It is the 9th of March 1968 and Frances and I are getting married. As usual, the church used is the bride's local church, St Michael's on West Derby Road, but the priest is an Evertonion and objects to having a ceremony on a day when his team is playing at home. Not to be put off, we decided to use All Saints in Anfield instead.

It is about 2.40 in the afternoon and Ray, who is my best man, and I have arrived at the church only to find the doors are closed. We never thought at the time to go to the priest's house to get him to open up the church. We went instead to the Flat Iron pub waiting for the church to open. The manager's wife has just given us a rum and black, supposedly to steady our nerves, but my mother's voice is ringing in my ears, "Don’t let me catch you drinking just before you get married". I may be just setting out in life with a new partner, but you ignore your mother at your peril, especially my mother. So with that in mind, I found I could not drink my rum and black, that's not saying Ray couldn't drink two and did.

Eventually the priest opened the church and we went over to join him. This is when he put the cat amongst the pigeons saying do you know what to do. I thought if we don't it's a little late to do anything about it now, but that wasn't the case and in no time at all the priest put us through a shortened version of the ceremony. I held Ray's hand and, touching each finger in turn, said the words, "with this ring I thee wed, in the name of the father, the son and the holy ghost". I slipped the ring on his finger and like a couple of giggling kids we walked arm in arm out of the church where we waited for my bride to arrive. So you could say we are a pair of old bigamists.