It was 1982 and the football World Cup was in full flow. I was a football-mad six-year-old, transfixed by the skills of Michel Platini, Karl-Heinz Rummenigge, Zico and Paolo Rossi as they played in glorious Spanish sunlight. When the matches were over, I raced to fill in the scores on my World Cup wall chart that every fan had pinned to their walls. My mum insisted I use Blu Tack so I didn’t ruin the wallpaper.
One day towards the end of the tournament there were no games scheduled so my Dad took me to the video rental store, Caprides, which also doubled as a diving equipment shop, which, looking back, seems like an odd business plan, but it seemed perfectly normal at the time.
My Dad picked up a VHS cassette of Star Wars. A blond guy on the front held a gun, a black robot brandished a sword of light, there was a brown, hairy monster and some spaceships. “Let’s watch this,” he suggested.