Remember the first time?
Ah, nostalgia. It's a wonderful thing, even if it isn't as good as it used to be.
One man's happy reminiscences, of course, can be another man's sorry-I-don't-remember. While I've spent the last few days wallowing in memories of the 1982 World Cup, triggered by a special programme on the event (5 Live Sport, 2030-2200 Tuesday 31 March), for younger pups in the office it's all about Mexico '86.
Mention Bryan Robson to me and I see a fresh-faced midfield dynamo scoring after 27 seconds against France. To Ben Dirs he's a shattered-looking man limping off the pitch holding his useless shoulder while Peter Reid warms up in the background.
But while the tournaments and Robbos might differ, the principle is the same: it's your first World Cup that is the biggie, the one that had the greatest impact and remains the most vivid.
No matter how well England do on Wednesday night against Ukraine or how impressive they look over the rest of the qualifying campaign, it's unlikely to have quite the same effect on me as qualification in 1982 did.
Back then it seemed completely unreasonable that my mum would not allow me to change my name to Trevor or Ray, the default name of choice for any decent England player of the period.
Her argument against was not the obvious one. Indeed, had there been any high-profile St Trevors or St Rays in the Bible, the name-change would probably have been given the thumbs-up.
As it was, I had to settle for her assistance in other World Cup matters. I'd noticed at some point in March that the British Egg Council was giving away a free Espana '82 wallchart; all you needed to do was post off the special tokens from their commemorative World Cup egg-boxes.
The flaw in the scheme was the number of tokens required. This was no straightforward giveway. So stringent were the competition rules that it took a dedicated campaign of egg-eating over three months from the entire family - scrambled eggs for breakfast, egg-and-cress sandwiches for lunch, omelettes for tea and generally a nice baked custard for pudding - to even get within touching distance of the wallchart.
If I hadn't been one of five kids we wouldn't have stood a chance. Others may remember early summer 1982 for the birth of Prince William or the Goombay Dance Band. I'll remember it mainly for the egg-sweats.
Because it's your first World Cup, you don't always appreciate the significance of what you're watching. As an eight-year-old it made sense that Scotland might take the lead against Brazil with a long-range shot scored by a right-back. It seemed completely unremarkable that a 17-year-old might star for Northern Ireland, or that Northern Ireland might beat Spain on their own patch.
More unexpected was the early lesson in how cruel and unjust football could be.
For nascent England fans in 1986 it would be Maradona's fist; in 1990 Bodo Illgner's shins. In 1982 it was pretty much the whole tournament.
Having won all three of their group games, England were knocked out in the second stage without losing a game. Italy, who failed to win a single match in their opening group, cruised through to the final itself.
Kuwait, with the first sheikh-led pitch invasion in history, managed to get a perfectly good French goal disallowed on the basis that some of their players claimed to have heard a whistle blown in the crowd.
West Germany, meanwhile, with a goalkeeper who was happy to karate-kick an opponent's front teeth out if it prevented a goal, established themselves as the great football villains of the era.
Harald Schumacher's assault on France's Patrick Battison was only the tip of the flying boot. The Germans had already colluded with Austria in their final group match to ensure that both went through at the expense of Algeria.
To watch the terrifying likes of Wolfgang Dremmler and Uli Stielike subsequently fight their way past France in the semi-finals was to understand for the first time that the goodies wouldn't always beat the bad guys.
Then there were the shorts. Seldom has a garment had so apposite a name as during that tournament. Despite it being an era of big hair, batwing jumpers and two metre-wide shoulder pads, the shorts were indecently small - the sort of thing you'd only find nowadays on a distance runner, a relaxed Alan Partridge or one of Kylie's backing dancers.
I owned a pale blue satin-effect pair with a small slit up the outside of each leg. I don't think I took them off all summer.