General Election Fever in the air.

 General Election Fever in the air.

You can hardly contain your excitement any longer. For the last five years you've been holding it all in, just bursting to get out to your local community centre, church hall, school or leisure centre. You know what you've got to do because the announcement was made a couple of months and you've had plenty of time to cogitate, reflect, scratch your head and just make the most momentous decision you've made in ages. It's that pivotal point in the year because it's here again and some may be dreading it. Secretly, you've no idea what to do or who to vote for but it is indeed that moment in our lives.

Next Thursday, the good people of the United Kingdom will be converging on the voting epicentres of this great, political bun fight. We are days away from the General Election and it is to be hoped that none of us have got too excited or impassioned because cool heads are required. This is not the time to get all hot and flustered, stressing ourselves out unnecessarily since it is, simply, just another major step forward in the name of democracy and of course our brave soldiers fought and died for the right to vote for the new Prime Minister.

We do the same thing every five years and every time we question the necessity to go through this ludicrous ordeal. The great British public spend five years complaining about politicians but we wouldn't miss this for the world. Or maybe you're just one of the increasing majority who are fed up to the back teeth of it all, disillusioned and disenchanted with the whole political system. You just want to close your curtains or blinds and just blot out all of those honourable, well intentioned comments, the hard sell, the propaganda and the good news you've been waiting for goodness knows how long.

You feel totally disenfranchised, left out in the cold, ignored by those political heavyweights who just keep knocking on your door repeatedly with a market research clipboard in their hands. They may be hoping to persuade you that your friendly local MP  is ideally equipped to bring nothing but prosperity, good health, no more taxes on anything in particular and just thousands of pounds in your pocket. They will guide you to the sunny uplands of our lives, proud to be associated with the United Kingdom. Then you suddenly realise that it's all hot air,  cunning double speak, a pack of scandalous lies and the most wicked of smoke screens. 

For a moment or two you throw your hands up in horror, appalled and disgusted with the same old stories, the same old politicians with rosettes on their shirts, repulsive statements of the obvious and those same wearisome exhortations pleading with you to vote for them. They have to be a considerable improvement on that horrible shower of individuals who regularly sit in their surgeries just waiting to listen to the people who have always mattered. 

But then we look around us and wonder why we keep doing this to ourselves. Every five years we troop down to our voting booths on a Thursday and assess the number of choices and alternatives. Here are  those lovely councillors, the men and women who write a million e-mails and letters  back to their constituents, reassuring them that the cracks in their pavements are being dealt with and those dreadful pot holes in the road are being repaired immediately.

Then you look at the bigger picture. We see the rubbish in our dustbins which hasn't been disposed of for several weeks, the recycling plants containing papers, food and general packaging which have to be removed sooner rather than later. We look at our local doctors waiting rooms and the increasing number of patients who are stretching the NHS to breaking point. We stare angrily at the schools that were built during the reign of Queen Victoria and haven't been touched, modernised and not seen a lick of paint since those golden days.

And then we point accusing fingers at the very people who were elected to serve us in our best interests and despair at the criminal neglect, the sense of grievous abandonment, the dereliction of duty, the pledges they'd kept and then broken. So we just keep bobbing along, trying desperately to pay those extortionate bills and failing to believe those in authority, doubting their wholesome integrity and a reputation that now verges on disrepute. 

For five long and often deeply frustrating years, the Tory party, the Conservative party, have offered up some of the most unbearable, intolerable and idiosyncratic Government since quite possibly Disraeli and Gladstone were youngsters. Firstly, Boris Johnson, an old Etonian, public school, old boys network started bumbling, blundering, defending the indefensible and committing so many mistakes that some of us had lost count. It was the kind of leadership or lack of it, that simply rankled with all of us. Johnson was posh, pompous, patronising, completely out of touch with the great British public and just grasping for intellectual arguments that could save his neck.

It didn't help that Johnson, no sooner than he was in situ as Prime Minister, had to confront a globally destructive virus called Covid 19, initially regarded as just a temporary medical bug, an affliction that would go away quickly and everything would be just alright within weeks. Sadly, Johnson's tenure as Prime Minister would turn it into a veritable horror show that seemed to last indefinitely. The week became weeks, the months became years and before we knew it, the world was at war with a virus that became rampant and then catastrophic.

So for months on interminable months, people were dying of Covid 19 or being confined to hospital with often dire consequences. We now saw breathing masks protecting people with the virus, doctors rushing around frantically and screens being pulled around in hospital wards. Meanwhile, back at 10 Downing Street, Johnson was sending out invitations for lavish parties and alcoholic knees ups. Johnson, himself, was briefly incapacitated with Covid 19 and almost died himself. Then, Boris Johnson lost all favour with the whole of Great Britain with some of the most deplorable behaviour we'd ever seen.

After those daily Press conference with his admirably trustworthy medical scientists Sir Patrick Vallance and Sir Chris Witty, Johnson would traipse away from the scene of the crime and gave himself permission to break the very laws he himself had just implemented. So ministers  just drove all the way to the other end of the country to visit sick parents when Johnson had just said that you were implored not to go anywhere near anybody for fear of just aggravating the problem a hundred fold. What on earth was Johnson doing or not as be it the case?

Eventually, it all became too much and overwhelmingly insufferable for Boris Johnson. There were those crisis moments when Johnson seemed to crack up under the pressure. On one occasion, in front of very important business leaders, movers and shakers, Johnson lost the plot. Fumbling through his papers and then discovering he'd lost his speech, he resorted to references to a children's book and Peppa the Pig became top of a vitally important political agenda which would affect all of us. He said that over the weekend that his wife Carrie and their baby had visited a children's theme park and had loads of fun.

The end was nigh for Johnson and, after much teeth gnashing, Johnson left the building, disappearing off the face of the map, and then quitting before he had much time to think about it. Johnson was replaced by one Liz Truss. Now, not only was Truss infinitely worse than Johnson but she almost claimed the most unenviable distinction of becoming the first Prime Minister to last for five minutes- well, to be accurate-a couple of weeks. Those humiliating attempts at less than inspired accountancy blew up in her face and poor Truss ended up with egg on her face. She had to go and leave 10 Downing Street because the country was up in arms and furious with her.

More recently and much more up to the present day, Great Britain turned to Rishi Sunak, a man who looked exactly like a computer science university student who knew too much. We then discovered that Sunak had a brilliant academic mind with a career in banking at Goldman Sachs that had to be highly regarded.  His natural aptitude for figures, costs and maths turned him into a prime target for Chancellor Exchequer and in sole charge of all money matters. But Sunak was an unashamed careerist, shamelessly aspirational and determined to topple his erstwhile boss Boris Johnson from his perch. 

And for what now seems an eternity, Sunak now finds himself lumbered with a job he may have wanted in the first place but then gave it much careful consideration. Now, with only days away from a General Election, the country is braced for the dirtiest and nastiest General Election in recent times. The Labour party, who have languished in the shadows for 14 years now, are gearing themselves up for a bruising battle royale that some of us may have to look away from. It could be very grisly and gruesome. 

Sir Keir Starmer, leader of the Labour party, is a capable set of hands at the tiller, presentable, respectable, man of the people, a human rights lawyer and barrister who sounds as though he could be the answer to the most complicated problems. Starmer will be promising radical changes that will become a welcome breath of fresh air. Stamer means what he says and has yet to reveal a bone of betrayal in his body. But then, they all say that, do they not?

Starmer is committed to delightful tax cuts, a National Health Service that was healthier and fitter than ever before. Starmer just wants us all to be happy, financially robust beyond our wildest dreams and just go ahead and progressive, going in the right direction. He wants us all to get fit, hit the gyms, work out vigorously, receiving the best education before instantly heading for those halls of learning, the groves of academia. Then, he remains convinced that you'll get the most lucrative job which will pay you so many hundreds and thousands a month that you may have difficulty in knowing what to do with your vast sums of money.

Then you'll settle down with your family and friends, find a property in the country with fifteen bedrooms, a couple of conservatories, gleaming gold bathrooms with similarly coloured taps, kitchens the size of the Ritz hotel and dining rooms that are the height of luxury. The Labour party, of course, will always be synonymous with Socialist ideals, the appropriate distribution of wealth to one and all. Labour are genetically working class, rolling up their sleeves, always industrious and just getting on with the business of governing the country with an air of authenticity and sincerity about them. There are no airy fairy promises that can never be fulfilled. Oh, you won't be disappointed. Rest assured.

It could, of course, get very tasty if the rest of our lesser known political parties are given free rein to do whatever they like when elected as the next UK government. The Lib Dems, under the cheery Ed Davy have already made their intentions abundantly clear. Yes, the future Prime Minister will be standing up on paddle boards on Lake Windermere more or less over every weekend since the rest of the week as Prime Minister will be devoted to more serious matters as wrestling with the complexities of the British economy.

There's the Green Party and Reform UK, led by that happy go lucky Guinness drinker who loves nothing more than a good, old fashioned pint in your pub. Nigel Farage has already established his credentials by declaring his admiration for one Donald Trump who could be the President of the United States of America in November. Yes, you really couldn't make this one up. Farage was a thrustful stock market trader in the City of London who became a highly skilled businessman who made his money on the Stock Exchange. Farage is now an allegedly hilarious TV talking head, guaranteed to leave you gripped with laughter and, to some, just a troublemaker who just chose the salubrious air of seaside Clacton for his next end of pier act. 

So there you are Ladies and Gentlemen. You know what you have to do Thursday week. Pretend it's Easter or Christmas Day because you can't wait to vote in the next Prime Minister. Your year will be complete come the morning of July the 5th. Either Sir Keir Starmer of the Labour party will become the full time residents of 10 Downing Street or Rishi Sunak, the Tory powerhouse figure who just wants Britain to become happy and wealthy. For just a couple of seconds you thought of Edward Heath and Harold Wilson, Jim Callaghan and then Margaret Thatcher who seemed to take out a mortgage on the place in the hope that she'd be there for ever.

But whatever you do, folks. Keep the faith in that somewhat controversial political process where no Prime Minister can ever do things right. So why do we bother? There's that honeymoon period for the days after July the 4th when Labour will be celebrated like a royal wedding and Sir Keir Starmer will be put forward for a Nobel Peace prize or some saintly figure who should be just adored by the masses. Great Britain, you have your pencil and piece of paper so exercise your right and tick in the right candidate who you want rather than the one our politicians think would drive the country to sun lit uplands. It could be a General Election classic or just forgettable. We'll see. Roll on Thursday week.

England struggle against Denmark in Euro 2024 1-1 draw.

 England struggle against Denmark in Euro 2024 1-1 draw

It always seemed to turn out this way. You knew it would be a painful, painstaking struggle because England never seem to do things in the way most of us would expect them to do so. Gareth Southgate's England men just appear clueless when important tournaments come along. In their opening group match in Euro 2024, England simply made heavy weather of a Serbia side who were just content to absorb everything England were prepared to throw at them before disappearing down a rabbit hole.

It was never going to be that easy, always hard going, much more complicated than it should have been and, when the referee blew the final whistle, England just slumped despondently onto a cabbage patch of a pitch before finally realising how lucky they had been. Denmark, their stubborn, well disciplined and much classier opposition, had crowded England out of the game and then decided that, short of winning this Euro 2024 group match, a draw had to be the next best thing. For England, this was just Chinese water torture, a plodding, pedestrian, error ridden mess of a football match that simply ran its course.

But we have become almost conditioned to these agonising moments, these awful and dreadful displays that have become almost commonplace. England's 1-1 draw against Denmark was sloppy, slovenly, cumbersome, awkward and disjointed, with nothing in the way of any kind of finesse at any point during the game. This was an England side that was clumsy, careless, reckless and simply lacking in any kind of focus or intensity, way off the pace and in serious danger of a humiliating defeat.

We have, of course, history with Denmark. Sir Bobby Robson, in his first game for England over 40 years ago, faced Denmark and, although narrowly beaten on the night at the old Wembley, most of us simply accepted the status quo, hoping perhaps the World Cup of Mexico in 1986 would provide them with the necessary breathing space to express themselves in the years leading up to that World Cup. But then a genius by the name of Diego Maradona broke all the rules with a moment of sheer, unforgivable skulduggery. The Hand that punched in Argentina's decisive second and winning goal against England is now no more than some grievous injustice that bordered on the criminal.

And yet against Denmark in the present day, England looked like a porcelain vase that had been both chipped, and in some places, completely broken. It was like watching some derelict, weather beaten building whose windows had been deliberately smashed to smithereens and left to decay. When Gareth Southgate gathers together his besieged and beleaguered team for yet another pep talk, he will state the obvious and probably give them the most frightening lecture they have ever witnessed. This was never good enough and Southgate must know that, if things don't improve dramatically, then England could be home in time for Glastonbury next week.

You'd have thought by now that the metaphorical penny had dropped for the England football team. It is all well qualifying for World Cups or European Championships but you have to be ready and prepared for this searching examination of your character. England, you suspected, were probably thinking of sun kissed beaches, cocktail bars, luxurious hotels and endless supplies of pina colada.

Under Don Revie's shameful tenure with England, Revie would insist on leisurely games of dominoes and carpet bowls as a way of releasing his players from the stresses and strains of international competition. Gareth Southgate is an altogether different kind of manager and this last week, England were seen cycling around the country lanes of Germany. It didn't really work.

Ever since the painfully excruciating 1-0 win over Serbia, England were looking for a treasure chest with sparkling rubies, diamonds and pearls. A win, of course, is a win and should be celebrated as such, but after Harry Kane had steered home England's winner, it just seemed as though their game became a trapped in a claustrophobic box. There was much laborious huffing and puffing, plenty of honest endeavour but then the passes just dried up and the England machine started creaking and groaning.

Passing judgment on the national side has always been fraught with difficulties. When England play well and the goals are flowing, then naturally the country gets all patriotic and pleased as Punch. The flags and banners are hung from every pub window and the country feels as though somebody is supporting it. But there is a flawed and vulnerable underbelly that always leads to a harrowing downfall. This is not to say that England are just out of Euro 2024, nor are they delusional and starry eyed. However, England are being very England and this result may have been entirely predictable.

Next Tuesday, England will face their final group match against Serbia buoyed by the knowledge that things can hardly get any worse than they already are. At the moment it all feels both flat and demoralising as if all our expectations had been left in the Lost Property department. Of course England had been totally engaged with the task in hand and there were times when Denmark would be taken to the cleaners, impressively beaten and everything lwas hunky dory. But then somebody switched out the light and plunged us into Stygian darkness. England were clod hopping through the thick grass and everything looked very accidental and haphazard.

There was a point when both Declan Rice and Phil Foden found themselves hovering around the middle of the pitch like catamarans far out at sea, floating aimlessly towards the wrong harbour. Rice is still a technically composed and adroit defender, shielding the back four with a truly uplifting assurance and nonchalance. But when Rice began to move forward to join in with Trent Alexander Arnold, there was a stiffness and leaden footedness about all three players that was quite disturbing.

At the back, Marc Guehi was still as sharp and responsive as ever, redeemed himself promptly when losing possession in a dangerous area. Guehi lunged back at the red Denmark shirt to prod the ball over the by line for a Denmark corner. Kyle Walker whose spectacular turn of pace at 30 something, was responsible for that marauding overlap that led to Harry Kane's winning goal against Serbia, covered intelligently but even one of the fastest athletes in the England squad may be feeling as though his younger colleagues  are just as lithe and sprightly and there's little petrol left in the tank.

Kieran Trippier and John Stones are also of advanced years and although just as alert and experienced, there is a feeling that the English defence is in dire need of rejuvenation.Stones, indeed, is leggy but still secure at the back while Trippier is still capable of clocking up the mileage. But then you looked to Phil Foden, who may have won his fourth successive Premier League medal with Manchester City. There is still a boyish charm and infectious enthusiasm about Foden that reminds you of the kid who refuses to come into tea when mum orders him back at once before it goes all cold. Foden roamed and roved all over the pitch, here, there and everywhere, demanding the ball and then darting in and out of back tracking and terrified defenders.

And then there is Jude Bellingham. Bellingham's now still young career, has been so well documented that most of us feel as though we know him like a brother. Bellingham, is by a country mile, England's front seat driver, the landscape painter, the electrical sparking plug for England, a playmaker par excellence; gifted beyond belief, modest in the extreme, remarkably grounded, a model of creativity, impulsive and just the most outstanding talent for this generation.

Now of course there are some of us who recall Paul Gascoigne because we all knew Gazza, his extraordinary eccentricities, that individual brilliance, the cheeky impudence, the boy next door and then the man who had to grow up very quickly when teetering on the precipice. Of course, Gascoigne was infuriating, impossible, almost insufferable when those wild, outlandish antics threatened to send him over the top.

But Bellingham, to all intents and purposes, does not do dentist chairs while his England team mates pour gallons of water down his throat or, as seems more likely, alcohol. Euro 96 now seems captured in a classical time frame for the England team since England were almost a lunging Gazza leg away from reaching the Final in 1996 against the Czech Republic. Germany may have gone onto win that tournament but that's all very hypothetical and besides this is the golden age for Jude Bellingham.

As a recent recipient of a Champions League winners medal with the mighty Real Madrid, Bellingham still looks like an academic university student who swots away at chemistry and physics with a heartening diligence. Bellingham is the real deal, a tricky, body swerving, hip swaying, jinking and shimmying midfield magician. His dribbling skills at close quarters do bear a resemblance to Gascoigne but there the similarity must end since Bellingham does not tackle wildly and uncontrollably. The reckless and career threatening tackle on Nottingham Forest's Gary Charles in Spurs victory over Brian Clough's Forest in the 1991 FA Cup Final made some of us wince with horror. But Bellingham is different.

He has yet to be seen staggering out of nightclubs with a drink and a kebab in his hands. But then we loved Gazza just because he was just one of the lads, burning the midnight oil and just being the lovable court jester. He would never have admitted to being a role model for future generations but he did play the game as it was meant to be played. He was naturally creative and progressive, never thinking of what might have been and concentrating on the here and now and the future.

And so back to England's limp and stodgy performance against Denmark. After Harry Kane's opening goal for England, there was by now the familiar defensive retreat back into their shell. England were now dropping so far back into their own half that you had to wonder why they were being so protective and over cautious. Their passes had lost all of the appropriate points of the compass  and the geography was distinctly dodgy. 

After yet more swift and perceptive, quick fire passes into England's own half, Denmark inevitably drew level with England. Red shirts poured forward towards England's penalty areas. A neat shuffle of the ball across the edge of the England penalty area following a corner shortly before, found Morten Hjulman who let go from some distance with his most dangerous foot and slammed a low, skimming drive that flew past England goalkeeper Jordan Pickford who couldn't quite reach the shot.

Now, the likes of Joachim Anderson, Jannik Vestergard, Joakim Maehle, Andres Christensen, Victor Kristiansen and the evergreen Christian Eriksen and Manchester United's Rasmus Hojland were all ganging up on England with the kind of expansive attacking football which, famously, contributed to Denmark's now unforgettable European Championship victory against Germany. Arsenal's John Jensen struck a magnificent shot that will live in Danish minds forever, a goal to savour.

Still, here we are with both Denmark and England still in pole position for qualification into the next round of Euro 2024. As has now become the custom, England will have to take the short cuts and back roads towards the knockout stages of this competition. Of course it isn't straightforward and we'd be surprised if this was anything but the case. England and Gareth Southgate are in this one together but if England don't win this edition of the European Championship then the only alternative would seem a quick flight back to Heathrow airport and a front row seat at Glastonbury next weekend. Come on England we know you can do it. We have implicit faith and trust in Gareth Southgate.

Scotland draw with Switzerland in Euro 2024.

 Scotland draw with Switzerland in Euro 2024

Things might have gone according to plan for Scotland but they failed to find the winning goal that would have made their lives so much simpler. Now Scotland reverted to England's prototype model. You make concerted efforts to find anything that resembles a victory only to be denied by a neutral and inoffensive nation who seemed much more concerned with self preservation themselves. For Switzerland this was just another day at the office, business to attend to and nothing to worry about.  A draw seemed good enough and so it proved.

For their part, Scotland were in Cologne to be taken seriously and not the European pushovers, makeweights or lightweights in the greater scheme of things, never to be taken lightly. So we buckled up on the night and discovered that there was far more than met the eye. Scotland will never be the legendary side which included the likes of Archie Gemmell, Bruce Rioch, Don Masson and Asa Hartford. In those days it just felt good to be amongst gifted individuals and well defined characters who just wanted to have fun in the World Cup sun.

We knew that Germany would apply the steamroller that flattened Scotland last Friday in the opening chapter of this Euro 2024 match or - as it should be called- the European Championship. The 5-1 demolition of the Tartan Army had more of a Bannockburn feel to it than Culloden and maybe we shouldn't have been that shocked but, against Switzerland, Scotland had a more purposeful and aggressive edge to their game that always remained on the right side of legitimacy.

They could have crumbled when Switzerland equalised Scotland's opening goal on the night. But they just kept their cool, advanced steadily, repaired the cracks in their wobbling defence and just built their way back into the game. This was a much more coherent, ambitious, driven and determined Scotland than the Scotland whose feeble capitulation against Germany simply underlined the vast chasm in class between the two. So the bagpipes became louder, the voices sharper and more stentorian and finally the spirit of Rabbie Burns could be heard amid a Cologne that was now rocking and rolling in the aisles. 

It is on nights like this that Scotland seemed to come life. They are penned back into a corner and everybody is convinced that, sooner rather than later, the wheels will come off. But there is a resilience and hardness of character that has come to embody everything that is good in Scottish football. The domination of Celtic in the Scottish Premier League has never been conducive to a healthy, competitive element within the two and Rangers keep pestering them in the hope that the monopoly can be broken one day. Besides, that used to be the case but now Scotland can only feast on the scraps, struggling in vain to find a real identity.

Still, Scotland, from the kick off, flew out of the blocks, like exemplary Olympians, recalling those long ago misty days when William Mcgregor did his utmost to endorse the short passing game at the end of the 19th century. Since then, of course, the long held rivalry and good natured ribaldry between the English and Scots, as was exemplified by the sadly obsolete Home International Championships, is nothing more than a historical footnote.

We know the Scots hate the English and the feeling is mutual or maybe there was some expression of goodwill between the two just lying under the surface. Scotland though, were ready for this contest against Switzerland and laid out their intentions with some of the most imaginative football we may have seen from the Scottish national side for a long time. Their passes were clean, concise, well executed and, above all accurate. There was a real sense of togetherness between the side, a much greater feeling of familiarity with each other's game, a relationship that fostered a renewed confidence and an esprit de corps. When everything sticks and it's just logical, then it all falls into place. No point in questioning yourself when you know it works more than effectively.

But when Grant Hanley, the always consistently dangerous Andy Robertson of Liverpool, the normally unflustered Kieran Tierney and Jack Hendry tried to play their way out of trouble against Switzerland, there was no viable outlet for Scotland. There was though, a much more positive and proactive look about the Scots but the final, clinical touches were always missing. John Mcginn of Aston Villa has been one of Aston Villa's best players and, from time to time, Mcginn attacked the ball, foraging for space in midfield and laying off the shrewdest passes to his colleagues. But Billy Gilmour who is beginning to emerge as one of Scotland's canniest and smoothest passers, lacked bite, snap and tenacity.

Scotland did though begin the game with a marvellously adventurous approach. They were promptly rewarded for their forward thinking and innovative football. After a devastating breakaway deep into the Swiss half, Gilmour seized the moment. He laid the ball off to Callum Mcgregor and Mcgregor neatly headed the ball back into the penalty area where the onrushing Scott Mctominay, ecstatically swept the ball into the back of the Swiss net. How grateful are Manchester United for such a natural talent.

Then, Scotland retreated back into the shell for the next twenty minutes or so and just assumed that a second goal would come sooner rather than later. But Switzerland, without any of the poise or cleverness to outwit the Scots, still found something in reserve. The former Arsenal midfielder Granit Xhaka  and the former Liverpool schemer Xerdan Shakiri offered something much more in the way of sophistication than we might have expected from any Switzerland side.

It wasn't long before the Swiss found a way through a Scottish defence that may have been accused of sloppiness and impotence. Tony Ralston's dreadful back pass to one of his defenders in a navy blue shirt and, from just outside the Scottish penalty area, they were punished cruelly. Xerdan Shakiri, who is renowned for the ferocity and accuracy of his shots from long distance, let fly with a low, powerful shot that caught out Angus Gunn, the Scottish keeper, who could do nothing to keep out a fearsome drive that nicked the post and rolled behind Gunn for a deserved equaliser.

From that point onwards, Scotland made a rod for their backs. All of the pressure and possession that briefly threatened the Swiss goal, now dissolved regrettably into thin air. The rest of the game was both scrappy, slapdash, almost amateurish at times, an almost constant series of mistimed passes and misshapen patterns that led to nowhere in particular. It seemed that both sides had made up their minds to settle for an inconclusive result from which neither could take any real satisfaction.

Now all that remains is Scotland's last decisive group stage match against Hungary which will definitely seal Scotland's fate. There are those of us who have always appreciated Scotland's doggedness, their rugged defiance when somebody tells them that they're just not good enough. In Cologne, we saw a different side to Scotland, a willingness to fight to the bitter end, throwing caution to the wind and just going for broke, regardless of the consequences. Thankfully, Scotland threw off any emotional damage that might have carried over from their opening game against Germany. There was a definite shape and structure to their football.

Still, Scotland are still there in the box seat, a victory away from certain qualification to the next round of Euro 2024. It could end in tears but, then again perhaps not. Scotland know that they have England in their sightlines, peering over their shoulder, interested but just keeping them in mind should the necessity arise. They know that something could bring them together at some point in the tournament but daren't think along those lines. So it's all to play for and Scotland are far from defeated. There may well be a crucial twist in this intriguing story. Just ask Scottish boss Steve Clarke. He gritted his teeth in his dug out, implying that Scotland are not done and far from out. We await with some fascination.

England beat Serbia in opening Euro 2024

England beat Serbia in opening Euro 2024

It should have been much more for England but maybe they should be grateful for small mercies. For much of their opening match of Euro 2024, England were hunting around in packs only to find that their prey were still waiting for them, ready to spring the most unexpected surprise. In fact this match was so ludicrously one sided for the best part of an hour that most of us were beginning to think that England's opponents Serbia would never turn up. This was football laced with caution, patience being a virtue and then a result that could easily have gone against Gareth Southgate's England.

Watching England at any international tournament can often leave blood pressures soaring and nerves in tatters. Latterly, England fans congregate in their pub gardens, drinking enormous quantities of lager and then wastefully spraying gallons of the amber nectar in an explosion of communal joy. In both Russia and Qatar World Cups, it was a case of what might have been had scenarios panned out in the right way. Then, three years ago in their own Wembley backyard, England met Italy in the Euro 2020 Final only to find that back doors had been left open and the second half was converted into a blue landscape of Neapolitan celebration probably matched only in London's vast communities of pizza parlours and spaghetti houses.

But last night, England approached the challenge as if their life depended on it. They built their attacks with all the meticulous attention to detail that would have been unthinkable during the 1970s. When Sir Alf Ramsey and Don Revie were in charge, it almost felt as if England had just discarded the finer points of the game where hard nosed pragmatism took precedence to the more technical refinements of the game. The passing game became totally anathema to both men and it's only now that England have been able to smell the coffee, wine and roses under England's present manager Gareth Southgate.

Poor Sir Alf had already sampled his day in the sun when his England lifted the 1966 World Cup and probably couldn't wait to put his feet up in his garden on retirement. Revie, for his part, quite literally betrayed his nation for Saudi riches with only a failure to reach the 1978 World Cup in Argentina to show for his efforts. Revie's style never really curried favour with the purists and only the likes of Gerry Francis had something exotic in his repertoire that reminded you of the likes of Brazil, Germany, France, Spain or Italy at their most polished. 

In their opening group game, England spent the best part of an hour just tapping out morse code on Gelsenkirchen's lush green acres, passing and passing and then passing the ball amongst themselves in some conspiratorial approach that suggested that some secretive and clandestine plot would now be revealed. For at least half an hour you began to lose count of the multitude of passes that Gareth Southgate's men had accumulated. On the half way line, at least, Declan Rice, Phil Foden and Jude Bellingham simply chose to play keep ball and such was its constancy and repetitive nature that you'd have been forgiven for thinking that they were simply conducting some bizarre experiment with the ball.

And yet this was the way we've always dreamed that the England national team would play. True, it almost looked as if Gareth Southgate's men were just creating some bold and innovative work of art that nobody had ever seen before. Over and over again the ball would be recycled in some remarkable display of ball rotation that had to be seen to be believed. You were reminded of those classic Hollywood films where the revolving door would only stop once the joke had now passed its sell by date.

Admittedly, England had already taken the lead by the time the passing routine had exhausted itself. Jude Bellingham, surely the poster boy and England's most classical talent of the modern generation, met Bukayo Saka's well judged cross with a bullet of a header that rippled in the back of the net before most of us had had time to tuck into our bucket of popcorn. It was a beautifully constructed movement involving several white England shirts and suddenly we were looking at an England who'd formed an almost intimate relationship with a football. 

This was no longer an England side who simply despised the ball, desperate to release it into some far distant stratosphere where none would ever find it again. This was an England who'd found a kindred spirit with a ball, common ground and, quite literally, a moving rapport with it. It felt as if an entire generation of English footballers had received the right education, taken notice of the guidance and advice and shrewdly executed everything they'd been taught.

The irony was of course that the spine of England's defence had an air of fragility about it that might have caused so many more problems than was good for them. Both John Stones and Kyle Walker are no longer spring chickens anymore and there was a nervous foreboding that things wouldn't go exactly according to plan. But Stones has another Premier League title winning medal in his locker with Manchester City and Walker, too, can boast the same achievement. The dependability of Stones and Walker has something of the Terry Butcher and Dave Watson about it; formidable barriers who bear just a little resemblance to nightclub bouncers and just stare menacingly at forwards. 

In England's midfield, Gareth Southgate gambled admirably on Liverpool's Trent Alexander Arnold teaming up with Declan Rice in front of England's defence, shielding, covering and carefully scrutinising every Serbian shirt with a vigilance that restored your faith in Gareth Southgate. With Marc Guehi at the back, guarding then intercepting the ball in vital areas, Jude Bellingham and then Phil Foden who also flaunted his Premier League winning credentials, controlled everything in front of them. 

At times it probably felt as if England were just imitating the template set down by Argentina, Brazil, Spain, Brazil and France throughout the decades. But then the second half began and with England a goal ahead somebody must have forgotten to tell Gareth Southgate that Serbia could only get better after a listless first half. They did indeed come out of the shell with Filip Kostic, Dusan Tadic and Alexsander Mitrovic proving a worrying handful for the English defence. Suddenly, Serbia grew into the game and their passing was far more commendable and progressive than in a turgid first half.

Throughout, Serbia inched their way painstakingly into the game and could have equalised at any moment given the shock to England's system. England were now swaying on their tightrope, pushed back almost dramatically by the sheer force of will and character of the Serbians. Serbia were back in the game and repeatedly broke through the centre of England's now panic stricken defence. It seemed only a matter of time before Serbia would be on level terms such was the intensity of their pressing game and the more assertive side to their attacking prowess.

Sadly though, this was not their night and the old Yugoslavia were left to reflect on the agonising near misses that now littered their game. In the bad old days of Tito, Yugoslavia used to be a force to be reckoned with at international level without ever seriously bothering the bigger boys in the playground. But Serbia eventually found all the right attacking connections and when the final whistle went, Gareth Southgate's England men were just relieved to be on the right side of a battle. Even Harry Kane, the captain, who headed against the bar from substitute Jarrod Bowen's cross, could only smile wryly. If this had been debut night for Euro 2024 for England then Denmark, in their second group stage game, could prove a much bigger obstacle. Oh to be an England fan.

Scotland beaten out of sight by a ruthless Germany.

 Scotland beaten out of sight by a ruthless Germany.

Firstly, there was the opening ceremony. Then there was the understated pomp and ceremony. The Germans always know how to do these big occasions. It was the first night of Euro 2024 and, as is the tradition now, there are always nervous twitches, panic attacks and a good deal of excited anticipation. But this theatrical production turned into a hellish nightmare for Scottish football. This wasn't supposed to happen to Scotland. They should have known what was about to take place and there were no contingency measures but none of us were either deeply shocked or surprised. 

When the curtain went up for Scotland on this starriest of nights, Scotland blinked in the dazzling headlights and almost vanished without trace. By the half hour, Scotland were clinging onto the ropes, wobbling and swaying on their feet and about to collapse. Yes indeed, a boxing referee would almost certainly have thrown in the towel of surrender. Scotland were heading for the massacre of Munich and this one was almost unbearably painful.

 After all, you can only take so many punches to the head and this was a relentless onslaught. In fact this was, quite possibly, one of the greatest mismatches of all time, a one sided contest that could have been predicted when the Euro 2024 draw was made. On the half hour, Scotland were reeling, dazed and bewildered, not quite sure what had hit them. This defeat had the destructive force of a bulldozer but then we knew what was in store for us. Scotland were just searching for damage limitation.

Your mind wound back 50 years ago to Scotland's first World Cup for the first time in ages. In 1974, the Scots were heavily backed as overwhelming favourites to beat little Zaire. It would be a genuine David and Goliath confrontation with the African minnows there to be knocked down like bowling skittles. Of course, cricket or rugby scores were confidently predicted but then Scotland had an attack of cold feet. Goals from a Peter Lorimer thunderbolt and Joe Jordan's glancing header from a Billy Bremner free kick put Scotland clearly on the international football map. But the pundits were expecting much more from a Scotland side allegedly the superior side by quite some distance.

Ironically, this was the World Cup of 1974 in the old West Germany and the coincidence was that the game was also played on a Friday night. But then Willy Ormond's brave, redoubtable Scottish side could only manage just the two and, at the time, it felt as though the Scots had grossly underperformed. When the old Yugoslavia demolished Zaire 9-0 and Brazil comfortably eased past the same opposition with a 3-0 win, we knew Scotland would eventually struggle to get any further than they did. 

But last night, the whisky distilleries and folk clubs of Scotland must have been spluttering into their alcoholic beverages. During yesterday afternoon the cheerful and philosophical folk of Scotland were jigging around Munich's main squares, high on life and drinking the good health of their national side. Then there was a horrible realisation that Scotland's opponents were Germany, serial winners of both World Cups and European Championships.

And yet Scotland being Scotland were just pleased to be at Euro 2024 and the rest was just a welcome bonus. Sadly, they were now on the end of a horrific hiding. By half time, Scotland were buried in the mire, up to their ears in dirt, muck and bullets. They had been beaten out of sight and the Germans must have thought they'd never had an easier day. The Germans were three goals to the good and many an English fan must have been giggling up their collective sleeves.

The defensive quartet of the otherwise immaculate and admirable Andy Robertson, Kieran Tierney, who did shine for Arsenal, Jack Hendry who must have been looking for a hole after last night's display and the unfortunate Ryan Porteus, who was sent off after a reckless challenge, never really looked surviving yesterday evening's traumatic ordeal.

In midfield the tireless and industrious Aston Villa John Mcginn, the immensely reassuring and cultured Scott McTominay of Manchester United and Callum Mcgregor had nothing to offer by way of retaliation to a remorselessly accomplished German side who were swarming all over Scotland. This was such an act of cruelty and savagery to Steve Clarke's Scotsmen that Hungary and Switzerland can't possibly come quickly enough for them. Their two remaining matches should be a clear guide as to how far Scotland can go in Euro 2024.

Now a confident and composed Germany just passed the ball amongst themselves with all the ease of men opening up a packet of sweets. The ball was treated with all the love and affection that has almost characterised German sides throughout the ages. There were those mathematical, short, concise passes that left the Scots running after a train they were never likely to catch. Then there were deceptive angles,  tantalising triangles and neat interchanges that sent the Scots into a world of dizzy confusion.

Suddenly the Germans went into overdrive. The immense authority of Manchester City's Ilkay Gundogan, the evergreen and influential Toni Kroos, the leadership of Antonio Rudiger, the refined class of Jonathan Tah and the controlling presence of Joshua Kimmich and then Floriana Wirtz and Kai Havertz up front, all unbridled aggression and raw power. 

After a delightful piece of approach work, Germany soon took the lead. A splendid crossfield ball left open acres of space in Scotland's defence and Floriana Wirtz took the ball in full stride before smashing the ball forcefully into the back of the net. Minutes later, the Germans had tightened their hold on this match when, after another bewitching sequence of passes, Gundogan smartly cut the ball back and threaded a lovely through  ball for John Musiala who cracked the ball home thunderously, leaving the ball shaking with disbelief in the back of the net.

Just before half time, yet more measured and cleverly executed passes sent Havertz into the Scottish penalty area. Following a collision of bodies, Harvertz saw his opening, bundling forward and then caught by a trailing leg from Ryan Porteus. Porteus reckless challenge not only ended in a red card sending off offence but also led to a penalty. Havertz, stepped up, hesitated and then crashed home the German third. This game was all over bar the shouting. Niclas Fullkrug made absolutely sure with a stunning third goal for Germany.

The second half now became the formality that the Scots must have privately dreaded.The Germans were in full swagger almost bathing in their arrogance and haughtiness, a side now liberated from the ghastly disappointments of recent World Cups. Scotland were now breathing hot air and there was no way back for Steve Clarke's woeful team. Gundogan, once again, broke clear of his markers and  Fullkrug  again drove the ball into the back of the net with such fearsome ferocity that once again the net seemed to be pleading for forgiveness. In injury time the athletic Emre Can rubbed salt into Scottish wounds with a fifth. Antonio Rudiger's headed own goal for Scotland left the Germans ever so slightly embarrassed but now nobody really cared that much.

And so it is that Scotland head off their next assignment in the embryonic stages of this Euro 2024. This was never going to be the easiest journey for Scotland and we knew that anyway. Hungary and Switzerland have undoubted pedigree and stature at international football although both are winnable games for Scotland. The trouble is that when the quietly spoken figure of manager Steve Clarke sits down with his players, he might find it almost impossible to come up with the appropriate words to shake up this demoralised Scottish team. We wish them well.

Shavuot and Jewish food at functions

 Shavuot.

It's the most fascinating Jewish festival and we love it. We can't get enough of it because it's a celebration of food and that's what the global Jewish community simply adore. It is that time of the year when we get out all of our pots and pans in the kitchen, and whip up cheesecakes. Yes folks, today is Shavuot and it's a day of wanton indulgence, extravagant living and completely forgetting that diet you always hoped would keep the weight off permanently.

Today we recite another reading of the Ten Commandments and just cook up the sweetest feast of them all, apart from all of our other wonderful days of rejoicing and song. Shavuot is the day every Jew across the world devours cheesecakes as if they were going out of fashion. All of those dairy products we may have assumed were always there for our delectation, are back on the culinary agenda if only for a couple of days or so. 

Whereas Chanukah gives us doughnuts and Pesach gives us matza, Shavuot does it stylishly with cheesecake. There is something inherently satisfying about any cake regardless of its derivation but cheesecake is just the most guilty pleasure of them all. We know we shouldn't eat things that are designed to pile on the pounds but cheesecake. That's different. There are the traditional plain cheesecakes, strawberry and chocolate flavoured cheesecakes and then there are the cheesecakes that just melt in your mouth. Sometimes you can have too much of a good thing and cheesecake never lets you down.

From a personal point of view, cheesecake stirs up all kinds of pleasant memories. My wonderful and lovely late mum Sybil insisted on New York Cheesecake in the last months of her life. It was the one cake that probably reminded her of what life was like when she was a child. Now, any clear recollection of my mum's passion for cheesecake is blurred by time but it must have been the one dessert or sweet treat that transported my mum right back to the end of the Second World War when she was a child.

But today marks a day of traditional cheesecake eating, fressing, increasing those calories by the lorryload and disregarding the consequences to our waist line.And yet whenever did that bother my lovely Jewish friends and families? At weddings, barmitzvahs and batmitzvahs, we descend on groaning tables of excessive cholesterol, fish balls by the thousand, beigels containing smoked salmon and cream cheese, while egg mayonnaise and tuna beigels are noshed down ravenously.

Then, shortly before the main meal, we're tempted with an endless supply of vol au vents, viennas( Jewish sausages, mushroom flavoured vol au vents crust pastries and then the most irresistible cakes, biscuits and crisps that seem to be available for most of the late afternoon. And that's before the main meal itself. What then happens is that elegantly attired waiters and waitresses float out of the kitchen with all the grace of ballet dancers. With tray in hand, bowls of  lokshen chicken soup balanced precariously in both hands and a modicum of good humour always at their disposal, the said wedding or barmitzvah or batmitzvah would get underway with dancing to follow.

You remember vividly now a family wedding from your childhood with some affection. Before the biggest meal of all time our friendly waiters and waitresses would weave their way in and out of the assembled guests. Here were pots of tea and coffee accompanied by a vast array of sandwiches, biscuits, cakes and the inevitable Black Forest Gateau, a staple of the 1970s sweet trolley. There were thick layers of chocolate, cream oozing from every crevice, jam and, quite possibly scones, if we'd politely asked for them.

By now, we were full to bursting point and not really looking forward to our meal since our insatiable appetites were still demanding more. Now of course these lavish meals of chicken soup followed by liver, egg and onion, beef, lamb or chicken, chicken schnitzel, would be served with roast potatoes and yet more dozens of baby potatoes and vegetables that just kept delivering. Could we fit in the pudding afterwards? Of course we could. Undoubtedly so. There was always room for apple pie and cream, apple strudel, chocolate pudding, fruit salad and- guess what- more mouth watering cakes. If you could find a place in your stomach for cheese and biscuits then you had to be admired.

Today though, is Shavuot, the cheese cake fest, the days of Marie Antoinette cake eating and perhaps several plates of choc chip biscuits, fruit flans, blackcurrant cheesecakes, sponges, blintzes and multi flavoured deserts that take the breath away. So Ladies and Gentleman, don't hold back because you deserve those days of incessant cheesecake eating, the gastronomic self gratification that sends the loveliest taste into our mouths. Oh don't forget the innumerable cups of tea, Earl Grey tea perhaps or that coffee and hot chocolate that make Shavuot the most joyous of days. Enjoy everybody. 

National Making Life Beautiful Day.

 National Making Life Beautiful Day.

When all is said and done, life is stunningly beautiful. All around us things look as though they may be spiralling out of control and all we seem to be subjected to is a constant bombardment of tragedy, disaster, suffering and pain. It may be within us to stop the rot at some point because there has to be a moment in our lives when there have to be redeeming features, light at the end of the tunnel and just breathtaking beauty wherever we look.

The trouble is, of course, that most of us have become more or less conditioned to bleak news, grave tidings, fatal accidents, maudlin news that doesn't promise anything at all. We take it for granted that the day will pass with some incident that is just tinged with sadness and misery. But then we look outside and our perceptions of life around us may change according to the kind of day we've just had. Nobody should underestimate the importance of remaining cheerful, happy and upbeat. In adversity there has to be light at the end of the tunnel. It stands to reason.

Throughout the day, we've always experienced those contrasting moods which can shape our whole outlook on life. Outside, summer is trying hard to make up its mind since both rain and sunshine are dominating our agenda. We're in the second week of June and we should be packing our suitcases for a well deserved holiday in the sun or looking forward with enormous anticipation to a whole sequence of outdoor music festivals, football's Euro 2024, the emotionally calming summer games of cricket and tennis while absorbing everything in life that is simply beautiful.

Yes folks, it's National Making Life Beautiful Day. You knew that all along because we'd consulted social media and they'd confirmed something that we might have privately known anyway. Out there in the big world you're convinced that things will always be perfect and flawless. Besides, look at those astonishing parks, recreation grounds, gardens, spectacular waterfalls, lakes, ponds and rivers, the beauty and divine diversity of the flora and fauna, the fecundity of plant life, fabulous flowers, the perpetual prettiness of the English countryside and those overlapping folds of blissful greenery that look exactly like the postcards we normally see in souvenir shops.

There is so much to admire about the beauty of life. In those cosy, spiritually rewarding villages the size of a chocolate box, vicars still cycle around meandering and twisting country roads and farmers still protect their cows, sheep and lambs with an affectionate yell of encouragement. We look out across the majestic trees that have been there for as long as anybody can remember, their foliage of leaves and branches, gently waving in delicate time with the rest of nature. 

And over there in the distance are the neatly drawn thatched cottages and the electricity pylons that look like those fine, upstanding guards who stand sentry at Buckingham Palace every day of the year. Then, there are the now familiar wind turbines which just seem to whirl around indefinitely by busy motorways, oblivious to humanity. In a way though, they look as though they belong to both Britain and the rest of the world. You can't help but think that at some point some visionary road planner had that light bulb moment when wind turbines would be thought the most appropriate feature to catch your eye on a long journey.

Summer, it goes without saying, can always be guaranteed to give us the biggest lift to our spirits when wintry darkness just left us feeling both grim and pessimistic. The first rosebuds and those wondrous revelations of cherry and apple blossom may already have come and gone. Spring spends a brief holiday before bowing deferentially to a long summer vacation. And then everything bursts into life, the peacock plumage of begonias, laburnums, nasturtiums and petunias unfolding their multi coloured delights.

Then we open up our door to our gardens, digging out the secateurs and lawnmowers, pruning the white and red roses displaying their gorgeous grandeur and mowing the grass lovingly. Then we disappear back into our sheds to check up on the welfare of long forgotten packets of seeds, bags of compost and manure hiding away discreetly in the corner of the shed before taking their place in the vast outdoors. 

It is at this point that we suddenly discover the forks, spades and shovels that have to be employed, for allotment sites may have felt sadly neglected during the winter. So there you have it. National Making Life Beautiful Day. It has lot to commend it. This is the ultimate recommendation to those of you looking for the simple joys of life. It's there you know. If you keep looking you'll find it.

We must not forget of course the birds, regularly and constantly serenading us with the sweetest melodies. Around here we have our natural wetlands, an outstanding haven of grebes, Canadian geese, energetic ducks and the most glorious swans one of whom gave birth recently in our local wetland paradise. It is all too easy to dwell on the business like earnestness of our lives when a day's work has to be completed in order to pay the bills. There are the trains and buses that have to be caught, deadlines that have to be urgently reached, children to be doted on and nurtured, educated at some length, shops to be visited and shopping transactions to keep us alive and well. So let's hear it for National Making Life Beautiful Day. Seize it now. Savour and relish it. It's there for you in all its magical magnificence. Enjoy it. It'll always be sweet.   

Iceland beat England at Wembley

 Iceland beat England at Wembley.

This was a case of history repeating itself and yet how did this come to pass? We were expecting so much more after all that had taken place against Bosnia, but once again England struggled to keep their feet against Iceland and paid the penalty for cocky complacency and foolhardy presumptuousness. Sometimes England never know whether to stick or twist against any opposition. In the bigger picture, this was not the end of the world. Once again Iceland, who used to be be regarded as whipping boys at football's international top table, shocked and surprised everybody yet again.

By the end of last night's friendly, England were looking quizzically at themselves again and wondering why Iceland have suddenly become their bogey team, a nuisance value who just keep coming back to haunt England. Iceland beat England 1-0 yesterday evening and there was something very wounding about England's defeat that sent a nervous shiver down the spines of England's hardy, loyal fans. There was a palpable anxiety in the air, a sense that there are still alarming deficiencies in Gareth Southgate's England team. 

True, England were without their central playmaker Jude Bellingham but the angst and apprehension could be felt as soon as Jon Dugar Thornsteinsson had given Iceland the lead with barely ten minutes gone. From that point onwards, England just seemed to be tying themselves into increasingly complex circles. Their football, admittedly, was still refreshing, invigorating, attractive and all beautifully designed. The passes were short, instinctive, proactive and hearteningly progressive but then the avenues of opportunity were completely closed down and England reminded you of men looking for front door keys.

In 2016, of course, Roy Hodgson, then England manager, took the national side to Nice in France and spent most of their group match against Iceland like labourers on a building site thrashing away at lumps of concrete, smashing down part of a brick wall and then encountering yet more problems. In the end though, a frustrated England seemed to get down to the last sediment and then just surrendered because they simply couldn't get any further.

Goals from Ragnar Sigurdsson and Kolbein Sigthorssen, after a terrible blunder by England goalkeeper Joe Hart, reduced England to a quivering wreck. The sight of thousands of elated Iceland fans celebrating like Viking boatmen, still leaves some English supporters feeling ever so queasy when they come to reflect on the repercussions of that unnerving night for the England national team. It may be a long time though, before we forget last night's latest terrible debacle but for now, it's best not to dwell.

England, last night, were a team who looked bloated and ragged, correct and cultured but there was very little left in the tank and, in the end, all of the pretty bows and ribbons of their approach work simply unravelled as soon as they reached the edge of the Icelandic penalty area. It was probably just as well that this was merely a friendly since, had this been the real thing, then the England crowd may not have been quite as sympathetic.

For manager Gareth Southgate, this is now beginning to look like the end of his personal road. Should England come unstuck and then just flop disastrously in Germany, then Southgate may need to pick up his coat and belongings and leave FA headquarters in Soho Square in London's West End. The last ten years have all been about evolution, revolution, those developmental stages in England's now carefully prepared team, a much healthier place than it once was under Don Revie who just promptly upped sticks and left for Saudi Arabia, simply forgetting about the national team.

And yet this still feels like the right time for England to hit the oil gusher. In the World Cup of Qatar two years ago, England were just unlucky to come up against a France team who just treated the game like pavement artists who finally end up in an art exhibition. The French are now seasoned tournament winners but then reached a World Cup Final against Argentina where a landscape painter named Lionel Messi richly deserved his first, if elusive World Cup winners medal.

Last night though, England found themselves up against a blue barbed wire fence of Icelandic shirts, constantly shadowing and hounding down the likes of Kobbie Manoo of Manchester United, Anthony Gordon of Newcastle, Arsenal's Declan Rice, Phil Foden of Manchester City and Cole Palmer of Chelsea. This was not the way it was meant to be for England and yet it was. You remembered though that, on another day and a far more important one, England will adopt an entirely different mentality. Iceland will, presumably, not be Serbia in England's opening group stage match in Euro 2024.

But Manoo, Gordon, Palmer, Foden and Rice, although shuttling the ball amongst themselves too patiently and cautiously, simply couldn't find their way through their Nordic opposition. Gordon did look like the genuine article, an old fashioned winger who protects the ball rather like a young father cradling his new born baby with endearing tenderness. Gordon shuffled the ball for a while, drew his defender towards him teasingly, cuts back onto his favoured foot before sprinting for the by line and delivering low and high crosses. But this was not Gordon's night.

For Kobbie Manoo, still on a high after scoring Manchester United's second and decisive goal in the FA Cup Final against Manchester City, this was another competent and highly impressive display but it remains to be seen whether Gareth Southgate has given Manoo another thought. Phil Foden has to be considered for England's opening game against Serbia because he's just a pleasure to watch when things are going well for Manchester City, exciting, energetic, his awareness of his colleagues around him, second to none.

With John Stones and Kyle Walker now advancing into those twilit years, the England defence began to creak at the hinges at times. Walker is still as fast as an Olympic athlete while Stones just oozes streetwise intelligence. But we are now at the point where England have to lock up at the back without fearing that there are too many rough edges. Declan Rice of Arsenal still carries the ball with all the stateliness of a Moore or Beckenbauer and there is a feeling that Euro 2024 could be his tournament.

And yet we return to last night's setback for England. When Jon Dagur Thornsteinsson darted inside his defender after some clever exchanges of passes between the blue shirts of Iceland, the striker did what all strikers do. Thornsteinsson moved inside the England defence and sent a low, powerfully struck shot that beat Aaron Ramsdale, England's keeper for the night, all ends up. For the rest of the game, Iceland just made it physically impossible for England with defensive chains that just kept the home side away from them throughout the game.

So it is that the attention turns to Euro 2024 and Germany. For English fans, we all have idyllic scenarios since some of us would love nothing better than to repeat the memorable World Cup Final exploits of 1966 when everything just seemed to slot into place perfectly. Sure, this is not the World Cup and Harold Wilson had yet to find the right pipe to smoke for the occasion. 58 years have come and gone but now, more than ever, it just feels as though fate may be on England's side. The mantra is painfully familiar but the sight of Harry Kane lifting the Euro trophy may be more than just a fantasy.  

England beat Bosnia Herzegovina in friendly

 England beat Bosnia Herzegovina in friendly.

Last night England got it absolutely right but only just. They did what they were supposed to do but it all felt very downbeat and none of us could explain why this was the case. For some unfathomable reason England were not entirely convincing and by the time the final whistle went, we were all scratching our heads convinced that the whole night had fallen flat on its face. This was all a shuddering anti climax and there was a sense here that although the margin of victory had been comfortable, the manner of England's 3-0 friendly victory here against a very poor Bosnia Herzegovina side was just not good enough.

The hairline cracks and faults are there, the cutting edge and penetration up front was missing and the killer touch had deserted Gareth Southgate's England and Euro 2024 in Germany is just weeks away now. Of course, England had been sufficiently prepared for last night's friendly but another gruelling Premier League season had taken its toll yet again and England were just pretending to be something they're quite clearly not. Judging the England football team is almost an impossible job because every time they come out of the tunnel for any match, the microscope will always find something that doesn't seem quite right.

And so it was that Gareth Southgate emerged from the St James Park tunnel and the passionate fans of Newcastle United were ready to celebrate the national side on their latest provincial tour of England. Most of us had thought we'd seen the last of these fun filled friendlies at football's regional grounds. When the new Wembley was being built, England had to find temporary accommodation. But the new Wembley arch has now become the most familiar aspect of football's modern architecture. So we settled down and just admired the scenery in another city and another set of circumstances.

England eventually came, saw and conquered against Bosnia with enormous difficulty but they did get the result they were looking for. Dress rehearsals can be so nerve racking and the main protagonists can freeze on the big night. For a while England were doing everything right, the fundamentals of the game were being carried out efficiently and everything looked both smooth and streamlined. Their passing was precise, aesthetically pleasing and a simple delight to the eye. But then the vital connections faltered and too many attacking movements just came unstuck. England were overcooking everything, well intentioned but far too over elaborate and perhaps trying desperately hard to make a credible impression.

For well over an hour, England moved the ball around so effortlessly it felt as if this was destined to turn into the most one sided international contest since the beginning of time. But Bosnia were not the Turkey and Luxembourg who visited the old Wembley during the 1970s just to be battered and demolished with eight or nine goal hammerings. This was the first time England had ever met Bosnia so perhaps it was unfair to dismiss the game as just one of those chastening experiences where the opposition just sit back and take their punishment. Bosnia were not only at Wembley on a flying visit but here to provide England with a much stiffer test of their resolve than they might have been expecting.

In the end, it didn't really matter. England beat Bosnia quite easily in the end but the critics will always find faults. England were far too pretty, fussy and fastidious, determined to create a masterpiece rather than just establishing a template that needed no tweaking. You felt sure that when Da Vinci or Matisse were applying the final touches to their art work there would be no need to add unnecessary details that were somehow inappropriate. Perhaps England simply needed to tune into their inner Lowry where matchstick men and dogs were the only requirement next to industrial factory gates.

There was a somehow relaxed early summer feel to last night's game that must have been quite reassuring for Gareth Southgate's well organised England team. There was no necessity for big, bold strokes, no sense of urgency and yet it all felt as though England were looking for jigsaw pieces in the puzzle that didn't really fit properly. The air of experimentation was very much in evidence, players simply undergoing severe examination and maybe unsure of what Southgate has in mind, come the Euros in Germany.

Most of us have been here for England so many times that we've lost count. You do more than enough to complete qualifying games for both the Euros and the World Cup only to come a cropper when it matters most. For much of the game last night, England passed the ball amongst themselves as if this was some private business discussion that should never have been aired in public. Occasionally it was reminiscent of a France or Germany at their most unbeatable but perhaps a France or Germany who may well have beaten their opponents much more decisively.

And yet England were singularly unable to break down the seemingly intractable defensive barrier that their Bosnian opponents were so hellbent on erecting. While Lewis Dunk, Marc Guehi, the superb Trent Alexander Arnold and the ever dependable Kieran Trippier were never less than secure and almost unchallenged, England seemed to take an age to cross the half way line at times, venturing forward patiently if too deliberately at times. 

True, Chelsea's Conor Gallagher, Crystal Palace's Ebere Eze and the frequently threatening Cole Palmer found common ground with cute geometric angles and passing patterns at their most syncopated. But there was something lacking in the end product. Maybe it was that fiendish, devilish element in England's play that should have taken this game well beyond Bosnia's reach sooner rather than later. Eze, in particular, set off on one mazy, sinuous and startling run at his defenders that drew foul after foul. For much of the first half hour, Eze could hardly be held back, dribbling purposefully with the ball and drifting past players as if they weren't there. 

While the players went off for half time goal-less, we began to wonder whether England could find the technical resources to break down a stubborn Bosnian defence. But once Jack Grealish came on as a sub, England found their bearings again. From a driven corner floated deceptively into the six yard box, players collided into each other and Ezri Konsa's shirt was tugged back illegally. Cole Palmer, with all the unfazed aplomb of a 20 year old colt, stepped up to tuck home England's opening goal on the night from the penalty spot.

Now Palmer began to assert his presence on the game with all the confidence in the world. You began to wonder why Pep Guardiola, Palmer's previous manager at Manchester City, dispensed with his services. Palmer looks the genuine article with his hunger and appetite for goal at every opportunity. Suddenly things were clicking into place for England, the pulleys and levers operating at full strength.

With momentum building for England, a second goal eventually gave Gareth Southgate's men the perfect platform for inflicting further damage on brave Bosnia. Gallagher, Eze, Jarrod Bowen and Arnold were stringing passes together like runner beans and England's attacking machinery began to hum contentedly. From a short ball to feet, Grealish sent over an immaculately weighted ball that flew over the visitors heads and the ball fell at Trent Alexander Arnold  who, on the volley, drove the ball home low and impressively across the Bosnia goalkeeper. A second goal gave England the comfortable cushion they were almost hoping they'd get.

And then Harry Kane, who always knows that his remarkable goal scoring prowess for his country sets him apart from the rest, came on as a substitute. Immediately, England had a more of a focal point to their attack. Kane's consistency for England has never been questioned and that adept holding up of the ball, which brings most of his colleagues into so many dangerous positions, once again gave England's attack another important dimension.

From another inswinging corner, the ball plunged into the six yard box and after Bowen of West Ham and Grealish had tentatively jabbed at the ball in front of goal, Kane confirmed the third goal of the night. Peace of mind had been restored and the victory was England's to cherish even though the England fans were just distinctly underwhelmed by it all.

At the far end of Wembley Stadium, the electronic scoreboard put all of our lives into a very humble perspective. The sad passing of legendary rugby league legend Rob Burrow was observed with perfect reverence and moments of silence, sombre reflection. Sport sometimes gets in the way of  far more significant events around us. Last night, though, it struck exactly the right note. 

Happy Birthday, Thomas Hardy.

 Happy Birthday, Thomas Hardy

Where do the years go? Time seems to fly when you're having fun. It hardly seems possible but today Thomas Hardy is the ripe old age of 184. Now, this is incredible, unbelievable and you don't look a day over 100, Thomas. The mischievous glint in your eye is still there, twinkling away as if you'd never been away from the public domain. One moment you're the most distinguished author in Victorian times and the next you're in the great coffee houses of the West End of London, rubbing shoulders with Charles Dickens and, allegedly, not seeing eye to eye with him and never really on amicable, buddy, buddy terms.

Yes everybody, Thomas Hardy celebrates another birthday today but sadly, the master literary craftsman who grew up in the rural idyll of Dorset on England's shining South Coast Riviera, won't be present at his own birthday party. Hardy died in 1928 so therefore he'll be conspicuous by his absence but his legacy will remain indelible. If some of us had it our way, Thomas Hardy would have been a knight of the realm and appropriately proclaimed as Sir Thomas Hardy with all whistles blowing and bells ringing.

Time was, when everybody in England and Great Britain would have been acknowledging Hardy's birthday with dancing in the streets and hogging social media triumphantly in recognition of one of England's most poetic of all novelists and short story writers. Of course, Hardy wrote love poems with a beautiful command of the English language and he illuminated Victorian literary salons with words, sentences and paragraphs that did much to influence your thinking on your writing. Hardy made his grammar sing and chant, an author with the kind of descriptive prose that will never be forgotten.

And yet some of us were shocked to hear about the dark shadows that hovered over Hardy's life and that tragedy followed his illustrious career. My lovely wife Bev and I paid a brief visit to the house where Hardy lived with his estranged wife Emma about ten years ago. The memories were horribly overshadowed by a marriage that was never on the same page from a matrimonial point of view, so to speak. Hardy and Emma Hardy were just incompatible.

On our tour, we were taken upstairs to Emma's bedroom where, much to our surprise, we discovered a woman who, we were told, was almost permanently sick. Next to her bed was a jug of water accompanied by a hairbrush and an ornate mirror on her dressing table. The room looked both spartan and soulless, a hollow reminder of a marriage that may have been doomed from the start. And yet because Hardy was the incurable romantic poet, some of us might have assumed that everything was sweetness and light, wine and roses around the thatched cottages that decorated the English countryside and still do so.

But downstairs we saw all the incriminating evidence of a loveless relationship. There were glass cases holding now well preserved, if ancient, yellowing letters written by Emma. It became abundantly clear that Emma never really loved Thomas and the feelings were mutual. Emma was confined to bed, incapacitated almost constantly while Thomas would slouch around the house in his pyjamas for part of the day.

We were told that Thomas Hardy would wake in the morning bright and early, ready to write, pen and ink poised with perhaps a reverential homage to the quill on his table. Then he would sit at his desk and,  in the coldest of winter mornings, would throw on his night gown before embarking on one of those magnificent writing marathons that would culminate in Tess of the D'Urbervilles, Far From the Madding Crowd, Jude the Obscure, Return of the Native, the Woodlanders, A Laodicean, the Woodlanders  and the Trumpet Major. 

For some of us though, Hardy described his Dorset countryside with vivid, illustrative prose, purple prose, painting perfect word pictures that suited the landscape so accurately. He became immersed in his characters, lived their lives, breathed their every breath, ate their meals and drunk their ale and mead with a hearty relish. He rubbed shoulders with both Dickens, Anthony Trollope and, quite possibly HG Wells, fraternising with the great and good of these stately scholars of the written word.

You remember your first introduction with four of the novels as mentioned above with well over a thousand pages that left you mesmerised. In the frontispiece of the book, a neatly drawn map of both Wessex, Dorset and Dorchester gave you a picturesque illustration of all of Hardy's farmlands, pubs, cottages and homely homes. Here Hardy must have been at its happiest. Here was a man who knew exactly what he was both writing and then talking about to all of his loyal followers and enthusiasts.

You could close your eyes and almost see Hardy's wondrous images: the waving sunflowers, horses lumbering up and down rows of wheat and barley, meticulously preserved grass lands, carefully nurtured cornfields, farmers in cloth caps and wearing tight braces, girls and boys chasing each other in and out of sun kissed shadows. And then there were chapters of hope, loss, grief, desolation and blissful optimism. There were Hardy's tales of a Dorset so far removed from London's metropolitan hustle and bustle that you find it hard to believe that Hardy could find so much tranquillity amid all the obvious chaos.

But he did and today we celebrate the anniversary of a man and writer who elevated English literature to its highest Empyrean plateau. You can still remember the transformative effect Thomas Hardy had on your style of writing and could only have dreamt of emulating the great man. But then you could only laugh at your foolhardiness since nobody did it better than Hardy. 

You remember the elegant turn of the phrase, the technical wizardry of Hardy's grammar,  descriptions that became a dream sequence in your mind. You remember being transported to a world where the summers used to last a lifetime, a time and place where the imagery and symbolism could be almost smelt, felt and touched. Above all, you remember the man himself, who, for all of us rustic sensitivity, never held back on all the raw human emotions and fiercely criticised those who attacked him. Happy 184th birthday Thomas Hardy. Enjoy the celebrations. Some of us will always lavish you with compliments.