It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
The best - Ole Gunnar Solksjaer sticking a leg out at the Nou Camp in Barcelona in the dying seconds. Manchester United winning the European Cup for the first time since 1968. The memories, the passion, the love for this local institution which became an international behemoth...
The sorrow - that Sir Matt and the lads of 58 - the flowers of Manchester - weren't there to witness it.
Sheer euphoria. Disbelief. Shock. An overwhelming sense of belonging, of being an integral part of something so awe inspiring. Tears of joy. The lads done well. My local club just won everything that's worth winning. Pride. Awe. In Barcelona too...
It doesn't get any better than that...
The worst - Finding out that Rod Hull, out of Rod Hull and Emu had fallen off the roof of his house as he tried to adjust his TV aeriel, in order to get better reception whilst watching the same match.
At home in Winchelsea, East Sussex.
Rod's son reported hearing two thuds outside, as his dad supposedly scrambled about on the roof. The second thud was reported as being 'heavier.'
Apparently, that was Rod.
An ambulance was called, and Rod was rushed to hospital, but tragically, he didn't make it. The Health and Safety Executive announced that falling off a roof and landing on your head on an unyielding concrete surface did not constitute good custom and practice. Even if the man did have his arm stuffed up an emu's arse as far as the elbow.
It was all terribly sad.
Conspiracy theorists posited the idea that Michael Parkinson, the BBC talk show host, had pushed Hull over the edge as a result of a long standing vendetta, after Hull had humiliated Parkinson on live TV by wrestling him to the ground and grabbing his knackers, operating under the pretext that the emu was in control, and solely responsible for its own actions.
Parky was later exonerated by investigators, when it was revealed that he is a Barnsley fan, and that he was making parkin in the kitchen, with TV 'chef' wife Mary, at the precise time that Rod Hull took a fatal tumble.
For me, that was the day the music died. Although Rod Hull and Emu were never really renowned for their musical talents, they provided a tragic curtain call to what should have been a wonderful evening.
It made me think of legends, past and present. Sadly, no longer with us.
Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Brian Jones, Jim Morrison, Elvis Presley, John Lennon, Marvin Gaye, Marc Bolan, and that bloke out of Free, who sang 'Alright Now.'
It was sheer unadulterated joy, tempered by a desperate sadness that a man who stuck his arm up a pretend emu's arse for a living, should meet such a tragic end.
Never mind all that American Pie bollocks, with Chevys and levys and whisky and rye and all that crap - the music died the day Rod Hull did a header off that roof.
And it never came back to life after that.
It was all downhill.
That was the day the music died.
We lost George Harrison, Ian Dury, Joe Strummer, Phil Lynott, Duke Fakir, Luther Vandross, Amy Winehouse, Whitney Houston, Davey Jones, half of the Bee Gees (Not quite but according to sources, almost.), Jade Goody and Frank Carson.
It all comes down to Rod Hull falling off that roof. It appeared to have a kind of domino effect - I didn't much care about that kiddie fiddling middle aged white woman who was once a moonwalking black kid, and I didn't really care about Freddie Mercury (Who sounds infinitely better with hindsight) but Rod Hull's sad demise absolutely ruined my day of triumph.
I should have been basking in reflected glory that day, but I wasn't. I was just gutted. For me, that was the day the music died, and the day I finally almost grew into being a mature adult.
With a mental age of nine.
As I asked myself:
"Why do you bother to get up in the mornings and work your arse off to feed your family and pay your taxes when all you really had to do was stick your hand up a pretend flightless bird's arse and get on the telly by being a talentless twat?"
I didn't really have an answer for that.
I just wish I'd thought of it.
That's when the music died for me.
Simon Cowell and Stock-Aitken-Waterman is a whole different story.
Anyway, thanks, Rod Hull out of Rod Hull and Emu for completely fucking my life up.
You big bird bothering bastard.
Do I win a prize? Okay - I'll clock out...