He first saw boys playing football in a park near Fulham’s ground when he was out walking with his mum at about six years of age. As an only child he thought it was wonderful to see them having so much fun together.

He was taken to his first match as a tenth birthday present in 1933, a Third Division South fixture between QPR and Reading. He later watched both professional and amateur matches all over London and even saw football in India during the war.

When I developed an interest in the game after watching some big matches on TV, Dad took me to my first live one at Crystal Palace as a nine-year-old in 1960. We ended up going to more than a thousand matches together over a 45-year period. All over the country, in Scotland, abroad, sometimes the most obscure matches, often standing behind the goal on our own in the driving rain.

We were just two mates who went to football together. It was all we lived for really. He was so proud when I got a job working for The FA and would tell everyone he met. Of course I was delighted to have Dad as my guest to Cup Finals and England internationals at Wembley.

After he retired with Mum to Bexhill-on-Sea on the Sussex coast, we would watch "Bexhill Town" play on a regular basis in the County League. We got friendly with the Bexhill Chairman and would always be invited into the clubhouse at half-time for tea and biscuits with the Committee.

Dad absolutely loved that. It made him feel so special.

Moving to Eastbourne the travelling ultimately became too difficult and we watched the local Eastbourne teams instead – Town, Borough and United. He had health problems from 2000 onwards, which included a heart attack, and the only thing that kept him going through all those stays in hospital was the thought that one day he’d be able to watch football again.

A consequence of a stroke in 2003 was a dreadful dementia that really took hold about a year ago. He still went to football every other Saturday, always with me at his side, though he barely knew where he was or which teams were playing. He certainly wouldn’t have known the score.

But he still loved being in that football environment that was so familiar. The turnstiles, the fans, the cheering, the players, the ref, the ball flying into the net. We went to our last match on 5th November 2005, 45 years to the day since our first, and it was so hard getting him home again afterwards. We were literally inching our way along the street.

Two weeks later Dad collapsed at home and was swiftly taken to the District General Hospital in Eastbourne. Tearfully he told Mum: "I don’t suppose I’ll be going to football again now".

I visited him in hospital several times and it was heartbreaking to see him in such a state. He looked like a corpse. He would try to speak but the words simply wouldn’t come out. But he would smile when I told him about the matches I’d been to and I would leave him a couple of admission tickets to hold.

At 9pm last Wednesday evening football’s biggest fan passed away and I lost my dad and my best friend. Everyone was just relieved that he didn’t have to suffer any more. I understand that there was a commentary on the Manchester United v Burton Albion replay in his room at the time, so the last thing he would have heard before he slipped away was the roar of a football crowd. I’m so pleased about that.

Dad will be cremated next week and his ashes placed in a plastic pot. That will be given to me, with the family’s consent, so that I can take it to matches with me. So it’ll be me and Dad behind the goal again. Just like it’s always been.