The skirts were certainly revealing, but the girls came across not as slutty, but as graceful and elegant.

“I’m taking it all in, Shel. I haven’t walked these streets in a good while.” He glanced around happily. “Almost feels like I’ve never walked them.”

It was true, the environment was familiar, yet vaguely foreign. Take the vehicles. A shiny TR4 here, a sleek Jaguar E-Type there, no doubt with the plush leather interior. Vauxhalls galore. Black Cabs galore. Even the odd Rolls Royce. Shocking how many of the cars were Britishmade back in the day.

Also, no bike lanes. No dreaded ULEZ cameras. No kebab shops or curry houses. Crikey, around here Curry was a surname. And again, it had to be acknowledged – no non-whites. Scratch that, almost none. By now, Jack had seen a few.

Nevertheless, this was London to the core. Pure. Untouched. Unspoiled. Jack was practically shaking with ancestral recognition. Like an electric charge through his nervous system. However, there was a parallel current of sadness. A mourning for what had been taken, almost as surely as if London had been razed to the ground.

Sheldon shot him another puzzled look. “You’re due for a pint, laddie.”

“Couldn’t agree more.”

“This way, follow me.”

Upon entry, Jack was hit with another dose of ancestral nostalgia. The pub was classic English, probably centuries old. Pubs were one aspect of British life that had resisted change, which is probably why the Brits loved them so much.

Yet here in 1966, Jack witnessed authenticity that didn’t exist in 2025. No TVs, no mobile phones, no craft beer, no loud music to dampen banter. Because that’s what pubs were for, right? Fellowship and pints. Nothing more, nothing less.

On this, perhaps the most glorious day in recent English history, the place was jammed. A modern-day Fire Marshal would’ve had a meltdown. And the smoke. It was thick in the air. Everyone smoked, it seemed, and ashtrays overflowed.

There was a masculine energy in the room. A working-class vibe. It was maledominated to be sure, but women weren’t banned, not at all. Discouraged maybe but not banned. The banter was hale and hearty.

“The lads were class today. Absolute legends, each of ’em.”

“No one can take this away from us.”

“The whole country’s celebrating tonight.”

The men were present, in the moment, and Jack met a fine sampling of Londoners. Bus drivers, longshoremen, postal workers. Professional Class, too. He even swapped shoptalk with a banker.

“Who you with?” The man asked.

Telling the truth was out of the question – UniBank wasn’t formed until the 1990s. “Barclays.” Jack went with a safe bet – the largest bank in England.

“Brilliant, mate. I’m in currency trading, myself. You know the drill – exchange rates, letters of credit, that sorta thing.” He smiled. “Me hand’s still sore from updatin’ ledgers.” He mimicked the motion. “Month end, y’know.”

That’s right, Jack realized. Forget computers, calculators weren’t even on the scene. It was an analog world and these poor saps did everything by hand.

“You know Jamie Cuthbert?” The man was asking. “He’s a good lad. Cheeky bastard, once ya know ’im.”

“The name rings a bell.”

“What sort of work you do there, Jack?”

What to tell this chap? The banking Jack undertook bore no resemblance to this man’s world. “Let’s not talk shop, mate.” He raised his glass. “Not today.”

“Right. Fair play.” The man raised his own glass.

Just then, the barmaid strolled past and some of the men flirted. “Angie, if I ever leave me wife, I’ll be comin’ for ya, luv.”

She was no shrinking violet: “Thanks for the warning, Paul.”

“Aye, she’s a cheeky lass, in’t she.” He pinched her bottom.

To another man, a younger and better-looking specimen, Angie flirted back with full vigour. But the spirit of the moment was never far. Glasses were repeatedly raised, and pints aplenty consumed. From time to time, the singing kicked in:

Rule, Britannia! Britannia, rule the waves!

Britons never, never, never will be slaves.

And again:

Rule, Britannia! Britannia, rule the waves!

Britons never, never, never will be slaves.

Sheldon’s young lads took it all in and made friends for life with others their age. Jack briefly pondered the fact that his own Dad could be at this very pub, but a quick swill washed away those brain-twisting concerns.

By now, people were ordering food, and Jack realized he was ravenous. The menu was as British as they come – fish and chips, bangers and mash, cottage pie. The Asian food blight, as Ozzie called it, had yet to take hold. Jack settled on steak and kidney pie, a bargain at 26p. Sheldon was still footing the bill, and happy to do it.

The sustenance served the men well. It fortified them for another set of rounds. For the family men, however, 9:00 p.m. was nearing. Time to call it a night. Sheldon, for one, had had enough, and his young lads had turned a wee bit mopey.

“Been a great pleasure, Jack.” Sheldon extended his hand.

“Pleasure’s all mine,” said Jack, pulling Sheldon in for a manly hug. “Can’t thank you enough for the uh, hospitality, shall I say. Next time, it’s on me. That’s a promise.” Hugging among men was not common in 1960s England, but with alcohol on board, Sheldon accepted the overture.

“Happy to do it, sir.” Sheldon said, then turned serious. “What’re you gonna do now? How you getting home? Shall I give you cab fare?”

It was a jarring question, and it jarred Jack from the spell of alcohol, World Cup glory, and the love of fellow countrymen. He had no place to go, and the look on his face betrayed that.

“You could stay at mine. We’ve a spare room, nothing fancy. The wife wouldn’t mind.” Sheldon grinned. “She’s an agreeable sort for the most part.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Jack unconvincingly.

“Or I could book you a room, it’s no trouble.”

Jack smiled. “Something posh and grand if you don’t mind. Perhaps the Dorchester?”

Sheldon smiled at the small joke, but he was ready to leave. His young lads, moments earlier full of mischief, were drooping badly. “I must get these tykes home to bed.” He tousled his eldest’s hair.

Jack stared into space awkwardly.

“You’re a good man, Jack, that I can tell. But, if you don’t mind me saying, you seem a little lost at times. Like maybe, you’re not in the right place.”

Jack rallied his senses. “Look, I’m right, mate. I’ll be fine. Gimme a minute now, would you? I’ll ’ave me a quick Jimmy Riddle and walk out with ya.”

Jack would obviously have to figure something out. He waltzed into the loo, passing a few of his new mates along the way. For a second, uncertainty was replaced by the previous jubilation. What a day, what a day!

With business done, Jack studied his reflection in the mirror, and any sense of normalcy was abruptly punctured.

What is this place? How am I here? How will I return? Will I return?

Emotions overcame him. If I live out my days in this idyllic England-of-old replica – is that what it was? – would I be happier? Perhaps I would. This version of England is clean and pure. Friendly faces all. It is home.

Yet, it wasn’t home. Jack had a home in England to be sure, but not here. Not this era.

He thought of Lily and the kids and his heart ached. Not only for them, but for all the native English living in modern-day dystopian England. A hellhole by comparison, no one could argue otherwise.

Jack could not and would not desert his family. Nor his friends. He had to go back. People needed him. His fears for the future rose to the surface. Fears for his children’s future.

He had to go back. But how?

Would it happen spontaneously? Was there some trigger?

Or would it never happen?