Adam Peaty wins silver for Team GB in Paris Olympics.

 Adam Peaty wins silver for Team GB in Paris Olympics

He is the most successful Olympic athlete in recent years and how Team GB have taken him to their hearts. His name is Adam Peaty and he comes from Uttoxeter in Staffordshire. He was a peerless gold medallist twice over for Great Britain and his remarkable achievements will never be forgotten. He is our most accomplished swimmer in modern times and there was a point yesterday when the whole of Britain was simply overjoyed because, although he'd claimed the silver medal for his country, his family, friends and enthusiastic fans, there was a sense that Peaty had already done much more than we might have expected.

After a number of private mental health issues in recent years, Peaty was back, stronger, fitter, lither  and more lissom than ever before, muscular chest rippling with energy, determined to be the best he could be. Nobody had ever doubted his quality, his impeccable credentials at the highest level of swimming and we just knew that he'd be there or thereabouts. Behind him were his loving and immensely supportive family, mum and dad, partner and young son. Peaty was in cracking form and poised to bring it home but, sadly, he was to be denied the gold by the merest of finger tips. 

At both the Rio and Tokyo Olympics of respectively 2016 and 2020, Peaty rose to prominence, a phenomenal sportsman, surely one of the most stylish swimmers Britain had produced for ages. He was never arrogant or entitled in any way, shape or form because he knew that the country was always on his side. There was something of the boy next door about him, a grounded, level headed Olympian who smashed world records and never shirked his duties. We believed in him when life became challenging for him and we were convinced that there was something in the air last night. 

And so it was that Peaty stepped up for the start of the Paris Olympics Games of 2024 in the 400m individual medley Final. He shook his wrists and nodded from side to side with hunger and desire burning from his eyes. The goggles were on, the metaphorical gloves were off and the shirt was peeled off, revealing a body honed and sculpted to perfection. The shoulders and arms were stretched to the limit and then he went through that whole procedure of going into the zone, concentrating intensely and deeply.

You often wonder what goes through the congested minds of sportsmen and women when the lights go on, the crowd reach feverish pitch and the water in a swimming pool is at its most sparkling. There were no questions on Peaty's mind. You could see that. He wanted gold and nothing else. He was desperate to create history, emulating the outstanding feats of Australian Olympian Michael Phelps by winning a hat-trick of gold medals.

So he took his time, preparing himself, finding internal reserves of inspiration from somewhere. He was one of the favourites to retain his Olympic gold because the breaststroke was his forte. We admired his dedication to the cause, the admirable sacrifices and that mental fortitude that had to be driving him forward if that gold medal were to be wrapped around his neck once again. And then it happened.

Eight sinewy and streamlined swimmers stood on their marks, bodies bent forward while some chose to just plant a foot on their mark. Arms were wiggled nervously, chests slapped and then the brief moment of meditation, deep thought and contemplation. Thighs were whacked and then yet another set  of fascinating calisthenics, exercises designed to keep them in the moment. There was Nic Fink, apple pie American, Nicolo Martinenghi, an Italian who was to storm to gold, Casper Corbeau and Armo Kamminga, of the Netherlands, Haiyang Qin of China, Melvin Imoulu and Lucas Matzerah from Germany. It was an enthralling, gripping battle royale race with nothing between these men with nerves of steel. 

All eight swimmers dived headlong into the Olympic pool and thrashed their way through the water, arms and shoulders powering furiously away and hardly a hand between them. It was neck and neck, a thrilling display of smooth breathstroke, streamlined and aerodynamics. This was swimming at its most fiercely competitive and business like. Firstly, the Chinese star Haiyang Quin started moving away from the rest of the field before Nic Fink, the American challenger, made his presence felt and it was this trio of men who exerted their dominance in the race. 

With seconds of the race to go, it was Nicolo Martinenghi of  Italy who came thundering down his lane towards the finishing line. Peaty, who looked as though he'd narrowly edged out Martinenghi for the gold medal, was there in the final reckoning. But the Italian reached out for the wall and won the gold with barely a fingertip between the two. And so Peaty had to settle for the silver medal and the very real satisfaction of knowing that he'd done everything he could to win when all seemed lost privately.

After years of intensive and gruelling training and preparation, early mornings in the pool and the guidance of  Peaty's coach Mel Marshall, this was the ultimate moment of celebration. Of course, there have been moments of tantrums, turbulence and tantrums between both Peaty and Marshall but now the two hugged each other warmly. High in the crowd was Peaty's inspirational mum, partner and son George. It had been the collective family unit who had been with the twice gold medal winner constantly, positive throughout and backing Peaty all the way.

Some of us harked back to previous Olympian swimmers from the past such as Sharon Davies, Duncan Goodhew and Adrian Moorhouse, whose technical purity had brought all three so much success. Britain had won his first silver medal at these Games and everything in the world was well. There is so much to look forward for Team GB in both the pool and the athletics track next week. For a moment, we bowed our heads respectfully for the late and great David Wilkie, yet another golden British Olympic swimming sensation, a formidable athlete who had swum for his country with so much distinction. It had been that kind of an evening and that kind of day for British sport.

The Olympic Games in Paris- the opening ceremony

 The Olympic Games in Paris- the opening ceremony.

After 100 years you'd have thought they'd do their utmost to get it absolutely right. But last night, the fine, upstanding folk of Paris had to sit through perhaps the weirdest, strangest and, quite the most bizarre Olympic Games opening ceremony. For Sir Kenneth Branagh, Isambard Kingdom Brunel and the Industrial Revolution at London's Olympics in 2012, read Paris 2024, bonkers, barmy, fragmented, incomprehensible, indecipherable, confusing and utterly bewildering. Quite frankly, what on earth were our French neighbours doing on what should have been their most triumphant evening of modern times?

We were always led to believe that the Olympic Games was a celebration of the human spirit where the noble principles of fair play, sportsmanship and goodwill were displayed like a gold medal and, essentially the amateur ethos ruled, a confirmation of humanity playing according to the rules and regulations, never cheating, dissembling, hoodwinking and, of course taking excessive quantities of drugs and illegal narcotics.

But Baron Pierre De Coubertin must have been spinning in his grave. This was not a Friday night to remember for France, Paris and everything we've come to respect in the Olympic Games. It was the most embarrassing, ill conceived and executed Olympic Games opening ceremony. It was an Olympic Games opening ceremony without rhyme or reason, a story line that had gone missing long before the first Olympic flame appeared. Some of us genuinely thought that a comedy script writer had given us a presentation that made little or no sense. For reasons best known to the International Olympic Committee, the Olympic Games of 2024 was held on the River Seine. It was a radical departure from the norm and this one idea bombed.

Here before us was by far one of the most eagerly awaited Olympic Games and what we had, instead, was, quite literally a washout, a shameful parody of an opening ceremony that looked as though it had been cobbled together on the cheap, strung together with a thousand pieces of string and then dragged towards the centre stage by accident rather than design. We were expecting history, tradition, symbolism, imagery, a cultural pageant that would always be remembered for years to come. 

What we had instead was good, old fashioned rain, torrential rain, Biblical in its epic magnitude, rain that just kept falling from battleship grey skies. Then, it all turned absurd, outlandish and just beyond any categorisation, a flotilla of various boats heaving with athletes, swimmers, gymnasts, boxers, archers, sailors, tennis and golf players, rugby union prop forwards and fly halves, nimble table tennis players and all manner of sporting dignitaries.

And then there was the stately procession, the first Olympic Games playing host to a vast river regatta that sailed most serenely along the famous River Seine. There were small, compact barges, paddle steamers from a Mississipi, Tennessee boat festival, cabin cruisers and, for the United States of America right at the end, the kind of enormous cruise ship usually occupied by millions of holidaymakers every year. They came from all four corners of the world, a delightful collection of paradise islands in the Indian and Pacific Ocean, before the likes of Argentina, South Africa, Algeria, Angola, Guam, Romania and Guatemala, nosed their way along a huge expanse of water, cheerfully, joyously, uninhibitedly happy.

But, for those of us who still cling onto the nostalgic values of Olympics of yesteryear, there was the private recognition that it just didn't sit right for us nor we were comfortable with new fangled ideas or, hopefully, brief experiments. We were hoping and perhaps expecting familiar environments, the age old settings, the old routines and those well established Olympian narratives. It wouldn't have been too much to ask the International Olympic Committee to put before us the national athletics stadium where we knew we stood.

And so it was that it rained harder and harder, almost incessantly, a four hour deluge that soaked not only the Olympians on board their boats but the crowd watching from the grandstand seats now completely exposed to the elements. Suddenly, raincoats and mackintoshes were pulled on, hoods went up and, as far as you could see, hundreds of people were desperately trying to keep dry. But the show had to go on and it did. Rain has never stopped play at any Olympic Games but there were times when it felt as if the whole spectacle itself was destined to be called off since everybody was just drenched and soaked to the skin.

Still, though, a very nautical evening in Paris, continued along its merry way. There were gushing fountains of water spraying the assembled throng, what looked like November sparklers fizzing away on the river and sturdy bridges so bright and decorative in the Stygian gloom of a Paris evening, that it was rather like being at Henley with only the French tricolours emphasising the difference between the two events.

By now, some of us were just scratching our heads and wondering where exactly this whole Olympics opening ceremony was supposed to be going. Now, our heads were turned intriguingly towards a riverside staircase. On the top step, a fan of pink feathers slowly and teasingly revealed Lady Gaga, today's pop music phenomenon and certainly one of the most recognisable faces in the industry. Pouting her lipstick lips and wearing the sauciest black underwear, Lady Gaga strutted around with all the coquettish femininity of a Marilyn Monroe or Madonna at her naughtiest.

Eventually the river spectacular just kept on rolling on and on until the United States of America appeared on the horizon. For a minute, it looked like the Cunard had been hired for their arrival since there were so many passengers on board the American boat, that all the athletes seemed to be squeezed together like the proverbial sardines. It had to be seen to be believed.

Around us all was a French sporting Moulin Rouge, a carnival of pink exploding on the pavements of Paris, groups of dancers leaping around the boulevards and promenades, genuinely overcome with the emotion of the occasion. Then there were the fashion catwalks, yet more models with thick layers of make up and clothes from some crazy fancy dress shop along the Montparnasse. Then there was a cavalcade of French cabaret and burlesque, avant garde designer dresses and the kind of fabulous entertainment on the streets that we can now find in Covent Garden, in the heart of the West End of London.

It all though, looked wildly surreal, a glorious fusion of the sublime and the ridiculous. By now we could neither make head nor tail of who was going where and why they were there in the first place. Out of nowhere, a gentleman came bounding down a gangplank with what seemed like the Olympic torch. The man then seemed to perform some deeply impressive gymnastic display of acrobatics. We were just baffled if spellbound by the sheer unexpectedness of it all. 

In the closing moments of the opening ceremony last night, France put on a magnificent sequence of Euro disco music that almost lent itself to the interval of a Eurovision Song Contest. In fact it was a glorified version of the Eurovision Song Contest. You had to pinch yourself at the utter preposterousness of the evening, questioning its relevance to any kind of sport let alone the Olympic Games. But the fun and games had begun and now this symbol of sporting excellence had officially begun. As a proud Frenchman, Baron Pierre De Coubertin would have recognised the supreme irony of another Olympic Games in Paris.

But of course it's the taking part that counts above all. The gold, silver and bronze medal winning mentality will always mean so much to so many. To some of us, the memories of Steve Ovett and Seb Coe on the track, Mary Peters with the now unforgettable shot putt and the imposing figure of Brendan Foster pounding his way elegantly towards the finishing line for Team GB, seemed to good to be true. And of course there was Linford Christie, sprinting powerfully, while in London 2012 there was Sir Mo Farrah, running heroically for gold. It's time for the river cruises to make way for the 33rd Olympic Games. It is one of sport's greatest of all events. Let's enjoy.

Chessington World of Adventures Zafari Bar and Grill

Chessington World of Adventures Zafari Bar and Grill.

It does sound like a long winded title for a children's adventure park even if the location itself was a delightful trip down memory lane. Children love the simple things in life and that can be no bad thing at all and, as we approached the entrance to what would prove to be a lovely family day out, we knew the day would be immensely enjoyable and wonderfully satisfying. And then we set about the day with the broadest of smiles on our faces.

Our wonderful grandson Arthur, on whom royal status has now been conferred, looked totally mesmerised and open mouthed with astonishment at the sight of so many childhood attractions and themes. It was hard to believe that we were so taken aback at something we may have seen advertised on TV so many times. But childhood never loses its lustre, simplicity and, above all innocence. No child should ever be ruined or sullied by anything that is quite clearly offensive and violent. Our children are our future and that is fundamentally important at any stage in their development.

We never fail to stop falling in love with the cartoons from the first years of our lives, the Disney characters who illuminated every moment that made those first nursery moments so memorable. It was a time when life was all about painting slapdash and haphazard pictures with pots of paint and then splashing watery colours on childish canvases. They certainly weren't Degas, Constable, Turner or Matisse but then our Arthur would never have been concerned with such lofty considerations while taking in the flying elephants at Chessington World of Adventures.

But today was very special for my wonderful family because today you witnessed the birth of a new generation, a discovery of something deeply magical, enlightening, revealing and so utterly pleasurable. My late and wonderful mum and dad always told me that becoming grandparents for the first time had to be the finest experience you could have as first time parents. It is now though, that as first time grandparents, that you begin to appreciate exactly what they meant. You see their beaming smiles, the happiness of seeing something that they can't help but laugh at because it's just incredibly amusing and entertaining. 

And so it was that we set eyes on the obvious optics, the vastly imaginative creations, the combination of art and horticulture, the sheer innovative genius of it all. In front of you, were beautiful pieces of grass sculpture, the revelation of a giraffe carefully designed by secateurs, cut and shaped to artistic perfection. There were also what looked like to be grass hedgehogs and elephants and, who knows, monkeys to boot. By now our King Arthur had become so enraptured by what was unfolding before him that only a seaside bucket and spade could possibly have surpassed anything he might have seen up until that point.

We wandered at our leisure around Chessington simply blown away by the appropriate music we could hear around the adventure park. It is some time now since you were introduced to Chessington and its manifold joys. There was a stall dominated by Pokemon creatures, those strange yellow and blue attired characters from the computer screen and somehow synonymous with the modern age. And so the colourful elephants flew up and down, the penguins appeared, waddling from side to side as if this day were somehow just another day at the office. There were squirrel monkeys, exotic and hypnotic as they jumped athletically from one bar to the next in a cage that looked so comfortable for them that you were tempted to hand them a glass of brandy and cigar just to make them feel completely at home.

There were the shows from members of the staff, girls dancing to the children and singing sweet songs that were perfect for their age group. By now our grandson Arthur was having such a good time that even mum and dad, grandma and grandma were joining in with the fun. It was a day to treasure, a day to remember when childhood was permanently uplifting and you simply didn't want the day to end. 

With the day at an end, both mum and dad, grandma and grandpa were pleasantly exhausted. The sun shone upon the righteous and we lived for the day and the present. Life was just flawless, summer was still here and you knew that the future was in good and capable hands. The school holidays were now in full flow and everywhere around Britain, the youngsters, teenagers and your beautiful grandson was having the time of his life. Sweet, sweet life.  

National Ice Cream Day.

 National Ice Cream Day.

You must have been wondering what day it is. Go on, have a guess. Think of something that you normally associate with summer and a refreshing sweet treat that just melts in your mouth. It's a lovely, nostalgic throwback to your childhood or should have been if you were somehow conditioned to eating this most delightful confection when you were but a couple of years old. It was something you developed a taste for when all of your other friends were eating the same thing.

Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen. Today is National Ice Cream Day, a celebration of all our younger days and still capable of capturing your imagination in adolescence. There can be no arbitrary time for ice cream because most of us long to finish our  lunch, tea and dinner with something that reminds us of that first day of primary school when all of the kids came racing out of the school gates, satchels flung over our shoulders like the flapping sail of a boat and shirts fluttering in the autumnal winds. Ice creams were programmed into our DNA rather like breathing, talking, walking, running, laughing and smiling.

By the time we reached our respective sweet shops cum newsagents we were already on a high, finally free from the drudgery of being slumped over ink stained desks, listening attentively to our teachers, bored silly at times and longing for the end of the day. We'd stare vacantly at the blackboards, not really concerned at the times table or English sentence construction. We'd already resigned ourselves to the fact that we'd have to wait until tea time before ice cream treats could only be briefly considered so we just knuckled down to the task of concentrating on our early academic lessons.

And then your mind wanders happily back to those halcyon days of long, meandering school summer holidays. For most of the day you would climb onto your lime green bicycle and then embark on the finest voyage of your early life, pressing hard down on your pedals before treading your feet firmly down on the bike accelerator and then sprinting for the land of paradise, a world of freedom, luxury and hedonistic enjoyment - or at least that's how it felt.

But then we realised what time it really was. It was roughly late afternoon and my late and wonderful mum was preparing herself for the great Olympic dash out of our family home. She probably didn't fancy interrupting her daily schedule of cooking our evening meal but knew that her young son simply wanted an ice cream. Not a problem, at all. So, accompanied by the rest of our road's doting mums, she would put down her tea cloth before rushing out swiftly to buy that mouth watering ice cream or lollipop.

Outside their houses, an assortment of mums with purses in their hands and swapping all manner of pleasantries between them, would willingly part with shillings or sixpences for the delicious sight of dripping choc ice or a 99, a vanilla ice cream complete with a chocolate flake. Eagerly devouring this guilty pleasure, the said ice cream would slowly disintegrate into something that was completely unrecognisable from the moment we'd first started licking our ice cream. The cone, at first irresistible, now rapidly disappeared into oblivion, consumed by a child who just didn't care.

In later years, ice creams were regarded as something that just happened to be there whenever or whenever we wanted them. They were served at family parties and kids birthday parties, they were something that cooled you down at the seaside when your buckets and spades had served their purpose and you'd just built a thousand castles in the sand. At any social gathering, ice creams were the perfect complement to a rich, savoury meal or just felt good to tuck into just before tea, cakes or biscuits. 

Even now summers would somehow incomplete without a Magnum ice cream and golden chocolate shells that just dissolve dreamily in our months. Back then, there was a simple joy and innocence about eating ice cream and the thrilling prospect of consuming something that you must have privately known was bad for you but just loved to enjoy at your leisure. And the sheer variety and diversity of ice creams still hold you enraptured. Who doesn't just smile at the thought of scooping up large helpings of Ben and Jerry's tubs, Haagen- Dazs tubs and Baskin Robbins into our tea time bowl?

There are a million ice cream parlours serving all manner of flavours, strawberry, raspberry, salted caramel, pistachio, coffee, the conventional chocolate, lime, mint, mango and then the remarkable alternatives to the standard ice creams.  Then there were, and still are, dinner parties where we all luxuriate in the traditional taste of apple pie with ice cream, chocolate sponge with ice cream, strawberries and ice cream, rhubarb, custard and, quite possibly, ice cream and whatever other pudding that springs to mind.

Your mind reels back to your school days when mum would invariably produce a gorgeous delicacy called an Arctic Roll, which, you believe, still exists but, at the time, was regarded as a novelty. The Arctic Roll was that very streamlined dessert which just sent your tongue into heaven. There was that perfect fusion of a thick sponge garnished with that magical slab of vanilla ice cream. It had to be the finest and most satisfying dessert that had ever entered your mouth. As a teenager you were transported to a place you'd never thought possible. 

And still ice cream is  just an idyllic accompaniment to a meal or even that addictive indulgence that we can never say no to because the whole world eats ice cream. It's followed us through our formative  teenage years to the present day and we don't quite know how that came to be the case. It must have been something your ancestors had eaten in huge quantities but never knew why. Ice cream is designed for the working class, the middle classes, the upper classes and those who just like familiarity at meal times.

So Ladies and Gentlemen. It's National Ice Cream Day and that's official. There can be no arguments. In the  mind's eye you can still hear the nursery rhyme tunes that could be heard on the other side of the world. A Rossi's van that looked appropriately like an ice cream, would turn into our road and then we abandoned our gruelling cycling marathon and a gentleman or woman would poke their heads out of the window of their ice cream van. The tune that reverberated so  melodiously sounded like the kind of ambient noise you'd normally expect to hear at Disneyland.

 A smile would wreathe their faces and children from every conceivable part of Essex would stampede towards the ice cream van. It all seemed very well ordered and somehow ritualistic until we later discovered that we'd gain three stones in weight. But then the puppy fat fell off in no time and ice creams became permissible, acceptable and right because if it was good enough for the other kids then why did we have to be deprived? It would have been a travesty of justice had we missed out on ice cream and, more annoyingly so, your friends and neighbours were tucking into huge tubs of cold, flavoured ice.

So reflect this evening on the timeless pleasures of ice cream, always suitable on a hot, summer's day or a winter's evening in front of a roaring log fire where the central heating has been on for ages. Ice creams dominated our childhood when we were kids because they were somehow rewards for good behaviour when we'd come back from playtimes that just went on and on. None of us were ever keen on returning to our family home after days of play But there were times when mum and dad had something special in the freezer for our evening tea or supper. So Happy National Ice Cream Day everybody and while you're out, you may want to remember how good it makes you feel and still does.

      

Assassination attempt on Donald Trump

 Assassination attempt on Donald Trump.

It almost felt as if the clock had been wound back to November 22nd 1963, surely one of the most horrific days in the history of American politics. Picture the scene, America's most loved and idolised President was being driven through streets of adoring crowds in a scene which would break the hearts of every American who believed that President John F. Kennedy was, quite simply, the greatest man they had ever seen. Kennedy was the name on everybody's lips, a political giant whose face seemed to be plastered on every young female teenager's bedroom wall, the talk of every high school college, coffee bar and doughnut stall in the United States. 

But back on that now fatal day, Kennedy was cruelly assassinated because of his dubious connections with the sinister and powerful. You can still see those youthfully exuberant features on his face, the hair on his head being gently pushed away from his forehead as the sun shone brightly on what should have been another idyllic day for Kennedy. But then it was ended so abruptly that even though it was the day before your first birthday, it still resonates quite profoundly with you. The gun fire shots rang out gravely and portentously and, hours later, President John F. Kennedy was declared dead in a local hospital.

For years and years, America was a country traumatised, shocked almost indefinitely and wondering where exactly it should go without its most influential President since perhaps Roosevelt or Truman, a man who every American believed would lead them into the world of honeyed prosperity. But, with a single crack of a gun from the balcony of a nearby building, Kennedy had been assassinated and the course of history would take a most unwelcome turn of events. America mourned and the rest of the world asked important questions that could never be answered.

And so for President John F. Kennedy in 1963, read one Donald Trump, the former President of the United States of America in 2024. The circumstances may have been entirely different but the fact of the matter is that here is a man, who although mercilessly mocked by the rest of the world, almost lost his life. Now of course Trump has been portrayed as a figure of fun, caricatured and lampooned by every satirist and cartoonist in both Britain and most of those countries who are convinced that this man is just a music hall joke.

For the last couple of years, Trump has kept an almost silent low profile because not only has he been deposed by one Joe Biden but nobody can possibly imagine him as President once again. In November, America go to the polls and, alarmingly, Trump has now emerged as odds on favourite to regain the hot seat in the White House. And all because somebody brave enough decided to take a pot shot and ensure a lifetime of notoriety and scandal. But not this time since Trump privately knew that the shot would miss by a country mile and indeed it did.

Now, in the general scheme of things, this one incident would have been quickly air brushed from the media archives and never shown again. But what we have here is some severe warning to the whole population of the United States that the assassination attempt we witnessed on Donald Trump was for real and far too serious to be swept under the carpet and just ignored. Trump is now the centre of attention and how he revels in the oxygen of publicity. The man who must be watched and listened to closely is back on the front page of every magazine and newspaper throughout the world.

And yet on Saturday night in Britain we discovered the world is still destabilised, at war with forces that are completely beyond our control, a dangerous and vulnerable place where anything can happen. America is an angry, murderous and violent place, an aggressive battleground where even American presidents can feel exposed, an easy target for potential snipers or terrorists. So we turned on our TVs, radios and social media outlets and were informed that somebody had fired bullets at Donald Trump.

In the middle of  Trump's latest narcissistic campaign rallies, Trump did what he's been doing ever since the election bugles started blasting away at us from all  directions. We were half way through a philosophical Trump tirade, a speech dripping with poison and bile reserved only for President Biden. And then, suddenly, it all kicked off because maybe we should have known anyway. But how could anybody could have bargained for some savage monster with little regard for human life?

Turning around to make his point with some choice remark about Biden, there was what sounded like an air pistol going off with a mass of security heavyweights diving all over the ex President, pinning him to the ground as if their lives depended on it and Trump was hustled to the ground in double quick time. It reminded you of Ronald Reagan, another American poster boy, who could do no wrong in American eyes. Reagan, emerging from an important diplomatic meeting, was peppered with bullets but only survived thanks to the wonderful athleticism of his body guards who just threw Reagan into the back seat of the car without a moment's hesitation. 

Over the weekend, a bullet was fired from the rooftop of a building literally yards away from Trump. Before you could blink or gasp with horror, the said bullet whistled past Trump's ear and away into the distance. In one terrifying moment, the world once again stood still and not for the first time. Suddenly, in a heroic act of bravura and defiance, Trump bunched his fist together and punched the air. With blood pouring from the side of his ear, Trump, briefly taken aback, just dusted himself down as if nothing had happened. It could have been a whole lot worse and thank goodness it didn't because, if it had, the repercussions of that one event might have left America permanently shell shocked.

Today the United States of America just continues to take in the enormity of yet another assassination attempt at, this time, a former President. Rather like Britain, the Americans are pretty good on that whole issue of resilience and strength of character. When the Twin Towers in New York was completely flattened by evil terrorists 23 years ago, nobody thought we'd see yet another outrage against civil liberty. But we did and although, thankfully, Trump wasn't murdered, it does make you wonder what exactly must be going through the collective minds of every good, upstanding American citizen.

On the one hand they have an American president who can barely string a sentence together without making himself look like a fool and another former President with even greater delusions of grandeur. Now we all know about the combined ages of both Trump and Biden and this may not be the decisive factor come November. But you look at Trump and Biden and you despair of that whole nightmare scenario of a leader of the Free World where everything looks horribly dysfunctional, and, dare you say it, freakish.

For the historians of course there was the tragedy of Abraham Lincoln, a 19th century American president who was a bit of a radical busybody in his spare time. One night, at a theatre performance where Lincoln was seen to be hobnobbing with the great and good of the thespian world, some disenchanted anti Lincoln protestor, chanced their arm and shot Lincoln dead. So assassinations and America have somehow become unfortunate chapters in the nation's history books.

What we do know now is that Trump and Biden will be battling it out to see who becomes the head honcho in the volatile circles of American politics. For the next four months we will be subjected to much the same treatment the United Kingdom had to endure a couple of weeks ago. Both Trump and Biden will be bullish, blustering, bellowing at the tops of each other's voices, attacking their respective policies and promises. And then by the start of autumn, things will get really juicy and childishly banal, one suspects. In November, most of us will probably demand ear muffs or cotton wool just to blot out all of the noisy madness and incoherent drivel from both men. So be prepared world, it'll be unsightly.

Donald Trump of course is one of those frustrated comedians who still thinks he should be treading the boards and entertaining the public on a Las Vegas stage. He still barks out an incessant barrage of ridiculous rhetoric about nothing in particular. He will keep ranting and raving until his throat can take no more and he is still distressingly dogmatic and yet morally bankrupt. But ladies and gentlemen, this is the man who may well become President of the United States and he just wants you to be much kinder towards him. 

He talks like a man who can take on any of the intellectuals at an Oxford debating society and still know more than they do. Trump, the larger than life personality with an ego bigger than a New York skyscraper, just keeps showboating and grandstanding like a man who just wants world domination now rather than tomorrow. He may think he's the best thing since sliced bread and we all know how much he loves to look at his bathroom mirror in the morning, reminding us again that he's a gorgeous Adonis with no faults at all and entirely misunderstood. 

The dramatic events of last weekend may change the focus of our perspective. This week Trump has been roving across all of those familiar states of America with a small bandage next to his ear. The trickle of blood that dripped down Trump's face may become the definitive image of the year. Here, in the United Kingdom, an eminent human rights lawyer and barrister named Sir Keir Starmer became Prime Minister while a man called Donald Trump will be striving with every sinew in his body to become the next President of the United States of his country. You really couldn't have written a more riveting soap opera script. Nobody could possibly make it up.

Spain- European Champions.

 Spain- European Champions.

We knew it would end in tears because it normally does anyway. England's latest European Championship adventure sadly came to a bitter end. For the last couple of weeks, England have been travelling through a land that was so fraught with difficulty that their defeat by an extraordinary Spain side was no more than they deserved. In fact, so great has the torment been for England, yesterday's release valve came as a blissful relief. 

They weren't enjoying themselves at all in Berlin last night and when they come to make  historical assessments about this Euro Final, the experts will probably say that they told you this would happen. It wasn't a self fulfilling prophecy but you could see England were suffering and it was best to put them out of their misery sooner rather than later. Surely one of the most unimpressive England teams to travel abroad for the Euros, this seemed like the ultimate act of cruelty. Spain were so utterly in control of this Euro 2024 Final, that their possession based game seemed to run circles around an England team who looked so dizzy by the end of the game that you almost felt sorry for them.

This was an accident waiting to happen for England, the appropriate punishment for a team who had so obviously failed to turn up in Germany. This was, quite simply, men against boys, a no contest in many ways and a further demonstration of England's total ineptitude at this level of football. We left them in the good and caring hands of manager Gareth Southgate and his well qualified coaching entourage and this is how they reward us. To be sure, this wasn't essentially, Southgate's fault, governor. There was no culpability on his part and he'll wash his hands of any wrong doing.

Not for the first time, England once again traipsed and trundled about the Berlin pitch rather like men wading through treacle. This almost felt like a painful imposition for England, a painstakingly unbearable ordeal that kept going on and on and never really looked as if it would ever end. There was never any likelihood that Spain would be in a humane and benevolent mood since they, unlike England, have won both World Cups and European Championships, this was their fourth Euro trophy and England were still casting their minds back to 1966 and all that.

We all know then that this was England's second consecutive European Championship Final defeat and how our fingers were burnt yet again. England were just second best, outclassed from start to finish and then just looked totally demoralised by the sheer frequency, weight and volume of Spain's beautifully proportioned attack, a team of delectable skills, ravishing passing that would have lit up any other big football occasion and some of the most stunning football that most of us have ever seen.

England were forewarned and must have known what they were letting themselves in for. It now seems to the outsider looking in and all impartial observers that England are just lacking in any kind of tournament savvy, showing naivete at times, woefully underprepared and just incapable of finding any kind of performance for the football royalty present last night. When the likes of former Arsenal manager Arsene Wenger was seen among the football dignitaries, we knew exactly what to expect. Even the King of Spain must have had a hunch that something special was being readied for him.

This was not the way Gareth Southgate had planned this for England. You'd have thought that even though England had shuffled awkwardly through Euro 2024 and shown even a semblance of their real form, that their arrival in a major European Championship would galvanise them, stimulate their senses, providing inspiration rather than perspiration. But this was a horrible shambles of a display, a shabby, underwhelming, misshapen and totally ineffectual display that had little in the way of a coherent shape or structure about it.

This reminded of you a group of late night train commuters who'd missed the last train and couldn't find a ticket office open to them. Here England were stranded, helpless, leaden footed, a team with restrictive chains around their ankles and not a single clue between them. You kept looking for consolation in this Euro Final defeat for England and just saw a red tidal wave of Spanish shirts cascading against England's defensive shores mercilessly and stylishly. Sometimes class tells and Luis De Fuentes, Spain's wise and wily manager, coach and shrewd tactician, must have thought this was the easiest assignment his Spain team had ever been faced with. 

Spain played the kind of open, expansive, expressive, flowing and decorative football that we may have come to expect from them. In another age and incarnation, the likes of Xavi, Iniesta and Fabregas were like midfield architects with some of the most effective tools at their disposal. It was a side that won World Cups and European Championships at exactly the right time of their development, a side with the perfect blend and chemistry.

And yet for the first half an hour or so, the defensive bastions of Kyle Walker, Luke Shaw, John Stones and Declan Rice shielding a comfortable back four, were just minding their own business. Spain were beginning to create a storm and stir with their exquisite one touch football but nothing seemed to be getting past England goalkeeper Jordan Pickford. But not a single glove was laid on the Spanish and Phil Foden, Kobbie Mainoo, Jude Bellingham and Harry Kane were like sparring partners, tentatively picking out their punches but never really connecting. England were just content to wait for the right moment and then found all their attacking avenues were being blocked stubbornly.

Last night though was all about the coronation of a new Spanish footballing king. At 17, Lamine Yamal may yet to have experienced his first shave, nor an alcoholic drink. But the youngster from Barcelona showed once again why Spain have produced one of the most lustrous diamonds. Lamal was simply unplayable, irrepressible, a pearl of a player, dribbling in and out of white English shirts as if the game was just a piece of cake and needed no clarification.

He toyed, teased and taunted the England defence rather like the kid in the playground who just wants the ball all the time, regardless of the consequences. He dummied players effortlessly, nutmegging for fun, dancing through forests of feet with the kind of close ball control that drives defenders completely berserk. Last night no England player could deal or live with Yamal. He was a child of nature, a man of impulse, off the cuff, a player with the most unexpected, a constant source of danger and surprise, the sudden killer touch when it counted.

At one point the whole of the England team were surrounding Yamal and Nico Williams on both wings and wondering whether it wasn't just a futile exercise. Every time Yamal and Williams had the ball, England looked perplexed and hypnotised by the sheer individual cheek and effrontery of this young Spanish upstart. Besides, England should have had both men's cards marked from the start but could only manage more than a flailing tackle and fruitless challenge.

Now both Phil Foden and Declan Rice began to lose the ball more often than gained. Foden, although a bundle of energy and exuberance, looked as if he'd played one match too many. Rice, for his part, has leadership qualities in abundance and skipped around Spanish red shirts as if they were simply inferior to him. This was not to be Rice's night, however. He is an immensely reassuring presence for England but England looked groggy and under the weather and the Arsenal player at times looked sluggish and out of sorts at times. There can be no doubting his quality though and maybe his day will come.

And so it was that Spain inevitably took the lead shortly after half time. Another breathtaking sequence of quick, quick, slow and staccato passes stretched right across the pitch. The ball, now adopting a mind of its own, fell to Yamal. Now the new kid on the block from Barcelona, from whom he will receive the best football education, Lamal went to town, luring England defenders into his trap, jinking and darting between all and sundry. Then the wonderfully creative Dani Olmo, Aymeric La Porte, Fabian Ruiz  moved the ball from feet to feet with an instinctive knowledge of where each was. 

Now though Williams shifted the ball quickly from one foot to the other. The ball stayed magnetically at William's feet and, a ferocious low drive from the man of the moment, had far too much power for England goalkeeper Jordan Pickford and the ball flew past the Everton keeper. Spain were, crucially, in front and never relinquished their stranglehold on the match. Their movements on and off the ball were dreamlike. England were on the rack, pinned back desperately as the ball was clipped neatly between one red shirt and another.

Then, in a lull period during the second half, Spain seemed to take their eye off the ball. There were brief lapses of concentration when England brought on Chelsea's Cole Palmer from the substitute's bench. Suddenly, England woke up, startled into life, revived, resurrected and almost completely transformed.  Bukayo Saka, the Arsenal winger, finally turned on the afterburners for England just when it was required. Saka once again embarked on a dazzling run, an electrifying turn of pace that was cut back with heavenly timing for Palmer, who strode on to crack a fabulous shot that soared into the net for an England equaliser that nobody had seen coming.

For a while it looked for all the world that England were in the ascendancy, their passes much cleaner and their attacks both impeccably co-ordinated and choreographed. Foden was finding much more space to run into and Kobbie Manoo, the Manchester United midfielder, was by far England's most inventive player, a stabilising influence and always involved in the heat of the action. Palmer was now running at Spain, a free and independent spirit while Walker and Stones were giving their colleagues welcome ballast at the back. Walker, although one of England's most experienced veterans, can still take on his opponents for pace without worrying that the windows might be open at the back.

But then it all fell apart at the seams for England. Their attacking momentum began to run out of steam again and the entire team found itself withdrawing deep into their shell. They'd been rumbled by Spain and there was no way back from the trenches that England had fallen back into. Alvaro Morata, another ageing striker for Spain, hemmed Walker and Stones into the most confined spaces. Now the red Spanish shirts came storming forward back into the match with  yet another session of handsome passing that England had no answer to. Fabian Ruiz and Dani Olmo were now dictating the game with some of the sweetest footballing concepts ever seen on a football pitch.

With minutes left and the game still hanging in the balance, Spain went about stripping open England's now brittle and frail looking defence with football from the purest source. Another decisive break from Spain ended up with lively interchanges that led to a smart cut back to Mikel Oyarzabal who slid the ball past Jordan Pickford with the goal that won the European Championship for Spain again. Spain were European Champions for the fourth time and exactly 60 years after winning their first trophy. There was no way back for Gareth Southgate's England. Victory had been snatched away from them.

This morning, England stepped off the plane and back to reality. The mood of course was sombre, an air of deep reflection and introspection which have now become familiar themes throughout the years and decades. For England, this had been another grave disappointment and too anti climactic for words. Of course we have been here for the national side on innumerable occasions and the result was somehow tinged with a sorrowful inevitability about it.

Gareth Southgate walked past hundreds of cameramen and women, past those brightly lit duty free shops groaning with booze and cigarettes. If only things had gone according to some grand plan. If only they'd won and done so with some conviction. We were all ready to acclaim our heroes with open top bus parade celebrations, an air of festivity while not forgetting that national Bank Holiday arranged almost immediately. Sir Keir Starmer, Labour's new Prime Minister, must have thought that the year was about to get even better for him personally. Sadly, it'll be 60 years ago since England sampled its greatest World Cup victory and perhaps one day, it can still wend its weary way home. It's a tall order and big ask but sport does occasionally give something back for perseverance. You never know. 

England reach the Euro 2024 Final and face Spain.

 England reach the Euro 2024 Final and face Spain.

So there we were thinking that another chance had been blown and another hard luck story would be confronting the breakfast tables of England. We were convinced that England were a minute or two away from another half an hour of insufferable heartache, a thousand probing inquests into England's poor showing at Euro 2024 when, suddenly, fate came to our rescue. We'd resigned to ourselves to extra time, yet more indecision and then the intolerable charade of penalty kicks when Lady Luck once again bailed us out of trouble. It had been one long, hard, gruelling, punishing, excruciatingly painful evening for the England football team and most of us were probably beyond caring.

It was 1-1 between England and the Netherlands and it just looked as if both teams were just out on their feet. England were now emotionally involved and engaged in the contest, a side who had suddenly found that the game was simple and ultimately rewarding. Gareth Southgate, England's loyal and splendidly modest manager, had said before the game that a burden had been lifted from the players shoulders and now there was a clarity of purpose about the national side that none of us had hitherto seen. It was almost as if a heavy sack of coals had been pushing down on the England players and it was beginning to hurt.

But, after 90 minutes of psychological warfare, fluctuating, end to end football and, quite possibly some of the most dramatic events unfolding, England and the Netherlands really couldn't find anymore to give. They had both gone to toe to toe with each other, all guns blazing, hell for leather, on the front foot from the word go and unrelenting in their commitment to the cause, dedicated to winning at all costs. At times it was unsightly and, in the next breath, pulsating, unbelievable, gobsmacking and a major source of fascination.

Throughout the whole of Euro 2024, England have been like a tortoise in hibernation, hiding away comfortably from all the pundits, experts and analysts who had made no secret of their disapproval of the way England had approached this tournament. In fact England seemed to take a verbal roasting from their camp followers, the naysayers and doom and gloom merchants who had just given up on the national side. And yet, after muddling, blundering, staggering, stuttering and limping their way unpleasantly through the whole of this European Championship, England just lunged at the finishing line this evening.

They had overcome those traumatic group stage preliminaries like hardened criminals who had felt ashamed of themselves in a court of law but couldn't admit to their heinous crime. So the jury has been well and truly out on Gareth Southgate's England and most of us have been watching with our hands over our eyes, hardly believing the incriminating evidence against them. If this had been a proper trial, England would have been guilty as sin and some of us would have been glad to see the back of them.

This has not been an edifying watch for England's devoted hordes of fans who follow them everywhere and believed that yesterday was somehow different. At previous tournaments, England had started bonding with each other, finding common ground, confiding in each other, sharing favourite hobbies and pursuits, cycling together, swimming together and then finding something resembling compatibility. The days of petty internal squabbles and arguments had long since disappeared. England had sung together on the same hymn sheet and the morning assembly had been a rousing one.

There have been now two consecutive European Championship Finals, a World Cup semi final in 2018 where Russian hospitality had taken most of us by complete surprise. Admittedly, it all broke down against Croatia but England had left their first footprints at a major tournament. Four years later, England had achieved another notable quarter final place at the World Cup in Qatar but France had that indefinable je ne sais quoi, that delightful joie de vivre and esprit de corps and England were yesterday's Camembert. 

Overall, England have emerged as a side to be reckoned with and that was regarded as a positive and welcome progress. Rather than just scratching each other's eyes and rolling out of wine bars at two o'clock in the morning, England are a cohesive force, a meeting of great minds, always there for each other, learning to laugh again without hearing those savage attacks on their character. Of course it hasn't been easy but then this transitional period and major cultural shift, was always likely to be an ongoing, long term project.

So after the outrageous antics of Gazza in Euro 96 before the tournament and watery dentist chairs, now it was time to get down to the serious business amongst football's most learned circles. Holland, of course, were still haunted by Euro 96, that long, golden summer in England where everything seemed to fit into place perfectly. Then both Teddy Sheringham, Alan Shearer, Paul Gascoigne and Tony Adams did their utmost to restore normality to proceedings, reaching the semi final of Euro 96 only to find that Germany were in their way again.

But Holland were thrashed by Terry Venables irresistible England 4-1 and the rest is well chronicled history. And so it was that some of us were privately worried that the Dutch were still licking their wounds last night even if it was 28 years ago and it was time to move on. Last night though, England were in the mood to rub salt into old wounds, aggravating the bruises and finding some chemical formula that would make matters a whole lot worse. This was no time for friendly alliances and polite handshakes because this meant something vitally important to both sides.

So it was that Gareth Southgate took his seat on the bench like a man who had just concluded another crucial meeting behind the scenes and was fed up with those flip charts and complex graphs. At times Southgate has been fighting the kind of battle that none of us should ever have to put up with. On the one hand he's seen as something of a Messiah, a man with miracle cures and magical potions and the other like a flawed and vulnerable character who always comes up with a temporary solution but never seems to find a definitive answer to the real problems.

Southgate reminds you of that individual at a dinner party who takes enormous pleasure in talking about  financial balance sheets and impressive profit margins but can only hope that things will get better if the company shows a loss. So we accepted Southgate at face value and just took a deep breath. It could have gone horribly awry for England when the Netherlands took an early lead but Southgate just held on to crumbs of comfort because the goal had been conceded early on in the game and nobody should panic.

Then, England proceeded to work their way back into the game cautiously and prudently, economical with their passes and almost reluctant to commit themselves too much in case the Dutch were just waiting for another accident to happen. From there onwards, England reset delicately with Kyle Walker and John Stones slowly but surely shepherding the ball away from a briefly rampant Dutch attack. Marc Guehi, back in the England starting line up, patrolled at the back like a lighthouse keeper, snuffing out the attacking threat that the Dutch still possessed.

But it was much further forward where England finally lit the blue touch paper, their movements much more co-ordinated and now collaborative. There was a snap to their passing, skilful touches that, at long last began to look threatening and, ultimately productive. Whereas before Declan Rice, Kobbie Mainoo, Phil Foden and the superbly effective Bukayo Saka had looked somewhat burnt out and drained, now there was a renewed vitality about England's football. England's football now had a verve and vivacity about it that most of us had forgotten about, a joyousness that had been stifled by the weight of expectation on them.

Then Jude Bellingham, England's most prominent king maker, carved out a display that reminded everybody of his extravagant talent, a world class midfield inventor and creator, almost a pioneering spirit. England must have thought they'd never find another Paul Gascoigne, a man who could make the pendulum of their attack swing back in their favour in the blink of an eye. Bellingham carries the ball with him like a City gent once took his bowler hat and suitcase into a lucrative bank. There is an effortless simplicity about Bellingham's game, few airs or graces and no posh affectations. He runs with the ball with only thought on his mind and the end product is one to admire like an art exhibit.

Then, in a sustained period of pressure, England surged towards the penalty area with some lightning quick passes. A cross to Harry Kane, at the back of the Dutch penalty area found the Bayern Munich striker who leapt for the ball with an orange Netherlands defender rising in unison with him. Kane went up for the ball and looked as if he'd fallen awkwardly on the pitch. But then the referee had noticed contact had been made and thought again.

Seconds later, Kane was left writhing in pain and, to all intents and purposes, it just seemed  a minor collision of bodies. But then we realised that Kane's boot studs had been caught and tripped by the same Dutch opponent. After much deliberation at the VAR screen, the referee pointed to the penalty spot. Kane took his penalty with the composure of a man who had done the same thing a thousand times. The ball nestled in the corner of the net and England were back on level terms. The first half came and went.

The second half followed a similar pattern, England edging the contest with fluid, one touch football that lifted the heart. Rice found Foden in acres of space, Bellingham reached for Saka and it was as if somebody had flicked a switch for England. The timing and incisiveness of England's passing had now reached exalted levels and a winner, although frustratingly elusive, had to be just around the corner. Then after Cole Palmer and Ollie Watkins had come off the subs bench, England found a second wind. It did seem possible and England knew it as well.

With a minute to go of injury time left Declan Rice, as immaculate as ever in his more attacking midfield role, slipped the ball out beautifully to Cole Palmer. Palmer, with all the special instincts of a player just starting out, threaded another inch perfect ball into the path of Ollie Watkins. Watkins, who has now enjoyed one of his most successful seasons in a blossoming career with Aston Villa, took possession of the ball with admirable close ball control and, with his back to goal, turned his defender magnificently and fired a handsomely placed shot across Dutch goalkeeper Bart Veerbregen and into the net. England were through to their second consecutive Euro Final against Spain on Sunday in Berlin.

With the likes of the usually stylish Memphis Deplay, Cody Gapko and Xavi Simons all faltering and running out of steam after a promising start, England took full advantage of the orange army's defensive shortcomings. England are through to another big tournament Final and that may take some digesting in days to come before Sunday evening arrives. 

What we now have in prospect is a Euro 2024 Final of contrasting styles. Spain love to spread their passing game out like a picnic hamper on a blanket, players darting and dashing into space before somebody gives them a paint brush. Spain now have pedigree and stature as serial winners of World Cups and European Champions. England have only 1966 to cling onto by way of historic consolation.

At the moment, England will have to approach Sunday's European Championship Final in much the way that Sunderland must have addressed their FA Cup Final against lovely Leeds United 51 years ago. Immediately installed as underdogs who were bound to be beaten by Leeds, Sunderland threw the proverbial kitchen sink at Leeds and won with a single goal by Ian Porterfield who trapped the ball with his thigh and thumped the ball into the Leeds net with some meaning.

England may be without an Ian Porterfield in their forward line but a man called Ollie Watkins stepped up to the plate last night on a humid evening in Germany. Watkins may care to remember the last man in a claret and blue shirt to win a major trophy for the national side. Sir Geoff Hurst will settle back in front of his TV on Sunday evening and wonder whether any Englishman can emulate his remarkable hat-trick of goals in the victorious World Cup Final of 1966. We must hope that, for England's sake, something finally does work for England. It's over to you Gareth Southgate. 

West Indies, cricket's finest, take on England

 West Indies, cricket's finest, take on England.

You always knew where you were when the West Indies came over to England to play cricket. It was a time when warm summers seemed to last indefinitely and the calypso beat was almost too sweetly melodious. John Arlott, that most distinguished of literary observers on the game, must have thought all his birthdays had come at once. Arlott loved cricket's grammar and vocabulary, its verbs and adverbs, its dignified place in the English sporting calendar, its nuances and sudden shifts in mood, its romantic flavours when the sun set on Lord's and Sir Gary Sobers brandished his bat with a chivalrous flourish. We knew that cricket was something to be rolled around the tongue like one of Arlott's huge cellar of wines.

This year, it's happening all over again and not for the first time. It is almost half a century since the West Indies last boasted one of the greatest cricket sides ever to grace England's ennobled county grounds and the Test circuit. The West Indies have gone into hibernation for quite some time now. It is hard now to recognise the West Indies whose remarkable and august cricket teams just ground teams into the dust with the kind of majestic cricket that none of us thought we'd ever see again. Now though the West Indies are whipping up a different kind of Caribbean recipe, hoping that the old habits haven't deserted them.

Back then it was all too easy. As soon as the touring West Indies had set foot on the hallowed turf of Lords before progressing to Old Trafford, Headingley, Trent Bridge and the Oval, the warning signs were always there. The dark maroon caps settled themselves in the respective pavilions of England's most beautiful grounds and, suddenly, you were in the presence of greatness and magnificence. You were privileged to be among the cream of the crop, a sumptuous concoction of breathtaking batting and blissful bowling. The West Indies had arrived and that normally meant that a carnival was about to descend on our town.

It's hard to remember now, but at some point during the 1970s- a summer had displayed its fullest and richest plumage. It must have been the last and sixth Test at the Oval and the gasometers of Surrey's most striking ground would provide the most extraordinary backdrop to any cricket match. In those days, the Oval always seemed to have the longest outfield and the boundaries seemed to stretch for miles. West Indies had already cleaned up with emphatic victory over England in the Test series but the images remain indelible.

Away in the far corner, huge crowds of jubilant and ecstatic West Indies fans spent the entire day, celebrating the nation's unsurpassable brilliance and lordly pre-eminence. It was almost as if you were watching cricketing royalty where the thrones of command were occupied by West Indies genius. Wearing yellow and orange beach shirts, the bare chested supporters from Antigua, Barbados, St Kitts, St Thomas and Trinidad and Tobago jumped up and down almost incessantly from early morning to late evening tea time.

Sport can always be relied to provide us with memorable moments, the places where we witnessed almost Olympian perfection, when time stood still, the West Indies encapsulating everything that was good and complete about sport. By the time the West Indies had left the field at the end of day's play, you knew you'd seen the finished article. It was cricket at its purest, most refined and accomplished. It was cricket that had been fashioned and designed by its most delicate materials.

But we knew what we'd seen. We'd heard about it in Wisden, cricket's bible of facts and figures. We'd seen it on the BBC, in all its beauty and finery, knew about it from Test Match special on Radio Three who captured its essence, its art form and acres of literature. And yet from early morning to tea time, BBC One heightened our senses, awoke us to a glorious awareness of those bold characters who would defy the odds and roll out a whole carpet of centuries and double centuries.

We didn't have to travel far to see the West Indies. They dominated that summer from yesteryear, their cricket an epic revelation, a huge breath of fresh air, sport as it should be performed and displayed in front of its discerning spectators. For this is what it was. Geoff Arnold and John Snow from the gasometer end, faced the spectacularly gifted Sir Viv Richards, Gordon Greenidge, Rohan Kanhai, Alvin Kallicharran, towering batting forces in the game, mighty hitters and just unstoppable at times.

And so it was that both Richards and Greenidge bounced out of the Oval pavilion shortly after breakfast and we knew what was going to happen next. They would crouch on their haunches briefly, stretching their flexible joints and just going through the motions. Then Richards and Greenidge would tug on the maroon cap, shaking their shoulders vigorously and then just concentrating on the task in hand. You knew that both would wreak their destructive havoc because there was a wise and enlightened glint in their eyes. They knew what would follow next. England would simply be helpless onlookers.

Richards would just hook the ball imperiously into outer space deep into the heart of the Surrey stockbroker belt. He would swivel his body effortlessly around before cracking the ball into alcoholic taverns next to the Oval entrance and exit. Then there were the thunderous on and off drives that flew, skimmed and floated across the Oval's fast outfield and had to be retrieved by a search party. Viv Richards imprinted his mastery all over a cricket pitch and none could touch him. Then Gordon Greenidge joined in with the fun and by now the England of Geoff Boycott and John Edrich were just picking up scraps.

The dominant figure of the day was, of course the West Indies captain Clive Lloyd. Not for nothing was Lloyd affectionately referred to as ' The Panther' since he moved like one. Legs that went on for ever, Lloyd would stand at mid wicket, tall as a skyscraper, hands reaching into the air, clapping, coaxing and cajoling his team. Lloyd was one of cricket's shrewdest of tacticians, a man of acute insights into the game, a strategist of the highest order, scheming, thinking ahead, gesturing and pointing in the right direction. 

Most of us would be spellbound by the West Indies, surely one of the most riveting of all spectacles whenever a cricket match was about to unfold. Today they begin their latest exhibition. For England, this has been a particularly poignant week for English cricket. The legendary Jimmy Anderson will retire from the game after the Test matches ahead and a powerful light is about to go out for England. Anderson was just a model of reliability and never disappointed.

But for those of us who thought they'd seen everything in the summertime game of cricket, then maybe we had. The West Indies were our favourite team and simply made the game look so effortless. Never did arrogance ever stain their shirts and trousers, just a casual insouciance, an approach that was both brutal and yet stunningly effective, a way to win that was natural as breathing, eating, living and drinking.

We will follow their exploits because we suspect that we might have missed something. Maybe there are stirrings of a revival, a period of rehabilitation that finally bears fruit. There has to be another Richards, Lloyd, Kalicharran, Kanhai and Greenidge in the making. It's been far too long and we've been patient for too long. But the West Indies will triumph again and how we've missed those steel drums ringing out those exotic rhythms, those captivating calypso beats and an enduring love of the game. The best is yet to come from the Caribbean kings of style.

England beat Switzerland in Euro 2024 semi final on penalties.

 England beat Switzerland in Euro 2024 semi final on penalties.

You can come out from behind the sofa now and it's safe to watch your TV. At this rate we'll all be gibbering wrecks, convulsed with fear and terror. What is it about the England football team and its now iconic relationship with penalty taking? This is turning into a cultural phenomena since every so often penalties have been so problematic for England that you wonder if a good, old fashioned psychiatrist should be consulted for an immediate appointment. There is something in the air when England are required to take penalties, an indefinable neurosis that none of us can quite work out. 

And yet maybe England only have themselves to blame. Besides, how hard can it be to score a penalty regardless of the extenuating circumstances. It's only a short distance and yet we build a metaphorical obstacle in front of us, since it should be a piece of cake but always ends up in a messy meringue pie. This time though, it worked in England's favour and now we can stop cowering away from the gogglebox and enjoy the present rather than dreading the future.

In a match that England showed a remarkable improvement on recent encounters, England found their ordinance survey map, finding their bearings and suggesting, on several occasions, that their tournament has started and not before time. For long periods, England were moving their bishops and knights all over the chessboard only to find that the castle had already left them in check mate. Then the ball seemed to go on that amazing voyage of discovery, conquering new territories before going back to square one.

England's opponents, for their part, knew exactly which side their bread was buttered and didn't need any hint of Swiss cheese to spoil their appetite. This was a hungrier, sharper England, far more clear cut in their thinking, quicker of movement, a team with wit and spontaneity in reserve, passing with far more precision than the slow tempo that had come to characterise all of their group stage matches and, latterly, Slovakia.

We knew this was never going to be easy because it never looked as though it would be. Switzerland were not here to just prove that all they're famous for is watches, cuckoo clocks, cheese and substantial bank accounts. This was a Switzerland fancying its chances in Euro 2024, never knowingly underestimated as evidenced by their very competent performances against Germany and Scotland. Suffice it to say that Switzerland were not here for an exchange of expensive chocolates after the match rather a major semi final place in the European Championships.

Throughout the first half and most of the second half, Switzerland held England at comfortable arms length but were always respectful of the opposition in front of them. They passed and moved whenever they had possession and looked as though they were just luxuriating in the moment and genuinely enjoying those intermittent periods when the game was flowing for them and the goals almost came to fruition.

The former Arsenal midfield lynch pin Grant Xhaka showed encouraging signs of dictating the play with the kind of stabilising and calming influence that Switzerland were probably hoping for. Xhaka was measured but dangerous, shrewd and influential whenever the Swiss had the ball.  There was Manuel Akanji, a Manchester City sparking plug and catalyst for everything that was positive for Switzerland. Ricardo Rodriguez combined with both Fabian Schar, constantly creating and inventing, carrying the ball with a skill and confidence that perhaps we weren't expecting from Switzerland. 

At no point did it look like the Swiss were going to produce anything out of the ordinary since this is not what Swiss teams have ever done. This is not to suggest Switzerland are just historical lightweights in these tournaments because they did indeed take England to the wire and beyond. Switzerland were just middle of the road, knowing their strengths and weaknesses and always to be watched. From time to time, Ruben Vargas and Michel Aebischer did stretch the English defence to breaking point.

But for all their threatening attacking play, Switzerland never really disturbed England's equilibrium. There were purple patches from the Swiss but invariably England had most of the open play and found themselves with far more room to manoeuvre than they might have imagined. So England kept circling around the Swiss waggons with the kind of football that might eventually prove their undoing against the Netherlands in the Euro 2024 semi final. And at the moment, any kind of victory against either the Spanish or French in a hypothetical Euro 2024 final, feels almost as improbable as a British mountaineer reaching the summit of Mount Everest.

Still, it is now time to admire the studious manner of England manager Gareth Southgate. Southgate still has the demeanour of a bank manager, quite happy to engage in any discussion about mortgage rates or the current state of the housing market. Sometimes the body language is just a well kept secret. There 's the hard, quizzical stare, the tips of his fingers neatly perched on his lips as if he were completely perplexed by some insoluble problem. Then, Southgate's assistant Steve Holland, seems to whisper into Southgate's ear, perhaps some tactical conundrum that none of us could have figured out.

The greying beard and well groomed appearance seem to symbolise everything that makes Southgate tick. Southgate has an exemplary approach to international coaching, doing his homework thoroughly and researching the background of every player and manager that he faces. But then half way through the second half, Switzerland tore up all of Southgate's best laid plans. A delightful crossfield passing movement found Fabian Schar who laid the ball across the edge of the England six yard box and Breel Embolo came hurtling towards the ball before slipping the ball past England goalkeeper Jordan Pickford for a Switzerland lead they may have deserved on the balance of play.

Now, England were on the back foot, backs firmly against the wall and wondering whether this was the end for the national side when somewhat foolhardy and impartial observers had made them favourites to win Euro 2024. On came the subs. Cole Palmer, Chelsea's finest, Eberechi Eze, Luke Shaw, criminally short of match fitness, flooded onto the pitch rather like rescue teams out at sea. Palmer is exceptionally talented and could be the answer to all of Chelsea's attacking difficulties. Eze looks similarly equipped to turn defenders inside out and an England permanent fixture. But then it happened.

Minutes after the Swiss opening goal, Declan Rice came storming into the Swiss half with a boldness and sense of adventure we know he's capable of providing. Then, the quietly authoritative Kobbie Mainoo of Manchester, still a spring chicken at international level, joined the rest of the England attack. Jude Bellingham, England's golden boy, had almost retreated into his shell and this had become a major source of anxiety for Gareth Southgate. But then Bellingham reminded us all why he now plies his trade at the mighty Real Madrid. The soft shoe shuffles, the gliding motions and the regal elegance he displays when all around him are losing their cool, were now dramatically changing the momentum of the game.

Then Bukayo Saka, the winger par excellence for England, demonstrated so much of his Arsenal form that England would be completely misguided to ignore him. Saka was weaving, bobbing, darting in and out of hapless defenders, consistently deceiving his full back and then fooling the next. He then tormented his opponent with an almost sadistic relish, going one way and then back on himself again and again. When John Stones played the most magnificently weighted pass back to Saka, we knew what Saka had up his sleeve. Picking up the ball on the edge of the penalty area, Saka did what he always does for both England and Arsenal. He took up his favourite position, shifted the ball thrillingly onto his strongest foot and exploded with an unstoppable shot that went like a missile low into the net.

And so the game went to penalties as we suspected it would because now both teams had run out of batteries and then electricity. The moment had gone for both Switzerland and England and both teams reminded you of heavyweight boxers just slugging it out, arms flailing like ropes and finding their feet had now been reduced to jelly. Extra time was never likely to resolve this particular issue so England and Switzerland resorted to the chaotic lottery of penalties. 

All of the penalties were pitch perfect, immaculate exercises in accuracy and ruthless power. But Switzerland missed one of their spot kicks and England converted their spot kicks as if they'd practised them over and over again. Then it was all over. Trent Alexander steered the ball into the net from the penalty spot and we could all dig out our party hats. It was the time to do the conga, release those inhibitions and look forward to Holland in yet another epic semi final in another tournament.

When West Germany ended England's World Cup in 1990, the rebellious Paul Gascoigne spilt a thousand tears and we empathised with the player because for England, we must have thought  Gazza had pushed too many emotional buttons for Sir Bobby's Robson. Then, Gareth Southgate sidled up take the vital penalty that would have ensured a Euro 96 Final against the Czech Repubic. But Southgate missed and England dropped into the wilderness.

Between now and the midweek date with Holland, England will huddle around in deeply reflective  mood. They will look at each other intently, linking arms in a defiant show of camaraderie and then firing themselves up just in case we haven't got it yet. So we can only hope that the pendulum has swung back in favour of Gareth South's technical dug out. Fortune favours the brave, as the old cliche. England know that all of the awkward negativity will not survive another what could prove a most distressing ordeal for them against Holland in the Euro 2024 semi final. We know there's a performance just struggling to get out for England but, to all intents and purposes, England were trying too hard to do the simple things and wondering whether the real Holland will turn up. It's over to you, Gareth Southgate.

The Labour party win the General Election of 2024.

 The Labour party win the General Election of 2024.

It had been the worst of nights and then the best of nights. According to your political allegiance, your minds were torn by a thousand emotions and moods. There were the painful, anguished hearts, the regretful sobs and sniffles, tears of bitter disappointment and then the realisation that Britain had just undergone an almost revolutionary sea change in its political fortunes. There were the heartbreaking resignations, the inevitable departures and in a matter of hours, new arrivals, familiar faces and those who wish they'd had nothing to do with yesterday's earth shaking, dramatic events.

The fact is that this morning the Labour party will be installed as the new government of the United Kingdom. And there's the small matter of inaugurating Sir Keir Starmer as the new Prime Minister. After weeks of political high jinks, sometimes childish tomfoolery and complete madness, Britain have proudly declared Sir Keir Starmer as the leader of the country, the ultimate decision maker, the broker of all serious negotiations and business like discussions and the man entrusted with the unenviable responsibility of making us all feel a whole lot better than we ever thought possible.

For the last couple of weeks there have been nasty, vindictive comments, negative, deeply wounding remarks, insulting and disparaging words, politics at its most horrendously confrontational and just the most vile of slanging matches. It was the goriest of bloodbaths, a General Election to both remember and forget for a whole variety of reasons. We didn't think for a moment that British politics could ever stoop to such a degrading level and yet it did. There was the customary name calling, the pointless propaganda, the vastly exaggerated long term promises and then those rash forecasts that were simply laughable and derisory.

Of course we're relieved that it's all over now. It's the following day after the General Election and most of us are now in recovery from those tenderly executed speeches about the general health of the country. We can finally get back to doing what we were doing before, without those tedious soundbites, the tiresome cliches, the pompous platitudes and those Cabinet Ministers who just can't resist the temptation to tell you exactly how they intend to run the country without pausing for breath. They will spend the next couple of weeks after the General Election blustering, breaking bread with the nation in a very confessional manner and then outlining their intentions, guaranteeing and pontificating with constant assurances.

It is, of course, 14 years since the Labour party came anywhere near to power in 10 Downing Street. But then there was the image of a smiling Tony Blair with hugely loving and supportive wife Cherie, glad handing the good people of Britain  and smiling optimistically, convinced that things could, indeed, only get better and education, education, education would be the most urgent priority. From 1997 onwards, Blair showed us the sunny uplands and a succession of statements that would deliver an economic renaissance almost immediately and nothing would ever go wrong again. Never.

Sadly, although Blair fulfilled most of his bullet points and rosy complexioned pledges, ten years in office was enough. For a while, things did show a noticeable improvement and we were on the right train. Then there was the Iraq war which then dragged Blair into the Afghanistan conflict perhaps against his better wishes. Suddenly, former US president George Bush junior and Blair began to resemble the greatest pacifists of all time, intervening at the right time and desperate to  end all of the unnecessary death and suffering.

But fast forward to more recent times and after 14 years of David Cameron, the man who just seemed to make the most ill conceived decision on something called Brexit, there was Boris Johnson. Before long Johnson turned into the most hilarious comedian any of us had ever witnessed. In fact, so great were the levels of incompetence and ineptitude that Johnson sunk to, that the Tories must have thought they were the laughing stock of the world.

From December 2019 onwards, the country staggered from one calamity to the next. It didn't help that a global and, tragically fatal, global virus would leave the world in such a horribly perilous state of crisis and emergency. There were millions of deaths across the world and all Johnson could do was stare vacantly across to his eminent medical scientists Sir Patrick Vallance and Sir Chris Witty who could hardly believe that they were the centre of attention rather than reliable Boris Johnston.

The truth is of course that the Tories were just stumbling headfirst into political meltdown. Johnson had, quite literally, lost the plot and everytime he looked over towards Vallance and Witty, we knew that here was a man who hadn't a clue what he was doing. His grammar and language would be peppered with inane and archaic references to Latin and Greek mythology. He would then ruffle that permanently uncombed blond hair that looked like some rural cornfield and then run out of excuses and ideas.

Then there were the unforgivable lies, the broken laws, the illegal behaviour, the shoddy leadership, the amateurish attempts at defending the indefensible and just outrageously inappropriate humour. Johnson's colleagues were, of course just as bad, appallingly ill advised and deliberately naive. There were the visits of Johnson's colleagues to sick parents who lived at the other end of the country when most of us were ordered to remain in hibernation for what seemed an indefinite period. There were the heady, hedonistic parties where food was eaten with triumphant relish and drink flowed like the Niagara  Falls. There was lively dancing and music and people mixing with each other in gleefully close proximity of each other. You really couldn't make it up.

Finally, Britain came to its senses and so, too, did Boris Johnson. Enough was enough. Johnson had to go and he did. Liz Truss came and went with an almost farcical brevity, almost destroying the country's economy overnight. And so the Tories plumped for one Rishi Sunak, a politician who had already turned against his friend with a sense of betrayal that none of us could believe. Now we all know that Sunak was just a respectable, level headed, sensible politician who just wanted to get on with the business of leading the country as Prime Minister.

And yet Sunak now became a marked man, branded a fool, equally as inept as his predecessors. He was enormously well informed, articulate, presentable and highly intelligent. He'd worked for Goldman Sachs, a highly reputable bank where Sunak shone brightly and where his credentials were suitably displayed. But the natural aptitude for dealing with complex financial problems may have given him the perfect chance to alleviating the country's chronic debts and digging us out of a dreadful hole.

Sadly, Sunak never really seemed the right fit and, after the wretched ignorance shown after the Normandy landings memorial ceremony, Sunak had nowhere to hide. This was just the beginning of the end for the man whose heart was probably in the right place. But when the nation expected its Prime Minister to observe the protocols surrounding those who had given and then lost their lives during the Second World War, Sunak went totally missing. The pathetic apology after the event sounded like a child who didn't mean to steal apples from the neighbour's garden but just thought they could get away with it.

Last night the Labour party achieved a landslide victory over the Tories the like of which may never be seen again. This was a political annihilation on the grandest scale. For a moment you thought of Clement Atlee and Harold Wilson, Tony Blair and Gordon Brown, Labour's greatest Prime Ministers, men of honour and distinction, men who the whole of UK regarded as trustworthy, dependable and, occasionally, a good laugh.

Perhaps the most memorable images of last night came at a gymnasium in Clacton where one Nigel Farage drunk a pint in the pub if only to portray that he was just a man of the people, a man with a  finger on the pulse, patriotically British and obsessively so. Farage though, still had immigration issues and those migrants had to watch themselves. Farage finally won a seat in the House of Commons after much perseverance and was now head of the Reform party.

Then there was Ed Davey, who just  treated the General Election as if it were some gloriously amusing karaoke session. Davey, Liberal Democratic leader, had charged recklessly across the country performing like a circus clown and yet was adamant that he still loved his country and was just doing the decent thing.

And so this morning Rishi Sunak, reluctantly perhaps, left 10 Downing Street while Sir Keir Starmer promptly replaced Sunak as Prime Minister. The handover was seamless and the world this morning turned a crimson red. The red flags were flying, Socialist ideals were rigidly adhered to and the Labour party must have thought all their birthdays had come at once. So Great Britain, this is your day to turn another historical page of another political chapter. The next five years will be endlessly fascinating. Be prepared.

England scrape through to Euro 2024 quarter final against Switzerland.

 England scrape through to Euro 2024 quarter final against Switzerland.

It almost felt as if  England were looking for buried treasure in some ancient kingdom.  Hidden away intriguingly in some tomb or sarcophagus were the remnants of some artefact, completely forgotten by time. England though, were still searching for forgiveness and leniency from their fans since it took them the best part of full time and extra time and then seconds to go before being knocked out of Euro 2024. Shamefully, England were bowing their heads and preparing for the exit gate before flying back to Heathrow airport. This had been a horribly nerve racking, painfully excruciating experience and nobody had enjoyed this at all. But then fate intervened and England were through to the last eight of Euro 2024.

There were seconds left between England's departure from Euro 2024 and a slot in the quarter finals which would have been considered a travesty of justice had things gone in their favour. Rather like all of their displays in this edition of the European Championships, England were dreadful, embarrassingly devoid of ideas, lumpenproletariat, a distinctly sour and unappealing rag tag collection of nonentities, desperately bad and poor, singularly without a backbone and never looking likely to score a goal at any point.

This was an England from the bad, old days, the side who were humiliated by Iceland in Euro 2016, driven out of the competition unceremoniously, dumped on their backside and left squirming in a dark corner. Then there was the World Cup in South Africa 2010, when England struggled shockingly against the little minnows Algeria in the group stage. This was a goal-less draw that did nothing to satisfy anybody and just left Wayne Rooney verbally attacking England fans with all manner of angry accusations. Days like the ones which almost left England packing their bags in Euro 2024 are becomingly disturbingly common.

After the faceless fiascos of both Slovenia, Serbia and Denmark, most of us were perhaps privately harbouring hopes of a sudden revival against Slovakia but they never came to fruition. England must have been hoping that the group stage matches were just phoney wars, gentle practice matches, limbering up exercises that would stand them in good stead for the real business end of Euro 2024. Nothing like that ever happened and, instead, Gareth Southgate's men looked like men who had just emerged from a hot sauna, sweating profusely, pores of the skin refreshed but exhausted by the exertions of a draining marathon.

We always pin our hopes on England simply discovering their real motives for being at Euro 2024 and then somebody pricks the balloon and it all goes as flat as a pancake. England gave us the obvious impression that somebody had given them a smouldering grenade and left them to defuse it without any assistance. Rather like Inspector Clouseau in the Pink Panther who walks into an antique shop with a bomb in his hand, this incendiary just seemed to blow up in England's faces from the kick off.

England were shabby, ugly, utterly grotesque, gauche, drab and dishevelled. Their football was an almost incessant slow motion replay, a fusion of the unsightly and unsavoury, little in the way of  tactical strategy and a group of players who just looked as though they simply couldn't wait to navigate their way to a comforting and welcoming Mediterranean beach where the sea laps gently against the toes of pampered Premier League egos.

From the moment the referee blew his whistle, England were like men whose minds were drifting deliriously towards an alcoholic hotel bar. We always criticise England when things are going badly because, quite rightly, they deserve all those damaging insults, withering verdicts on their lack of professionalism and their complete lack of ambition throughout the game. But this was never good enough and unless England undergo a radical transformation on Saturday against Switzerland, Harry Kane and manager Gareth Southgate will have to admit to glaring weaknesses in the squad and major deficiencies that have to be rectified immediately before they get any worse.

For the moment it just looks very bleak, grim  and ghastly. It's not the end of the world and we are still in the tournament so perhaps we've underestimated the whole of the England squad. Maybe they're saving the best until the last but if we are to assume that England are simply feeling their way into Euro 2024 they may think that these last minute adjustments just aren't working. You can only do a certain amount of tweaking and changing of personnel but England, just for now, are running on empty.

When David Stelec slipped through a delightful reverse pass which had been chipped into the path of Ivan Schranz, the Slovakia striker smuggled his way to the edge of England's penalty area and then slipped the ball delicately past England goalkeeper Jordan Pickford. Slovakia were in front and that's the way things would remain until deep into injury time as the final whistle was about to be blown.

Once again, England were just static, nervous, tentative, far too patient at times, unnecessarily over complicating everything and just reluctant to commit themselves when moving forward. You were reminded of  11 mannequins in a shop window, just there for display and nothing more. Kyle Walker, Declan Rice, Kieran Trippier and John Stones almost lumbered into the Slovakia half rather like men waiting for permission to play properly and wary of rejection from England's admirably loyal supporters.

Manchester United's Kobbie Mainoo did his utmost to sprinkle the pitch with some stardust and his controlling influence in midfield did restore our faith in an England side that, before the start of the tournament were, absurdly, odds on favourites to win Euro 2024. Admittedly, this rash and stupid prediction has now been rendered , quite clearly, as the foolish prophecy it always was. Of course we want the national team to win and win handsomely but, at Sunday tea time, England were looking over their shoulders, both terrified and petrified.

There were fleeting highlights and cameos. Arsenal's Bukayo Saka was always lively, lithe and sprightly, juggling the ball with his feet with a deftness of touch and delicacy that, from time to time, looked as though  England would find its due reward, finding the right key to the door. Saka received the ball on the flank and then launched into a lovely show of impeccable, close ball control, holding the ball at his feet protectively, before twisting and turning deceptively. He then cuts the ball back on to his other foot before running at defenders who maybe kicking themselves and regretting every effort to catch Saka.

Phil Foden and, of course, the now stunningly talented playmaker who is Jude Bellingham, almost seemed to vanish into thin air, so anonymous had they become. Foden is a superb technician, opening up the entire pitch with frequent body swerves and hip shimmyings, eating up the ground with darting and penetrative runs. Foden is just the embodiment of everything English fans clutch to their chest; pride and a genuine sense of patriotism, hard working, always busy and unceasingly creative.

With time rapidly running out though for Gareth Southgate, England just threw the metaphorical kitchen sink at Slovakia. For all the world, this looked a desolate cause. The white shirts were simply treating the ball like a hot potato, going backwards and forwards, horizontal and vertical, drawing patterns that were more Banksy graffiti; highly impressive and artistic but never resulting in any semblance of a winning goal. 

Then a last minute corner from England was headed on more in desperation than design. The ball landed perfectly into the Jude Bellingham field of expertise. Bellingham, with back to goal, threw his body acrobatically into the air in the middle of a congested Slovakia penalty area. The bicycle, overhead kick flew into the net spectacularly and England were handed the ultimate reprieve, an unexpected lifeline.

And so extra time beckoned. England were now wonderfully revitalised and re-energised. The batteries had been recharged and were working overtime. Up until this point it all looked so sorry and forlorn. But a couple of minutes into injury time and now a much healthier complexion appeared on English faces. England were. Cole Palmer, who many felt should have started the game, lofted a free kick into the Slovakian penalty area, Eberechi Eze, the new, exciting kid on the block for Crystal Palace, wildly slashed at the ball and then Marc Guehi headed the ball back into the penalty area from another cross. The ball now conveniently fell for captain Harry Kane who headed the ball low into the net for what would prove another last gasp winner for England.

What now becomes abundantly clear is that unless there is some miraculous sea change in England's ultra cautious attacking approach, then a plane will be ready to take them back to Heathrow airport in London as soon as possible. From this vantage point, England are now as far away from winning Euro 2024 as it's possible to be. You could roll the dice now but England look a busted flush and ready to bow out of the competition without so much as a whimper. But then again, who knows? We may have it wrong.

Switzerland may be cruel to be kind against England next weekend and yet there are no encouraging omens for Gareth Southgate to cling onto. This may be the right time though, for the national side to gamble on the roulette table without a hint of a poker face. It's time to deliver for England before the country turns its attention to a feast of tennis at Wimbledon. Gareth Southgate. You can do it. We know you can.