They had been saying the cup final is no longer special, the brand has been diluted, the wine thinned, clubs don’t take it as seriously as they did, nor do the fans, it’s not like it was in the old days, bring back the white horse.

I loved the old Wembley, wouldn’t have a word said against it, so I set off yesterday awfully biased. Okay, the concrete was nasty and brutal, the seats cramped, the lavatories appalling, but my little heart used to soar the minute I stepped out of the Tube and saw the twin towers.

The new Wembley, with its arch, is already an icon. (Funny how icons are immediately made these days. Used to take for ever for such recognition. But it’s like footballers: you’re a legend now if you stay at the same club for more than half an hour.) It’s supposed to be visible 40 miles away, this new iconic arch. They must mean from the air and if you happen to be a bird. I live only 10 miles away and I went to our top bedroom before setting off, but nope, no sign of it.

In ye olden days, going to Wembley for the cup final was by far the biggest football event of the year. For northern fans it was often the only time they ever travelled to London. They got up in the middle of the night to catch the special to Euston or King’s Cross, arriving at dawn, when they’d go on coach tours of the sites, visit the shops with their wives, then arrive, usually pretty merry, at Wembley.

From the 1950s onwards the cup final was a national event for everyone, not just footer fans. For many years it was the only live game most people saw on television, until 1992 and the arrival of the Premiership and wall-to-wall coverage.

Yesterday the BBC’s coverage started at 12.40pm. What a disgrace. In the old days, we’d have been glued to the telly since breakfast, knowing that every programme, from Swap Shop to the weather forecast, would have a cup final element. My favourite bit was always the players’ wives, close-ups of their coiffeurs, chats with them on their own coach en route to Wembley. Long before they became Wags, they provided endless fun as we gaped in awe at their beehives and short skirts.

We would travel with the players on their coach, the cameras tracking every moment, as solemnly and assiduously as they did for Diana’s funeral. The captains did a witty piece to camera about their players, taking the mick. By the time we got to kick-off, we were all knackered.

So, yes, as a national spectacle, the cup final probably has lost some of its glamour and special-ness. Even as a piece of live football on telly, it is just one of many big games we have every season. It still gets taken round the world, but I suspect the stats that the BBC trots out each year are as reliable as those spouted by politicians. About 10 years ago I happened to be in Turkey on cup final day. There was a Turkish league game on beforehand and the hotel’s TV lounge was heaving. The moment our cup final started, the room emptied; I was the only one watching. The fact that far-flung TV stations take the programme doesn’t mean locals are watching.

Two things happened this year to bring back a glow to the cup final. First, we had the season’s two best teams meeting. You could argue that’s a shame, proof that the cup final is now an exclusive club, the winner restricted to the top four teams, as it has been since Everton won in 1995. Chelsea and Manchester United would probably have preferred to be in Wednesday’s European Cup final but didn’t make it, so yesterday was vital for both, which perhaps contributed to the underwhelming game. Still, they are the nation’s two leading clubs: imagine if Watford had made it.

Second, of course, the brave new stadium, which all true footer fans will want to experience. The first shock was £10 for a programme. Dear God. That was twice what I paid for my seat, the best in the house, for the 1966 World Cup final. As programmes go, it will never compete, for design or purple prose, with that programme for the first very Wembley in 1923, which cost thruppence. “The greatest arena in the world - the largest, most comfortable, best equipped, holding more than 125,000 and in area equals the Biblical city, Jericho.” I’ve always wondered who measured Jericho for them.

This year’s programme has the usual banalities from the FA’s chairman. “Welcome to the spectacular ‘New Wembley’,” he wrote, as if we didn’t know where we were. This was followed by more banalities from the chief executive. “Good afternoon and welcome to Wembley.” Just in case we’d forgotten.

But, on reading it properly - well, I did arrive two hours early - it was an excellent publication: 148 pages, almost all of them editorial, which was a change. Match programmes in the Premiership these days are filled with merchandising or arse-licks for the sponsors.

I did miss one thing, though, compared with the 1923 programme. In their player profiles, which were better written, they also included weights and heights of each player. I always think such information is of great socio-economic interest. We accept we've all got bigger over the decades, but it’s nice to have proof. Our modern player is 6ft and thin like a ballet dancer; in 1923 he was 5ft 8in and sturdy like a butcher. Wayne Rooney is of course a throwback.

The stadium itself, yes, that is a spectacle. Lots of space and grace. My heart did leap up when first I saw it, like a rainbow in the sky. Great stadium, shame about the game.

Hunter Davies’s memoirs The Beatles, Fooball And Me, are published in paperback by Headline Review (£7.99)

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