The interweb thingy has contacted me to canvass my vote for football boot of the year.

Now that's an acceptance speech I would love to hear. "I would like to thank my mum and dad, Mrs and Mrs Nike, for being there for me, indeed making me. I would like to thank the unnamed cow who made the ultimate sacrifice and became my donor. Can't say anymore because the cat has got my tongue, which is a reminder never to leave your boots near the family pet."



There is a problem about coming to a selection. It is this: I do not know anything about modern football boots. Eagle-eyed readers will note that this has never stopped me pontificating on other subjects where ignorance is my constant companion. But eagle-eyed readers would do better to address their problems with a visit to a plastic surgeon and, incidentally, refrain from swooping down on rabbits.



My research on modern football boots has revealed some startling facts. First, they are so expensive that the Greeks are now using them in place of government bonds. The second revelation is that they have strange names. Apparently, one demented father bought Puma v-10FGs and believed he had purchased a fuel-injected motor. The dent on his credit card did little to diminish this impression. The third observation is that football boots are now so garish they look like Jackson Pollock creations after the artist has discovered the joys of Buckfast.



These thoughts mean that I can not vote for football boot of the year. They are the Coalition of footwear: sleek, expensive and not fit for purpose.



My boot of the millennium is Gola 1968. I still carry the scars from wearing them and so do a generation of opponents.



I would have no hesitation in nominating boots from the past for a footwear Hall of Fame, however. These would be listed in chronological order, referring to the progression of boot as one grew older.



The first, of course, would be the sannie. This was black, laced and had a rubber sole. They quickly disintegrated, leaving the sole flapping like a demented tongue. They were thus the 1960s equivalent of Bruce Forsyth on Strictly Come Dancing. They were repaired by maw shoving an elastic band around errant sole and over instep. If only the Controller of the Beeb could do the same to Brucie.



The next step up was the school shoe. This was banned by FIFA (Furious Infighter with Frightening Arsenal, or maw, as she was also known). It resulted in a hole in the front of said shoe. Maw then allowed us to go to school with footwear that took in so much water they had to be fitted with a pump.



Then we progressed to the boot. This came about school team time. The jannie was iffy about us playing in sannies or slip-ons so maw was lobbied (we did it in the hall) for a pair of football boots. This entailed a trip to Woolworths. My first pair of boots, I believe, came from Gola. I initially thought they came from Ravenscraig. They were as malleable as a steel rivet, though just a tad heavier. On a heavy pitch, the boots seemed to attract mud and slowly my pace dropped to that of a deep sea diver treading along the sea bed.



Occasionally, one saw players with strange boots that resembled slippers. They played for schools in Clarkston and Newton Mearns. Their boots were all stripes and flashes. Our boots were black, gleaming of dubbin, and climbed so high up the ankles they almost qualified as kinky.



They were cherished, however, and there was more than a moment of sadness when they suddenly became too small. Maw, with a sigh that could suck the paint off a radiator, then had to be canvassed (we did it in a tent) for a pair of new boots.



Finally, one day I was given a pair of Adidas. It was all I could do to take them out of the box. Putting them on my feet seemed an act of obscene desecration. Like boiling a Faberge egg. But I played in them for a couple of seasons. I remember them fondly. But it has to be the Gola 1968 for the boot of the millennium. I still carry the scars from wearing them. And so do a generation of opponents.