General Election imminent but not yet

 General Election imminent but not yet.

At some point in the immediate future the UK government may find itself staring bleakly down the bottom of a barrel. It could be that they're simply delaying the inevitable and yet it's never over until the impossible becomes highly unlikely. Sadly, the days of alleged Tory mismanagement may be numbered. Besides, the Conservative party have been in charge of the the UK for 14 years and it's all beginning to look a bit jaded and faded. The popular opinion is that the Tories have now outstayed their welcome and passed their sell by date. Cliches can never adequately explain the reasons for the patently obvious.

There is something tired, haggard, withdrawn and forlorn about the Tory government that they almost looks pathetically dated. It's rather like looking at an old chest of drawers in your living room that have been there for so long that you almost feel desperately sorry for them. They've got to be chucked in the local rubbish depot because they're no longer fit for purpose and besides it's just worn looking, antiquated and old fashioned. You look at the scratches on the edges and the generally grubby appearance of the said piece of furniture and it's got to go on the tip.

And this looks increasingly the case with the Conservatives. Even the late and sometimes overpowering Margaret Thatcher didn't know how to accept defeat gracefully and graciously. She simply sat tight, remained stubbornly adamant that she knew best, digging in her heels determinedly and refusing to believe that she was just a self righteous and pompous woman who had to be taken seriously. So after 11 years as Prime Minister she was simply driven out of 10 Downing Street like a female scorned. She wept for a while, tears streaming down her face as the Cabinet colleagues she thought were on her side turned on her and ordered her out of the front door and told her that enough was enough. So she went grudgingly.

Last night there was a furore by the British seaside. No, there were no controversial confrontations between modern day Mods and Rockers gangs. This was not Brighton on a dramatic August Bank Holiday Monday in the mid 1960s. There were no roaring motorbikes and people wearing leather jackets. Instead this was Blackpool and Blackpool South to be more geographically precise. The location was not one suited for an aggressive bust up between two biking rivals but rather an important political by election that could be an encouraging omen for the Labour party.

In fact Labour's convincing victory in a local election that could be the perfect prelude to overall victory in the General Election couldn't have come at a better time for Labour leader Sir Keir Starmer. There is a widespread conviction that the Labour party have now been revitalised, refreshed and plucked from the dank depths of obscurity and the land of wilderness. This time 14 years ago Labour were struggling embarrassingly, treading water and on the verge of dissolution, vanishing without trace and never to be seen again. Gordon Brown had left by the exit door with his doting wife Sarah and closely knit family. Labour were now in distress, attacked by all and sundry and just a busted flush. 

But here we are in General Election year and the mood of the nation is both toxic, inflammatory and, potentially explosive given the frequency of riots and demonstrations in the West End of London. The people are restless, disillusioned, highly critical and not very supportive at all. Prime Minister Rishi Sunak sits in his Downing Street bunker with sandbags and metaphorical barbed wire around him. He can sense that his fate has now been sealed but will just keep going in case the public change their minds and back him because of some misleading rumour that something has gone right for the Tories.

Yesterday marked the arrival of the local elections when all the councillors of their respective parties start pacing around leisure and community centres like lost and wandering souls looking for somebody to talk to because nobody really wants to have a chat with them. So they kicked their heels last night deep into the small hours of the morning, hoping and wishing that their political party will win quite emphatically eventually.

It has now become fairly evident that the Tories are like battered and bruised heavyweight boxers whose eyes are black and blue, swollen beyond recognition and spattered with blood on their shorts. It used to be the case that the Tories could bluff their way out of this dire predicament like those shifty and cunning criminals who are accused of robbing the most famous bank in the world. The results of yesterday's elections have yet to filter through but something tells you that this is going to be very grisly and gruesome for the Conservatives. They may have overstepped the mark too many times.

For Sir Keir Starmer, those distant recollections of Tony Blair being declared Prime Minister in 1997 seem like some yellowing parchment from another century. Blair was Britain's last Labour Prime Minister and Starmer must be feeling that this could be his golden age. He remains a highly respected human rights lawyer and makes all the correct noises for an incoming Prime Minister. The words and phrases are perfectly pitched but without any of the legal references that you might have thought he'd resort to but then decided not to.

At the moment the Labour party have clinched over 150 of all the key strategic seats in the local council election while the Tories can only look in some desperation. If this scenario were to be reproduced at the General Election then the Conservatives may have to wave the white flag of surrender now. Of course they won't be pushed but the writing is on the proverbial wall and even Sunak must have resigned himself to a crushing defeat in the General Election- whenever that may be.

Further proof of what may seem a formality is the almost certain re-election of Sadiq Khan as the Mayor of London. Khan of course pins his colours to the Labour party but is so vilified by those who think he may have achieved little of any note that you begin to think that all is not exactly wine and roses for either Khan or the Labour party. 

Ever since the bad, old days of both Boris Johnson and Ken Livingstone the role of Mayor of London has almost been diminished and undermined by those who bad mouthed both Johnson and Livingstone. But Khan will resume his seemingly stressful duties as soon as possible and some of us will wonder why. Johnson, as we all know, went from one outrageous publicity fiasco to the other while Livingstone just opened his mouth with a barrage of antisemitism that saw him shamed, stigmatised and blasted into orbit. Goodbye Ken.

Today the local election results will trickle in gradually before being completed at some point shortly. There is no such thing as a sure thing. Politics is about to head into a dark tunnel of damaging, slanderous comments, accusations and counter accusations, snide remarks, name calling and vicious vitriol. Already Sunak, Starmer and jolly Ed Davy of the Lib Dems have travelled up and down the country, promising ambitiously, then arriving at hastily costed programmes and projects that can only benefit the country. The financial bean counters have been produced and as usual, we're better than you are and you've ruined the country.

So there you are Ladies and Gentlemen. At the moment the Labour party, for the first time in 14 years will now begin to pinch itself for the comfortable position it finds itself in. Not since the heady days of Tony Blair and, quite possibly, the early, salad days of Harold Wilson have Labour had it so good. And yet that slogan was once coined by another Tory Prime Minister and Harold Macmillan always thought he knew best. General elections are always prone to unpredictability and some just easy to call. But we'll be there on some unspecified Thursday night, disentangling the knotty issues and witnessing yet another political turning point. Your guess is as good as mine but it does seem that Labour are on the verge of something pretty special and not before time as some might add.

Horror hits Hainault

 Horror hits Hainault

You awoke this morning to the news which both shocked and horrified you within a matter of seconds. This morning a mad and deranged man took it upon himself to terrorise a neighbourhood literally half an hour from the idyllic East London suburb you grew up in 60 years ago. For a minute you were dumbfounded and slightly disbelieving for violence and murder are not normally words you'd associate with Hainault in East London in the sunny uplands of Essex.

But there it was right before your eyes, a manic and mentally disturbed individual who turned up in a quiet backwater of East London and just created panic, fear and a palpable sense of anxiety that must have left most of the people who live in Hainault's sleepy terraced houses trembling and just terrified. For those who have seen it all before then this was something they may have been expecting because the police are never there when you need them and besides the whole of Britain is losing its moral compass anyway. And yet what else could have the police done under such extenuating circumstances.

It could have happened in any other part of Britain because, on a fairly frequent and possibly daily basis or so it would seem, firearm related atrocities, knife crime and increasing instances of stabbing, have darkened the back streets of both London, the inner cities and right across Britain, running rampant and getting worse by the day. So you expressed your private revulsion and disgust and just threw up your hands in another display of helpless exasperation. The trouble is that these appalling acts of mindless bloodshed and barbarity show no sign of stopping if only because this has become the accepted norm. 

Suddenly at the crack of dawn, some pathetic psychopath who must have been released from a psychiatric ward, burst into a quiet East London community and wreaked havoc. Soon, a man with a yellow top and shabby trousers was seen wildly wielding a sword with a clear intent to kill, maim and harm. Without any provocation, the man was seen climbing onto roofs, threatening to injure and then murder anybody who came anywhere near him. He then jumped down back onto the pavements before scurrying around in an almost catatonic state, crouching on his haunches and then trying to hide himself from view.

For a while it began to resemble the kind of incident you would normally have associated with the local tenements and homes of New York, Harlem perhaps, Chicago quite possibly and then you realised that this was Hainault in East London and it could have been anywhere in Britain. Then the police arrived quickly and intelligently because this was the incident they'd been trained to deal with so diligently and thoroughly. What they probably hadn't bargained for was a bloke with what might have been some samurai sword who was just taking out all his pent up frustrations on an unsuspecting public.

So our evil criminal had by now senselessly killed a 14 year old boy, leaving two policeman severely injured and several others who had suffered superficial injuries but had to be taken to a local hospital by way of a precautionary measure. Eventually the crazy and possessed swordsman was cornered at the back of garages and gardens before being sprayed with pepper and then tasered by the police. It was an outrage that most of us have witnessed before on the evening news without fully absorbing the sheer severity and magnitude of such a crime.

Eventually the man was arrested by the police and normal life was restored to Hainault. Some of us took an inward gulp of breath and tried to pretend that we hadn't been woken from our nightmare. For Hainault is literally a couple of miles from your childhood home in Ilford where, to the best of your knowledge, nothing like this morning's incident was ever known to happen. Ilford was always calm, civilised, respectable, polite and proper to the local constabulary and never in trouble with the boys or girls in blue.

Of course we were subjected to the alarming sound of wailing police sirens and ambulances from time to time but as they always say, you could always leave your back doors open and your neighbours were lovely. In Ilford's bustling town centre there were several nightclubs and pubs who might have carried something of a reputation but none that you'd ever heard about. There was the Room at the Top and Ilford Palais, two social gathering places where the kids of the 1960s, 70s and 80s would hang out with a certain amount of intoxication in their bloodstream. And maybe some of the pubs did get quite rowdy but nothing on the monumental scale of the Queen Vic where the Mitchell brothers drunk in TV's East Enders while both the landlords and landladies were always quarrelling. 

And so you watched today's events unfold quite dramatically and couldn't really believe the evidence of your eyes. The industrial estate in Hainault which employs work for most of the factory workers and warehouse staff is, as far as you know, still there, a prosperous business area that today was cordoned off by fleets of police cars and ambulances. The local residents, of course were scratching their heads in bewilderment. This was off the scale, unheard of and certainly there was never any precedent for this shock horror moment.

For some of us are still trying to take it all in. At some point we will discover the reasons for this random attack, this unforgivable violation in a very private suburb. Terrorism was ruled out almost immediately and you can only imagine the feelings which must have been experienced at the time by those who just wanted to go to work, school, college or university,  going about their lives in a dignified fashion.

Most of us are probably immune to bad news since the world  might have lost the ability to control its temper decades ago. But we're the decent and well mannered ones, the cultured ones. We just want to live in a society where the inhabitants in all populations just get along with each other without fearing swords, knives or guns that shatter the peace. The citizens of Hainault will of course, settle down for the evening, enjoy some precious family time and switch on the TV only to be reminded of what happened today. But there is of course an inner resilience and strength of character about the people of Hainault that will support them all the way. We must hope that they never have to go through such a traumatic ordeal ever again.

National Clean Comedy Day

 National Clean Comedy Day

You must remember the good, old fashioned days of comedy which were clean and unblemished by rude words. Then there were the offensive stand up comedians who would shock and appal their audiences with a barrage of blue language and foul mouthed, four letter word expletives that needed neither translation nor explanation. But nobody was ever physically hurt so we didn't bat an eyelid and just laughed. You knew where these chuckle and laugh out loud masters of their trade were going with their crude, satirical, irreverent, demeaning and racially controversial material. They were pushing buttons, unnecessary boundaries, fighting against the Establishment because they were beacons of purity, well mannered and respectable.

Some of us can still hear the dulcet tones of Mary Whitehouse, the clean it up campaigner who tried so desperately to get rid of filth on the TV, radio and any other media outlet who so much as murmured an obscenity. There she was reeling with paroxysms of anger if somebody mentioned something that was even faintly suggestive, crass or insulting. Whitehouse was the one who once stood up at a Women's Institute conference during the 1960s and believed her family had never heard so many vile vulgarities as was the case on the previous evening's TV viewing. What she'd heard, or so we were led to believe, were the groanings and grievances of Scottish soap opera characters. How unforgivable.

And yet still the moral parameters must exist in some corners of British society. For instance the 1960s sitcom Till Death Us Do Part almost wallowed in racist references, the mutterings of a disgruntled man by the name of Alf Garnett(aka Warren Mitchell) who did nothing but complain and whinge. Then there were the political rantings which were hardly worthy of a life sentence in prison but they did antagonise and divide. This of course is where clean comedy finds itself in the public domain today if only as a corrective and antidote to all those sceptics, cynics and trouble makers who keep stirring the pot. But do they? It's an interesting topic for discussion.

Back in the days of seaside innuendo and dark humour the 1960s gave us TV's That Was The Week Was, a weekly reflection on the week's latest news in predominantly politics and then the leading Cabinet figures who almost seemed to invite saucy derision with their every word. That Was The Week Was poked fun at the Establishment almost savagely, making sure that every joke was seasoned with an extra spice jar of bitter, biting and acerbic humour that was deliberately humiliating. 

Now TW3, as it was known at the time, was never considered to be dirty and appallingly nasty on the ear or eye but in its way was almost measured and cruel to be kind. The scripts were beautifully written, the attacks on Harold Wilson, the British Prime Minister at the time, almost relentless and the Labour party in government were cast into the world of fun and caricature that some felt they so richly deserved at the time. Then it was the Profumo scandal which must have felt like all the scriptwriters birthdays had come at once.

So where do we go for a subjective interpretation of clean comedy? We could be biased and bring before us for consideration, firstly Morecambe and Wise and at the same time, the Two Ronnies. Eric Morecambe and Ernie Wise, two natural comedians who had honed their craft in the music halls of Post War British theatre.  Everybody adored Eric and Ernie because not only they were clean they were also just hilarious, memorably compatible, not gag tellers by any stretch of the imagination but a team who just worked brilliantly on head to head conversations, smiling at each other's appearance, laughing at each other and giggling uncontrollably at the ridiculous absurdities that the world kept stumbling on.

There were the masterful comedy skits, TV celebrities and that unforgettable sketch where Eric and Ern dance around the breakfast table to the music of the Stripper. There was the late Glenda Jackson, a distinguished film actress, Angela Rippon, stylish BBC newsreader and those lovable figures in showbusiness who willingly volunteered their services because they knew what they'd get with Morecambe and Wise. Eric and Ern were so consistently funny and original that it seemed at the time that clean comedy would be here to stay for ever. 

Then there were those other clean as a whistle comedians who were almost pillars of originality and the most straightforward delivery. The Four Candles - Fork Handles sketch set in a haberdashers will now go down into history as an increasingly exasperated Ronnie Corbett threatens to blow up in the face of Ronnie Barker. To this day the Two Ronnies remains etched indelibly in the hearts of the British public and only they can tell us how they managed to keep a straight face. Then there were the plays on words written by Ronnie Barker, who choreographed all of those marvellously grammatical works of art as if it were something that came naturally.

Who will ever forget the famous Mastermind sketch where Ronnie Corbett answers a whole series of questions where the previous answer would be completely out of synch with Ronnie Barker's questions? Or the lesser known funny moment set in an ice cream parlour. Ronnie Corbett would wander into the said ice cream parlour asking for a simple ice cream cone with vanilla and flake - known as a 99- at which point Ronnie Barker would reel off a bizarre list of improbably flavours such as fish and chip crisps, steak and kidney pie crisps or, quite possibly, spaghetti crisps.

Today's bill of clean comedy still has a relevant edge to them. There was the excellent the Good Life with Richard Briers and Felicity Kendall, a clean comedy about a husband and wife who became totally pre-occupied with self sufficiency and home grown vegetables so there is a redemptive feel to clean comedy.  The superbly polished Peter Kay just leaves most of us crying with laughter while some of us just delight in the kind of observational comedy that can never be matched. Your favourite remains Jasper Carrott, a comedian from Birmingham, whose whole act consists of exquisite stories and ingenious observations about life, friends, families and the world around him.

So whatever you do on National Clean Comedy day this is the day for just remembering those side splittingly amusing TV comedies from yesteryear without resorting to a strongly lettered e-mail or letter to the Times or Daily Telegraph. Comedy of any description, remains a fashionable excuse for debate but whatever you do try not to follow in the footsteps of one Mary Whitehouse who got all hot and bothered over nothing in particular. Mind you one look at the current Government at the moment and keeping it clean would be the last thing on anybody's agenda. Still folks, keep laughing, smiling and giggling. It's good for the soul.

The final stages of the football season

 The final stages of the football season

We are now heading towards the final stages of the football season and there are pressing issues that need to be addressed. Relegation and promotion imponderables have yet to be figured out and there is a sense here that we may have been this way a thousand times without quite grasping the inner meaning and mechanics of the Premier League. Now though, in complete contrast to the last three seasons, three teams are battling it out for the Premier League winners trophy and, it has to be said, this is just enthralling.

Last night Manchester City, who seemed to have won everything in sight over the last couple of seasons, once again posted their ominous intentions. After their comprehensive 4-0 demolition of Brighton at the Amex Stadium, City reminded you of rich Victorian industrialists about to broker another immensely profitable deal in the City of London. Sometimes it just seems too easy and effortless and as a neutral, you wish Manchester City would just stumble briefly at the final hurdle, thoroughbreds who just run out of steam and then graciously concede defeat as runners up for a change.

But City now have vital games in hand over their closest contenders Liverpool and Arsenal. Arsenal now hold an important one point advantage over City which means very little in the bigger picture. This chase to the finishing post is so fascinating and intriguing that even Manchester City may have been taken by complete surprise. Psychologically, Liverpool were dealt a heavy blow to their title's hopes with a 2-0 defeat to Everton at Goodison Park but this may not be the end of the story. Liverpool go to West Ham tomorrow still clinging onto dear life and perhaps another resurgence could be within their capabilities. 

West Ham, for their part, have now resigned themselves to dull mediocrity in the safe harbour of the Premier League mid table. Their season of course has been littered with triumphant highs and demoralising lows where potential suddenly became extinct overnight. Their 5-2 capitulation to Crystal Palace at Selhurst Park last Sunday, the feeble surrender to Fulham at the London Stadium and innumerable other collapses have turned a moderately successful season into one of lengthy inquests and worrying questions about their style of play.

For the top three though the final skirmishes have changed all the dynamics. Arsenal have now scored a record breaking number of goals throughout the course of the season and another five goal victory over Chelsea earlier on this week at the Emirates Stadium merely confirmed what we already knew. Arsenal released their attacking handbrake from the opening day of this season and have never looked back. Their football, under Mikel Arteta has been so stunningly ravishing that there were times when it looked as if Arsenal were just playing with their opponents like children with their first set of toys. Then you wondered whether Arsenal were just going through the motions, just assuming that all they had to do was turn up on match day and expecting to win quite comfortably.

So when Arsenal temporarily lost their focus in the shock 2-0 defeat to Aston Villa at the Emirates, some of us detected cracks, blemishes, tiny scar wounds, a side exposed and ever so slightly vulnerable. This though was just a fleeting setback and even Manchester United at Sir Alex Ferguson's best had a brittle chin and there were creaking defensive noises. Even Bill Shankly and Bob Paisley's breath taking Liverpool sides were caught out from time to time. And now Manchester City can see history in their headlights and may find them too dazzling on the final day of the season. The plot thickens.

As usual Manchester City just gave the impression of swaggering strollers along the seaside promenade and Brighton were just appropriate opponents. In one staggering period of utter dominance, City just kept the ball in their possession as if it were solely their divine right to do so. There were roughly ten minutes left of the game and City were challenging Brighton to retrieve the ball, taunting Brighton, passing the ball amongst themselves and refusing to give the Seagulls even the remotest sniff of the ball. City were four up and just managing the game admirably as if it were simply a training ground routine.

On Sunday Arsenal travel to their noisy North London neighbours for what could prove to be the most thrilling local derby of all time. Some of the Arsenal traditionalists still harbour fond memories of the Double season when Arsenal went to White Hart Lane in the final match of the season after the Gunners had just beaten Liverpool in the 1971 FA Cup Final. Ray Kennedy's winning goal for Arsenal handed them the old First Division trophy but the late and sadly missed Kennedy would, in years to come, feature prominently in a Liverpool side who were just unbeatable and seemingly invincible.  

Manchester City, for their part, have vital games in hand over Arsenal. For City this is familiar territory, something they've become accustomed to after wrapping up the Treble last season. Arsenal of course were left panting and puffing in City's wake after playing some of the sweetest football their fans had hitherto seen since the victorious days of Arsene Wenger. 

Football has a funny habit of catching you unawares when least expected. For most of last season Arsenal were racing away with the Premier League title until a light blue juggernaut came roaring past them at the rate of knots and just overtook them as if they weren't there. Manchester City would win the Premier League as if it was something that was preordained to happen. Then City swotted aside Manchester United in the FA Cup Final after the quickest goal to be scored from the start and then AC Milan were handsomely disposed of in the Champions League Final.

So it's either Pep Guardiola, Mikel Arteta and Jurgen Klopp for the ultimate honour of Premier League winners, indisputably top of the League. It seems reasonable to assume that Klopp's Liverpool will have to settle for a third place finish and Klopp will wave farewell to Liverpool with a Champions League place definitely ensured whatever happens. Arteta will be bitterly disappointed if Arsenal miss out again but you have a hunch that this time the streets of North London will be ablaze with red and white scarves twirling jubilantly at their first Premier League title for 20 years. City's Guardiola though must be hoping that a record fourth consecutive Premier League has to be theirs for the taking. We will see. May the best team win.

St George's Day

 St George's Day

Today was meant to be a day that was somehow quintessentially and properly, a celebration of Englishness, an unashamed homage to patriotism, expressing everything that is stereotypically English and perhaps a good enough reason to highlight all the good qualities and values that make being British or English so important to those who live in the United Kingdom.

And yet on the very day we should be high fiving the literary exploits of William Shakespeare whose birthday it is today as well, nothing of any real cultural significance happened anywhere. Instead, this afternoon in London, the capital city became altogether too controversial, heated, inflammatory and impassioned. Not for the first time in its illustrious history, London became the centre of political demonstrations, powerful voices, vocal discord and pointless protests. There was also trouble so there was no change on that front.

It was supposed to be St George's Day, a day reserved for good, old fashioned English qualities such as reserve, restraint, dignity, modesty and reticence since England somehow refuses to get excited about the kind of things it has always excelled at. England loves its pomp and ceremony, its royal family, red pillar post boxes, vicars on bicycles, church services on a Sunday, jumble sales, large marrows at village fetes, strawberries and beetroots at the height of summer and its general jollity when somebody mentions tea and cake with just a biscuit or two.

But this afternoon Tommy Robinson, an alleged troublemaker and passionate campaigner on behalf of anything that defies the Establishment, got all busy and started shouting the odds. Soon his supporters were in confrontation mode with the police, loud mouthed and aggressive, posturing and threatening the peace before pushing, shoving, provoking, finger jabbing and then, to quote the popular vernacular, getting stuck in. Soon fists were flying, provocative banners were being held proudly and suddenly all hell seemed to be breaking loose.

And so it was that St George's Day, which should have been a day for dancing around maypoles and rolling cheeses down British hillsides, became a scene of ugly crime. It was no longer a day of peace and tranquillity, for flying the Union Jack and singing all the way down to Piccadilly Circus and gathering at Eros for another convivial knees up. It was now a day of sinister nationalism, vaguely racist overtones and something much more uncomfortable and disagreeable. 

So rather than extolling the virtues of British identity and everything we've come to cherish about Britain, its lovable eccentricity at times perhaps we should also wax lyrical about its expertise, its competence, the renowned skills it has never been afraid to boast about. Of course Britain loves its beer, alcohol, its arts and crafts, the artisans who make their vases, cups and bowls, the pottery that almost comes naturally to this fair island. Britain doffs its cap to village blacksmiths, its silk weavers and a manufacturing heritage that perhaps it should be doing much more to acknowledge but almost takes for granted.

Regrettably though the harsh reality is that St George's Day has now passed off without any event or incident, not so much as a whimper, murmur or commotion. What we had in its place was some pathetic individual with a Tannoy speaker, barking out political mumbo jumbo that sounded vaguely nonsensical. Robinson kept referring to the mainstream political parties as useless entities who simply weren't serving Britain effectively.

And so today St George's Day just lingers in isolation as one of those days that is just considered as another working day with no sense of  self congratulation and no recognition of its historic achievements. We will of course remember the great poet and playwright who radically changed the landscape of medieval theatre for ever with Macbeth, the Merchant of Venice, Hamlet, Othello, Romeo and Juliet and innumerable masterpieces that broke so many boundaries for centuries to follow.

So to William Shakespeare it's another happy birthday and anniversary and St George's Day. It may not feel like it but one day Britain may wake up and realise that it can remember what day it really is. It is April 23rd and we can still make a fuss about St George's Day so if the rest of the world can treat their days as those of rejoicing and celebration then so can we.    

Happy Pesach and Passover to the world and chag semach Pesach to everybody.

Happy Pesach and Passover to the world and chag semach Pesach to everybody.

At this point of the year the global Jewish community frantically sets about the business of spring cleaning, cleaning of Chametz, the traditional ceremony of burning and temporarily disposing of anything in the Jewish household of bread or unleavened bread. This is the important point since for just over a week, Jews across the world celebrate the festival of Pesach or Passover. It is the springtime gathering of kindred spirits, Jewish families with a common bond, singing from the same Haggadah, the book with moving passages from the story of Pesach, the blessings and prayers and the exodus of Jews from Egypt.

We have done this for thousands and thousands of years and do so with considerable pleasure because this is our time to share our favourite stories from the Haggadah, to reminisce on cups of wine from Elijah, the symbolic bitter herbs( the charosets) Maror, the salt water representing tears on the seder table and everything allegorical about Pesach. This is the time when Jewish families gather around our table and are just be grateful, blessed and healthy. Our kids love it and the adults are pretty impressed and euphoric. So we smile at each other and chuckle openly at the Afikomen as the children and grandchildren are kindly told to search for the elusive Afikomen, spreading good cheer and bonhomie.

But Pesach has always united us in both loss, grief and adversity because of the deeply set historical divisions that may have been left to just fester because we just assume that the rest of the Jewish calendar year will be filled with harmonious months, days and weeks of our lives. And yet how to explain the ten plagues of  boils and lice accompanied by all manner of diseases and abominations? So we wander through the pages of Haggadah with a well entrenched fascination, that sense of sheer astonishment at how dark and shocking some of those Biblical events must have been. 

And yet Pesach is all about families and children, the foundation stone of any society, the models of reliability that they've always provided for us, the stability they give us when things go horribly wrong, the balance that keeps us fully functional and the comfort they bring us in loss. Whatever the year may have brought thus far, will now be reinforced with essential love and guidance. You can now eat matza to your hearts content, that moreish and addictive Pesach food that can be eaten at any time throughout Passover without any feeling of guilt and shame. Matzas can be devoured with lashings of butter and anything savoury or sweet that takes your fancy.

So we place our kippot(skull cap) on our heads and listen to the richly detailed story of Pesach, the comprehensive explanations, answers to the apparently insoluble problems and the reasons why. This is the moment when the genuine puzzles and unfathomable become abundantly clear. Why indeed do we lean to one side when for the rest of the year you can lean wherever you like? We chant and sing the appropriate prayers because that's something that came almost naturally to us. We asked the same questions and then answered in the same breath. Pesach grounds us fully, roots us to the ground and maintains the easy flow of life. 

Now you find yourself drawn to Pesach celebrations when your wonderfully loving grandma and grandpa, mum and dad, sat eagerly and happily in glorious anticipation of the seder service. As a child you gazed up in wide eyed wonderment at your grandpa Jack, the most learned of Hebrew scholars because he was indeed the font of all human knowledge and wisdom. He was the one who absorbed everything there was to know about Judaism, the marvellous emphasis on certain Hebrew words that completely defied your understanding as a child.

Then the seder service and would be over in lightning speed. In a matter of quarter of an hour, the prayers were uttered reverentially, wine spilt over Haggadahs, matza crumbs liberally sprinkled across the seder table and that was that for another year. For a moment you were just stunned into silence, barely believing that something so precious and cherished should be regarded as a brief homage to Judaism. Surely Pesach should have been considered, measured, savoured and just listened to for much longer than you were led to believe.

But my lovely grandpa, in his smart grey suit, grey hair neatly cut and combed as was his wont because he had been one of the most accomplished barbers in the East End of London, knew everything. He spoke every word in a hectic rush that at times just sounded incomprehensible. In fact he muttered and mumbled Hebrew grammar with a complete recognition of every paragraph and sentence, every page. He would smile tenderly at me and repeatedly tell me that everything was absolutely right and how correct he was. There was never any cause for argument because grandpa knew best. Of course he was right.

Then my delightful grandma, lavishing tenderness and affection on their grandchildren Mark and Joe, would run in and out of the kitchen, industrious, beautifully affectionate and caring deeply for her grandchildren. And then there was the cup of wine which had of course been drunk by Elijah. Both mum and dad, grandma and grandma joked about the alleged arrival of Elijah since as a kid you were very impressionable and just agreed with them. You were told to look at the ripple of wind on the top of the cup of wine and the slight movement of the wine meant Elijah had undoubtedly visited their home for just a sip. 

It would be the most satisfying and joyful of evenings for both my mum and dad and grandparents. Springtime had well and truly arrived although that egg on the seder table looked completely unpalatable. The shell was burnt and was just inedible, while the matzas were readily available to my grandma and grandpa at any time of the year. Everything was both spiritual and communal.  In my grandparents home in Gants Hill, Essex matzas would dominate their big summer house at the back of their home, lined up in perfectly symmetrical fashion around the room.

In a sense Pesach is just as uplifting and heart warming as any other Jewish festival of the year. It is the beginning of spring, the blossoming of flora and fauna, those first buds on trees bulging with brightness and colour. It is the renewal of the seasons, that magnificent transition to spring from winter, the handing over of the baton to summer. 

Pesach has always meant different things to all of us. It reminds us of how appetising matzas are because they just happen to be there, rather like  jars of sweets or the bars of chocolate we couldn't possibly resist. We know that Pesach is very much a social gathering of the familiar and the traditional, the good and positive of our lives, happiness and laughter. How good is that, hey? Pesach is simply brilliant. Chag semach Pesach to all of my Jewish friends and family. You're all the best.  

Derek Underwood dies

 Derek Underwood dies

At the start of what promises to be yet another busy and eventful season, cricket today mourned the loss of one of its treasured legends. When Derek Underwood skipped jauntily down the pavilion steps at either Lords, Headingley, Trent Bridge, Old Trafford or the Oval you knew you were in the presence of greatness and artistry, cunning and duplicity, nimble fingered dexterity and enormous charm. Derek Underwood represented Englishness, reassurance and an innate ability to remain calm in a crisis and just committed to the cause whether it be a losing or winning one. 

Derek Underwood belongs to a period when men opened doors to ladies, when courtesy and politeness were somehow the only characteristics of the game that were essential to cricket's welfare, standing and livelihood. Underwood was a model of consistency, almost unobtrusively dependable and fiercely conscientious throughout a long and gruelling Test or county match. Underwood never let anybody down because you knew where you stood with him. He was honest as the day was light, quietly thoughtful at times with a cricketing brain that always seemed to be working overtime and never disappointing.

Whenever Australia or the West Indies were in England, Derek Underwood was always prepared, anticipating the big occasion, sensing the atmosphere, alert and responsive, rolling up his distinctive white shirt sleeves with vigour, purpose and a concentration focused solely on spinning a ball, achieving both flight and turn with all the precision of an engineer drilling holes into sheets of metal. But it was that bowling action that took the eye almost immediately, like a watercolour painter using just the right amount of red, blue and green.

Derek Underwood started his club career at Kent and remained there loyally and faithfully, shirt billowing in the wind like a yacht sail, tugging up the said shirt right up to the shoulder before going through the familiar routine of rubbing earnestly on already red trousers and then twirling, tweaking the ball covertly and secretively like a magician who never reveals his hand. Then he embarked on those ritualistic party pieces: the spitting, polishing, the clever trickery up his sleeve, the sneakily mischievous and teasingly clandestine. 

But you remember with much affection Underwood's extraordinary England career that stood out most to English cricket fans who were transfixed by his whippy leg spin and spin that veered sharply in all manner of directions before cutting back into the batsman's pads with deadly accuracy. He would invariably let the ball seam, allowing the ball to simply move and wobble all over the place before shattering the wicket and bails. The batsman would hang his head shamefully and dejectedly. Derek Underwood had struck again.

You suspected that one of Underwood's central influences was Ray Illingworth, captain supreme of England from another era and the man responsible for bringing the Ashes back to England on English soil in 1969 for the first time in ages. Illingworth was another toiler and industrious grafter, always wearing immaculately white trousers red as a tomato, picking up the ball for an over of a ball that once it had become new, would behave like a naughty child who simply refuses to go to bed when their parents tell them to do so.

Like Illingworth, Underwood would step back very deliberately and contemplatively, hips moving in perfect unison with the rest of his body. Both were poised and controlled, scheming and manipulative, trundling past respected umpires including David Shepherd and Dickie Bird. Then the red ball would fly out of the index fingers deceitfully, fluttering beautifully into the air before floating fiendishly towards a terrified batsman.

And yet Underwood played alongside the very best that English cricket could offer. His contemporaries included  the incomparable Geoff Boycott for whom cricket was a work of art to be crafted and designed no matter how long it took him. So what if half centuries and centuries were likes works of pottery and clay, building projects where labourers would spend months and years on the same house or flat? Boycott was patient, careful, sensible and judicious and Underwood was made of the same cloth.

There was Alan Knott, one of English cricket's finest wicketkeepers, always with handkerchief sticking out of his trousers pocket, constantly stretching, flexing his back, hat jauntily placed on his head, pretending to scoop up a red ball and then flinging it theatrically to nobody in particular. Then down on his haunches, he would engage his fellow Kentish man with the loveliest grin on his face. Underwood and Knott were in perfect synchronicity, reading from exactly the same book.

There were the rock solid opening batsmen who provided the strongest cement and backbone of an England innings. Dennis Amiss and John Edrich were wise and commanding batsman whose natural inclination was to just grow into their innings. Then they would start pulling on and off drives with majestic power, shots rippling across the ground poetically, through the covers and then square cutting with a flowing swish and flourish of the bat. Then they would secure themselves at the crease with neat forward prods, singles here, twos there, then clubbing mighty sixes and fours with increasing frequency and intensity, hooking purposefully, despatching the short ball with both cruelty and then ferocity.

But today we lament the passing of one of England's most celebrated of cricketers. Derek Underwood just got on with the business of his trade, white shirt pristine clean, before rolling his arms and unleashing an over of mesmeric magic. Today the Garden of England county known as Kent will quietly raise a glass for its native gentleman. He will be remembered wherever and whenever cricket is played because Derek Underwood was just the master of his craft and that's quite an achievement. We salute you sir.