The ‘Hand of Henry’ affair got Wolves’ Sporting Star columnist John Lalley thinking about the clear conscience of one of their own that decided a grand prize back in 1947.

“A lot of people have since asked me why I didn’t bring him down or pull Stubbins back by his shirt – and I suppose I could have done.

“But I didn’t want to go down in history as the man who decided the destiny of a championship with a professional foul.”

Perhaps these sentiments might wash over the articulate brain of Thierry Henry and football sure has changed since 1947, but back then this was the standpoint of Wolves captain Stan Cullis after playing his final match in a gold shirt.

And it was no ordinary match; the winners of the game clinched the league title, the biggest prize the club game could offer. Cullis took the moral high ground when he declined to take out Albert Stubbins when the Liverpool striker had a clear run to our goal. Stubbins duly converted the chance to send the trophy back to Anfield instead of Molineux.

Had Cullis flattened Stubbins, he would not have been sent off as he surely would have been today and there were certainly no TV cameras to provide any damning evidence. So a tearful Cullis concluded his distinguished playing career with no medals to his name.

Of course, he enjoyed the considerable consolation as our greatest manager by stuffing the trophy cabinets of Molineux fit to burst. Before anybody wants to sneer at the merits of Cullis as a player, Tommy Lawton, arguably England’s greatest centre-forward delivered this verdict.

“Certainly the greatest centre-half I ever played with or against. Neil Franklin, Billy Wright, Bobby Moore, Franz Beckenbauer, in my opinion Stan had them all beat. He was a fierce tackler but a ball  player too, he could hold it up until someone was in a good position or start an attack himself.

“He also had tremendous confidence that enabled him to keep his head, no matter what the danger.’”

No shrinking violet then Cullis, in fact it’s hard to imagine any player who hated finishing second more than he did. I didn’t see him play, but I’ll never forget on the odd occasions I had enough money to gain admission to the old Molineux Enclosure.

Watching his torment during matches was an education, he always stood in the doorway of the player’s entrance, going through agonies as our manager. His face contorted with concentration was fit to win any gurning contest in England.

He literally lived every kick of the ball and his passion was in winning. His autobiography could hardly have been titled anything other than ‘All for the Wolves’ and check out the inscription on his statue outside the North Bank which now bears his name, ‘You only get one life and I gave mine to Wolves.’ He meant it too, but could not bring himself to cheat, not even for the Wolves.

Every time I read about that Liverpool game, I wish Cullis had sent Stubbins into orbit and Wolves had won the Championship. We had to wait another seven years before we finally got our hands on that title, with Cullis as manager and I wish that we had been champions four times instead of three.

Liverpool could have spared us the one – after all, they have won the damn thing eighteen times! Apparently Cullis was reluctant to talk about that specific game, less still was he prepared to blow his own trumpet about his ideals regarding fair play. But, unlike me, he never regretted what he did in the Liverpool game until the day he died.

What he would have made of today’s double-talk, moralising and hypocrisy over last week’s events in Paris is anyone’s guess. Football never fails to cut a ludicrous picture when it enters one of its periodical fits of virtuous indignation.

They are as prissy and self-righteous as pantomime dames. Players and their PFA representatives blame the referee for missing the felony, not one of their numbers for committing it. Shift the responsibility, exonerate yourself at all costs, just blame the police not the burglar. If ever a moral compass was navigating in a crooked direction, it belongs to football – a game that sold its soul to the big bucks of TV years ago.

A game where virtually every player in every team will pull any stroke to gain an advantage and bleat their innocence when caught banged to rights. If the perpetrator gets away with it and is wearing our colours, we celebrate with hysterical acclamation. Blimey, Peter Knowles quit football appalled by its cynicism, and that was back in 1969.

Culpable players, holier-than thou-pundits and even opportunistic politicians pounced on the Henry affair and all succeeded in sounding as piously pompous as each other. Some of them actually spouted about ‘retaining the good name of the game’ without turning a hair!

At least Mick McCarthy had the honesty to admit that he would take a victory in Henry mode given our current plight. Stan Cullis might not have shared his successor’s sentiments, but he would have saluted his honesty.