West Ham are through to the third round of the Carabao Cup

 West Ham are through to the third round of the Carabao Cup.

The only disappointing aspect of West Ham's second round victory against Bournemouth was their pairing with Liverpool in the next round of the Carabao Cup. We were looking for redeeming features from last night's moderately entertaining Carabao Cup tie between West Ham and Bournemouth but found ourselves desperately trying to look for them. Admittedly, this was eminently watchable and, to some extent aesthetically pleasing to the eye, but it will never be regarded as one of the greatest of games.

But it was Stratford, West Ham's comparatively new location, that held us spellbound. For those who remember Upton Park and its gorgeous sense of intimacy and electrifying atmosphere where the mid- week matches were at their liveliest, Stratford came as perhaps the biggest cultural shock to the system. Stratford shopping centre, now called Westfield, is a giant retail palace, the most stunning piece of architecture and Stratford is now a classical East London suburb where the merchandise on offer stood side by side with the most astonishing variety of restaurants, hotels and office blocks, leaving us open mouthed and speechless.

As you wandered through the Stratford shopping centre, you were reminded of the Olympic Games of 2012 where hundreds and thousands of tourists, local residents and, seemingly the entire world, converged on one of the most memorable sporting festivals. Admittedly, almost 50,000 football fans descended on this particular occasion but the spectacle itself was equally as breathtaking. You were transfixed by the vastness of it all, the almost ostentatious wealth, the gigantic grandeur and that constant air of rampant materialism.

All of the old dockyards and warehouses that gave the East End such a lovely charm decades ago are no longer in evidence but Stratford has undergone the most radical transformation ever since London's new Docklands became an economically viable proposition. Now the London Stadium just looks handsome, the Westfield shopping centre in Stratford a place to shop, admire, eat and drink at your leisure, wallow in consumerism, spend money as if it's going out of fashion and just enjoy the remarkable surroundings.

A visit to the Westfield shopping centre is one that, once seen and experienced, may never leave you. As the evening progressed, a huge forest of claret and blue shirts flooded the shopping mall, pausing for breath and then strolling nonchalantly around all of those familiar brand names that have become so ingrained in our lives. You thought back to those halcyon days when Green Street market was alive to the rousing roars of salesmanship at all of those magical fruit and vegetable stalls. 

Your mind travelled back to the day when the Barking Road  was a heaving, seething mass of match day fans and Saturday lunchtime shoppers. There were the collective chants and the salty obscenities, turning the streets completely blue with some of the most foul and abusive language ever heard. There was the mutual hatred of Spurs and Millwall, the vaguely threatening undercurrent of violence and aggression. It was desperately unnerving and intimidating. For a while, both Millwall and Spurs were once again the unwitting victims of circumstance. The match had been over but the rivalry was still there. But maybe we'd got it all wrong and this was just harmless joviality and good natured banter.

But last night's experience couldn't have come as a starker contrast to those late days of the 1970s when everything seemed so easier, travelling to the game became an instant pleasure and you could make your way into the Boleyn Ground with all the ease of somebody walking into their local park. In those now distant days, there was a simple delight and instant gratification about match day because nothing was difficult or awkward about Saturday afternoons at 3pm.

Of course you were surrounded by the souvenir sellers with their attractive array of claret and blue scarves, the permanently cheerful scarf sellers who were there back then and, although the 21st century has dawned, the voices were as heartening and uplifting as ever. Back in 1978, there was the girl with a huge bag of monkey nuts walking around the edge of the pitch, the melodiously stirring sound of the brass band  near the players tunnel at Upton Park and the characters on the terraces with mountainous piles of hot dogs and burgers oozing rivers of tomato ketchup and mustard. 

Now though we were at the London Stadium and while the fish and chip shops were still doing a brisk business, very few housewives and girlfriends were to be seen bartering and haggling for shirts, ties, shoes, socks, skirts and blouses, apples and oranges, pineapples and mangos. They may have been there in the background but didn't really stand out. Instead, they were all huddled together in the indoor Primark, stocking up on all of the paraphernalia needed by parents hunting around for last minute bargains for the children who go back to school next week after the traditional six week summer holiday. 

But then you were caught open mouthed with wonder and amazement. Approaching the stadium and out of the corner of your eye, you saw a Sadlers Wells theatre. Yes, you heard it correctly, the Sadlers Wells, the timeless home of ballet and opera. The juxtaposition of the Nutcracker and Swan Lake with the earthy blood and thunder of football's Premier League seemed infinitely hilarious. You thought it must have been a figment of your imagination but then realised you weren't imaging it. West Ham United and the highest culture were on nodding terms. You could hardly believe the strangeness and incongruity of what you were looking at.

Still, it was just the most magnificent sight of them all and you went on your way towards the entrance which felt like the most gruelling expedition to the Himalayas. And then you arrived at retail therapy, Marks and Spencer, Pret a Manger, Footsore, innumerable Chinese restaurants and, of course, McDonalds, who this year celebrate their 50th birthday. Where would we be without McDonalds, the world famous junk food outlet on every high street around the globe? It was unmistakable, branded on your consciousness on the TV and radio, in your vision quite clearly and just staring at you appealingly. The queues were phenomenal, its popularity almost stratospheric.

You were attracted to a small pizza parlour almost hidden away from the assembled hordes. For a moment you were tempted to pick up a healthy meat feast in a bread stick at Subways but decided otherwise. You were hungry by now, hungry to be among the claret and blue faithful, the devoted supporters, singing fans at their stentorian best, yelling and cheering at the tops of their voices. This was the second round of the Carabao Cup in the earliest stages of the football season and it felt like an extension of last season. Football in August never felt so communal and harmonious.

And then the match itself moved centre stage and this was the kind of  all Premier League tie that was never likely to end up in the history books but still, nonetheless, held an indefinable fascination. West Ham had both won and lost their opening two matches of the Premier League season with defeat to Aston Villa two weeks ago at the London Stadium and then victory at Selhurst Park where Crystal Palace are still finding their feet with successive defeats at Brentford and at home to West Ham.

Neither Palace or West Ham have disconcerting distractions in European football to worry about but, for West Ham, this was the perfect chance to rest established first teamers and play a team who will, presumably, bear no resemblance to the one they will face on Saturday evening at home to Manchester City, the four time winners of the Premier League who just seem unstoppable. There were times when neither Bournemouth or West Ham seemed particularly interested in the eventual outcome of this game.

The Carabao Cup, in its modern incarnation of the old League Cup, still feels like a poor relation of the FA Cup, particularly for those who never take the competition as seriously as they should because it just doesn't have the same clout or prestige as the FA Cup which starts in January. The obvious indifference to the League Cup must be a direct result of the early years of the competition when the likes of Norwich, Aston Villa and Rochdale grasped the nettle and the scent of glory could be smelt from miles away.

For much of last night, West Ham were always on the front foot, searching and probing, building patiently from the back if occasionally looking very heavy legged and ponderous in their approach work. There was a resolute purpose and intensity about their game but,at times, it all seemed to fall by the wayside when they reached the edge of the Bournemouth penalty area. It seemed as though that they were going nowhere fast, the ball slipping away helplessly from their possession before wasting chances recklessly through rash decision making.

The introduction of Max Killman and the Frenchman Jean Clair Todibo has stiffened and strengthened the central core of West Ham's defence no end and Killman, for his part, looks like an inspired signing. Striding out of defence imperiously and making swift and important interceptions at the back, Killman now looks as though he could be the plug that West Ham have been looking at for ages.Whether there any alarming kitchen sink leaks in West Ham's defence remains to be seen but both Killman and Todibo did look as safe as houses for much of the match.

In midfield, James Ward Prowse, who was perhaps only bought for his free kick and corner prowess by former manager David Moyes, gave stability and a strong anchor in the middle of the park. But Prowse now looks certain to leave West Ham by the end of the the end of the transfer window next Monday. His partner Tomas Soucek continues to provide the kind of tall, imposing presence that at times reminds you of a lighthouse at sea when the ships began to lose their bearings. He is by far and away, the most impressive player the Czech Republic have produced in ages.

In front of Prowse and Soucek, the Mexican Edson Alvarez was back in the side after injury and still could be a decisive influence on the team in the coming months of the season. His goal at Everton in West Ham's 3-1 win at Goodison Park has a special place in the hearts of West Ham's fans. Alvarez is a battling, determined and aggressive player who always seems to mop up the damage from the back with a good deal of efficiency and no little skill.

On the wings, Aaron Wan Bissaka, a recent acquisition from Manchester United, looks an outstanding piece of business on West Ham's part. The former Crystal Palace full back-cum marauding winger was still there when the necessity arose, breaking beautifully on the right with swerving, angled runs inside his opponent and stunning close ball control. On the other flank Vladimir Coufal, although in the twilight of his career, still offered solidity and security with nifty turns of pace and positional shrewdness.

And then there was new West Ham captain Jarrod Bowen, darting through the middle, dribbling with deceptive speed and simply drifting past players almost casually. West Ham's other summer signing Cyrensio Summerville, the Dutch winger from Leeds United, had an excellent game and almost scored with what could have been the goal of the night. Cutting inside his defender on the edge of the Bournemouth penalty area, Summerville jockeyed into position and cracked a curling shot that almost beat the Cherries goalkeeper Neto.

But then the winning goal arrived just in the nick of time. Three minutes from the end, a splendid exchange of passes just inside the Bournemouth six yard box led to substitute Mo Kudus firing a powerful shot that seemed to fly past Neto in goal off Jarrod Bowen. A sharp intake of breath could be heard in neighbouring Newham and Canning Town. West Ham were through to the next round of the Carabao Cup and face the daunting task of yet another tie at Anfield. It only seems like yesterday since Liverpool were crushing West Ham with five of the best in the same competition.

Still, we left the Westfield Shopping Centre in an orderly procession. The journey to Stratford railway station felt like a major mountaineering expedition and some of us were extremely grateful to get home even though you were simply exhausted. But we remembered that pizza for one and a side serving salad and then that thriving chippie outside the old Upton Park. It was all so startlingly different.

Steptoe and Son.

 Steptoe and Son.

There was a time when the British TV landscape was dominated by classic literary adaptations and period pieces such as John Galsworthy's very noble The Forsyte Saga, a series chronicling the life and times of the English aristocracy and landed gentry, the feuding families, the snobberies, the Upstairs Downstairs class divide and general differences of opinion that became a common theme. The Forsyte Saga had snooty condescension, seemingly futile arguments between the rich and the poor and the kind of captive TV audience that would turn the series into cult viewing, drama of the highest quality.

But then there were those hilarious BBC sitcoms that sent us into raptures, convulsions of joy, guaranteed laughter, rolling in the aisles. Dad's Army would begin its epic wartime journey in black and white TV. From 1968, it was compulsive watching since it tapped into all the relevant themes that had become such an integral part of the Second World War. When the programme finished in colour many years later, most of us knew all the characters who had so enchanted the nation. The repeats were endless.

There was Captain Mainwaring, aka Arthur Lowe, Sergeant Wilson, aka John Le Mesurier, Private Pike, aka Ian Lavender, Clive Dunn's Lance Corporal Jones and a whole host of characters who were so beautifully depicted that you could almost hear the air raid sirens in your living room, such was the authenticity of it all. Dad's Army had become a British TV national treasure and for those who remember it with such inordinate affection, this must have held up an accurate mirror to British society and its cultural thinking at the time.

But there was another BBC sitcom which had already established itself in the nation's hearts long before Dad's Army had been just an apple in the eye of BBC programme planners. Back in the early 1960s, legendary comedy script writers Ray Galton and Alan Simpson discovered a winning formula that would keep us giggling, smiling and laughing wildly for well over a decade or so. It was a simple idea- as is the way with most TV sitcoms- and we began to wonder why it had never been thought of before. It was endearing, lovable, immediately recognisable and identifiable, the sitcom that fitted just nicely. 

Starting in 1962, Steptoe and Son had begun its life nervously and tentatively as part of the BBC's Comedy Playhouse season, an experimental sitcom for which the BBC become renowned. Steptoe and Son were grumbling, crotchety and cantankerous rag and bone men who lived in Oil Drum Lane. The programme was set, quite appropriately, in an old, ramshackle knackers yard in Shepherd's Bush, West London, not a million miles away from BBC headquarters.

Here father and son Harold Steptoe and son Albert lived out of life of abject poverty, constant struggle and hardship and a relationship that was both hostile and antagonistic. Albert was the grizzled old father who spent most of his time, just moaning, whining, complaining and criticising son Harold over the pettiest things. Then they would engage in the most surreal of conversations that invariably ended up in a miserable stalemate with neither agreeing or disagreeing. 

Surrounded by the cheapest junk and paraphernalia that would never have graced anybody's dining room, Steptoe and Son seemed content to wallow in their apparent misfortune. There were coat hangers that had probably last seen service in 1923, a record player almost as old as the HMV dog and then had to be wound up. There were piles of tatty clothing scattered crazily around the yard, old cupboards and wardrobes that were just decaying into oblivion with every episode and a writing desk that must have been used by Charles Dickens.

But above all, Steptoe and Son succeeded in its primary objective of pulling in millions of viewers who must have thought that a sitcom about rag and bone men couldn't possibly work. Here was Albert Steptoe, filthily dressed and almost permanently dishevelled, sneering contemptuously at the rest of the world because the world had let him down. Meanwhile, son Harold could only dream of the ultimate day of liberation, a day to celebrate his freedom from dad Albert's sullen and sunken face, a chance to escape into greener pastures. 

And here was the central premise for Steptoe and Son. The BBC, without realising it, had comedy gold, a sitcom for the ages that began in now crackling, grainy black and white but then developed the loveliest of all personalities. In a snug corner of Shepherds Bush in London, Steptoe and Son was classically funny because it was so down to earth and genuine, free from any of the airs and graces that might have befallen other BBC productions. There was the downtrodden Harold Steptoe with that shabby, grubby coat, ungrateful, cynical, hard nosed, at war with everybody.

Harold Steptoe desperately wanted to be an actor, painter, sculptor, writer, a famous architect perhaps -anything other than a skint, destitute rag and bone man barely able to pay any of the domestic bills. Harold Steptoe craved fame, a distinguished career in the arts or perhaps a well respected musician because he knew that Albert was simply dragging him down to the lowest gutter.

Then there were the incessant quarrels, more arguments over money that none of them could ever boast about because their existence was so degrading and humiliating. So Albert, always dressed in threadbare mittens, ragged shirt and crumpled waistcoat, continued to wallow in self pity, tormenting his son Harold with negative remarks designed to belittle him to a point where he could hardly function.

And for well over 20 years Steptoe and Son would become one of those delightful sitcoms where the main characters were portrayed as pathetic souls, alienated from the rest of the world and somehow living in their own bubble, almost cocooned from the troubles and wars around them. Nobody really bothered Steptoe and Son because the rest of the world had more pressing issues on their minds.

In last night's latest episode on the Freeview TV channel 'That's It', Steptoe and Son, in an old 1970s colour production, once again reminded you of the moral high ground. Over 50 years ago, gentle and inoffensive sitcoms such as Terry and June were almost deliciously amusing. For Steptoe and Son, there was something very rough around the edges and slightly anarchic about two rag and bone men who just didn't get on with each other.

When Harold and Albert attend the funeral of an old member of the family, the two main characters are left with fond reminiscences, staring at a coffin mournfully and yet hoping against hope that they may have been remembered in the deceased will with a substantial amount of money. They are then hugely disappointed to find that nothing at all has been left behind for them. And so it was that Harold and Albert mope around again, tolerating each other's eccentricities and then just disgusted at the sight of each other.

In another BBC sitcom classic from the late 1960s to the early 1970s, Till Death Us Do Part was both controversial, violently racist and simply intolerable to those whose sensibilities were easily offended. Once again That's It TV had got it absolutely right. Alf Garnett's character, brilliantly portrayed by Warren Mitchell, was a foul mouthed, obnoxious, divisive and horrendously objectionable man who just couldn't help but be a xenophobic motor mouth. Garnett loved Churchill and the Tories but couldn't stand his son in law and aired his grievances about everybody and everything. 

And so we caught our first revealing glimpses of yet another satellite TV channel that sent us back to that period of time when everything was permissive and liberal. It was an age of innocence, harmless patter and blarney or apparently so. We once again witnessed another trip to the Sixties, the 1960s, the generation that opened up its doors warmly to a whole gallery of sitcoms that none of us would ever forget. Then we thought of the present day. It's August 2024 and the world is still funny if barely credible. We still have our loving family and friends and that's just beautiful.

Happy Birthday Match of the Day.

 Happy Birthday Match of the Day.

It only seems like yesterday and yet, quite clearly, it wasn't because it was 60 years ago on a late August Saturday tea time that one programme made its debut appearance on BBC 2 and a nation was startled, stunned into stupefied silence but then there was an excitement it could hardly control. Match of the Day, TV footballing heaven to all of football's most enthusiastic and loyal, hardcore supporters, has been a staple diet for fans all across Britain who now take the programme for granted but feel very privileged to be a part of when the famous signature tune tinkles out every Saturday night.

Today, Match of the Day, now on late night TV, celebrates its 60th birthday. There is still a freshness and originality about the programme that will never fade but now it's in colour and can be seen at any time of your choosing thanks to our modern day electronic gadgets. But back in 1964, the world was still in black and white, a monochrome monument that, to  21st century eyes, must have looked both tired, grey, wizened, grizzled, grainy, and quite frankly, very dull. But thank goodness for evolution and progress.

Now Match of the Day is on both Saturday and Sunday night so we're almost spoilt for choice. No longer do we have to wait until Monday morning before delving into the redtop papers and broadsheets - although even broadsheets are very much extinct, if not endangered species. Social media has sadly rendered Match of the Day pointless in a world of TV modernists where everything now has immediacy and accessibility rather than historic Teleprinters chattering out results on BBC One's sports magazine programme, Grandstand.

But let's turn back the clock to that fabled day in August 1964. Kenneth Wolstenholme, by then a well known football commentator, held his microphone in front of him at Anfield like a man who couldn't wait to open up his birthday present. Wolstenholme spoke with that plummy, precise and fastidious accent that the BBC almost insisted on after the Second World War. The BBC newsreaders, including the likes of Robert Dougall, Kenneth Kendall and Richard Baker, had embraced the vowels and consonants with a tenderness that most viewers had come to expect of them.

Wolstenholme would be there on that historic and timeless day when West Ham captain Bobby Moore and his World Cup colleagues of 1966 leapt around the old Wembley like excitable playground children who'd just been told they were going to grammar school and probably university in later years. Wolstenholme spoke with all the assurance and economical eloquence of a sergeant major barking out orders to a soldier's parade. He was the ideal choice for that far off day in 1964 because everything felt right during that pivotal moment in BBC broadcasting history. 

Match of the Day's first match was Liverpool against Arsenal at Anfield and, little did we know it at the time, but football would receive its first Saturday evening of weekly exposure and publicity on TV screens that were almost as small as goldfish bowls won at your local fairground. In front of a very limited audience in those days, Match of the Day made its first inroads into our tea time viewing. 

After those early evening starters, consisting of Dixon of Dock Green and the Black and White Minstrel Show, Match of the Day held its breath. Dad loosened his work belts and braces, cleaned his hands thoroughly, tucked into the egg and chips that his loving wife had just made for him. Then the Pools coupon was carefully picked up from a mahogany cabinet and table that mum and dad had been given at their wedding. Tonight though, would be different. It's Match of the Day and dad was in his element.

Football would be revolutionary, life changing, dominating our sporting horizon, dictating our Saturday evening's schedule. For a while we had to settle for, quite literally, the one match in the old First Division. In later years experimentation gradually crept into the programme with slow motion replays, thorough analysis from Wolstenholme and then, more importantly, match details. With his fellow co- commentator Wally Barnes, who had served Arsenal with such distinction, Wolstenholme grabbed the ball and ran with it.

Come the days of colour TV and now Match of the Day was now cooking. There would now be an additional three matches to an otherwise superb product. And then there was the late and still deeply missed John Motson, who had cut his teeth in newspaper journalism before Radio 2 came calling. Motson would become a frequent and much loved football commentator renowned for his meticulous attention to detail, distinctive voice and factual accuracy on another level.

In 1972, Motson was summoned to Match of the Day headquarters as a young rookie. Hereford United, a non League club at the time, were pitted against old First Division maestros Newcastle United. At a classically dramatic and atmospheric Edgar Street, kids clung precariously to tree branches around the ground, dangerous rooftops and floodlights that should never have allowed thousands of football supporters anywhere remotely close to them. It was the FA Cup third round and Motson was the man on the spot. Cue winning goal reaction from a commentator who must have thought he was living in dream land.

When Ronnie Radford completed a mud caked one two with his Hereford colleague, the ball fell almost perfectly for Radford whose low shot whistled past the Newcastle goalkeeper Ian Mcfaul. Non League Hereford United had knocked out Newcastle United and Motson's blossoming career had now just taken off into outer space. He would never look back since from that point onwards and Motson would become the yearly commentator for vital European matches, FA Cup Finals and a whole host of Saturday afternoon football banquets live from football's biggest day of the week. 

Then Barry Davies, equally as learned and scholarly, erudite and well educated in the game's finest poetic vocabulary, joined Motson from Radio 2. Davies, a Kentish lad from the Garden of England, made his debut appearance but Davies was more restrained, economical with the facts and just content to let the players do the talking. Words were vitally important to Davies but Davies paced himself, chose the salient moments, described what he saw quite clearly but never embellished on the obvious.

Of course the Big Match, Match of the Day's friendly commercial rival on London Weekend Television had also made its assertive presence felt. The late and wonderful Brian Moore was the presenter for this lunchtime Sunday appetiser. Moore perfectly encapsulated the spirit of the late 1960s before surging ahead into the late 1970s, 1980s and 1990s with a glorious, in depth, almost scientific dissertation on the weekend's football. Football was rather like all of Moore's favourite school subjects rolled into one.

And so we arrive at Match of the Day which is still there, almost a permanent fixture, sitting in that late night spot just after the pubs had announced chucking out time. Barry Davies has retired, but with former Spurs, Everton, Leicester and England striker Gary Lineker at the helm, Match of the Day may be an ageing veteran but we can't get enough of its nostalgic back stories. 

Now every Premier League match is simply stripped down, scrutinised from every angle, examined with forensic eyes and just highlighted with consistent criticism or praise. Steve Wilson, Guy Mowbray, Jonathan Pearce, Steve Bower and Simon Brotherton have continued in the tradition of polished football commentary while not forgetting the likes of Vicky Spark with the female perspective on the game.

So Happy 60th birthday Match of the Day. You deserve it. We'll buy the first round of drinks and then we'll pop into a fragrant patisserie for a cake of your choice and we've already got the candles. You've excelled yourself and we'll always watch you. Have a good day and never forget the bristling beard of Jimmy Hill. What a programme, what style. 

The new football season.

 The new football season

And so the beginning of the new football season arrived rather like a late flowering show of hydrangea or oleander in a still blooming summer parade of flowers. For some of us it still feels as if we're half way through the cricket season and the local tennis courts are hugely populated by eager participants, swinging their rackets with a full repertoire of dramatic forehand winners and equally as suave and debonair cross court backhand returns as well. And of course we must never forget those delicate and lethal chip and charge volleys and half volleys at the net. But hold on, it is indeed the football season.

As usual, the third week of August is full of the joys of spring and still humming with transfer speculation with only a game gone of the Premier League season. Transfer rumours have now become an almost predictable yearly ritual. Barely have the last rivers of sweat poured from the foreheads of those obscenely wealthy footballers who ply their trade in the Premier League then it's time to meet up again at the Emirates, Etihad, the London Stadium, Old Trafford, Anfield, Stamford Bridge and the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium.

It used to be the case that the pre-season or close season used to be a familiar call to arms for most players who were preparing for another arduous season. It is the ultimate refresher course, a chance to embark on that gruelling schedule of exhausting cross country runs, vigorous sprints around endless traffic cones, endless squat thrusts, consistent leaping for headers, short bursts of lightning pace over yet more demanding obstacles and, finally, yet another repetitive sequence of jogging and running around a sun drenched training pitch.

During the summer, football was all about gymnastic flexibility, the incessant sharpening and honing of ball skills that might have been forgotten about, a singular dependence on cardio vascular work and much pumping of iron in the gym. There was little acquaintance with the ball as such because it was widely felt that by the time Saturday afternoons came around, players would be altogether hungrier for the ball and ready to use it effectively and skilfully.

This summer West Ham United, your boyhood, and now permanent weekend heroes, were based at a training camp in Florida along with several other Premier League clubs. You can hardly blame them, of course. There's the wall to wall sunshine, the opportunity to re-capture their childhood at Disneyland and, of course, catch a tantalising glimpse of those unmistakable, Presidential election candidates Donald Trump and Joe Biden. Both are just an immense source of amusement and you can hardly keep a straight face.

Manchester United, in their infinite wisdom, have cornered the Far Eastern markets, making regular pilgrimages to Malaysia or Thailand to strengthen their commercial and merchandising networks. It is pre season at its most luxurious and exotic. Towards the end of the 1970s, West Bromwich Albion, under the flamboyant and always extrovert guidance of Ron Atkinson, once took the Baggies to a trip to China in the days before footballers were allowed anywhere near the Great Wall of China. But this time, it was all very different. Atkinson led the way in a flying visit to the Great Wall of China in a pre- season tour of the Far East. Albion's John Trewick even made the pertinent observation that once you'd seen one wall you'd seen them all. 

But it was back to Premier League business last weekend and all the inevitabilities and certainties of an opening weekend of the season were in place. The pitches, of course, are horticultural masterpieces, thick horizontal and vertical green lines mowed to tender perfection. The male fans will be bare chested and suitably equipped with non alcoholic plastic cups of lager. They'll have  programmes in their hands, terraces are flawlessly designed and there is a pure and pristine feel to the whole experience.

On the first weekend, Manchester City, now hoping to add a fifth consecutive Premier League title to their ever expanding collection of trophies, duly made their traditional, winning start to the season with a now regulation opening day of the season victory over Chelsea at Stamford Bridge. A 2-0 victory scarcely does them justice since we know everything there is to know about them. Pep Guardiola almost has the first edition of the book on how to simply click his fingers and just expect his City side to win.

Arsenal made a similarly professional start to their annual challenge to City's Premier League statesmanlike qualities. This is now Arsenal's third time of asking at the Premier League title and there is barely an inch between both Arsenal and Manchester City. Arsenal beat Wolves at the Emirates with another spellbinding goal from one of their own Bukayo Saka so it's all systems go.

Liverpool, of course, are seasoned thoroughbreds at the beginning of a Premier League season. Old First Division League Championships almost arrived by the conveyor belt for Liverpool throughout most of the 20th century. But it took a global virus to spark the team back into action and the sight of Jordan Henderson lifting the Premier League title over three years ago in front of yawning empty seats at Anfield almost left some of us lost for words.

But the Jurgen Klopp era, now celebrated as a golden age by the Kop, is so legendary that you could almost hear Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley and Joe Fagan purring their approval from another age. It could be said that new Liverpool boss Dutchman Arne Slot has an almost impossible act to follow but the chances are that Liverpool will undoubtedly be the classiest of contenders for another Premier League title. 

For Chelsea, of course, recent history does provide a certain amount of comfort and satisfaction but the departure of Russian billionaire Roman Abramovich left the Stamford Bridge club with something of a hollow void. It may have not been the end of the world for Chelsea but, after two back to back Premier League titles and a side including the esteemed likes of Frank Lampard, Didier Drogba and Didier Deschamps, the present day Chelsea side now under Enzo Maresca may have to write some new and exciting chapters to the team's illustrious history.

The Premier League newcomers, for their part, are like old friends reunited, three teams who have experienced both the highs and lows, trials and tribulations, tears and tantrums, a common thread running through them like seaside rock. Football can never be sure of where it may be going at times but it can rely implicitly on those household names who remain its bedrock, the teams who cheerfully muddle through adversity, the sides who have been there before and know what to do.

Southampton are back among the sainted ones at the top table of the Premier League after relegation, while Leicester City have pursued an identical route. Ipswich Town are the good, old country boys who once won the old First Division championship with a man who would later win the World Cup with England. Sir Alf Ramsey may have been grossly misunderstood by those who didn't really know him but Ipswich regarded him as the most endearing uncle. 

So there it is Ladies and Gentlemen. The new football season has kicked off and it is hard to see beyond Manchester City retaining the Premier League title with an earth shatteringly astonishing fifth successive Premier League title. But football has yet to reach autumn, conkers are few and far between on the ground and the leaves are still a delightful shade of green rather than yellowing and then brown. It could be a long, hard winter for some and a leisurely breeze for others. If Arsenal can find another vital gear and probe City's weak spots and vulnerabilities, then anything may be possible. 

As long as nobody mentions VAR and holds up the game for any longer than need be, then the Premier League does have the potential to be one of the most entertaining, gripping and fascinating campaigns of recent times. Football can well cope without the necessity of another TV screen beside the pitch. Besides, an alternative perspective on the game simply complicates what should be the simplest of games.  Welcome back football. The domestic game may need a sharp injection of something if only to remedy the sore disappointment of England's Euro 2024 Final defeat to Spain. Bring it on.

Norwegian family holiday

 Norwegian family holiday.

Summertime holidays with friends and families used to be about landing in warm, exotic locations and discovering that, much to our horror, our hotels overlooked building sites and cement mixers. Then we found that the toilets were never working properly, the water was just foul, undrinkable and potentially poisonous and the food was just repulsively unpalatable and simply unadventurous.

Way back in the early 1970s, my late and wonderful mum and dad introduced my brother and yours truly to the wondrous, if yet be conquered Iberian peninsula of Spain, a country that remained so romantically elusive that none of us could have dreamt as within our price range given the standard of living at the time. But we did and it was off the Costa Brava plains, gallons of sangria, plentiful platefuls of paellas and an evening spent with the local bullfighter before knocking back a skinful of  the local alcoholic produce. 

But for the last week or so my wonderfully loving family and our grandson shared in the scenic and idyllic delights of Norway, a country so breathtakingly picturesque that you could hardly believe what you were watching. For as long as any of us can remember, Norway has never been mentioned in any scandalous moment of news gossip, very little in the way of political controversy and just immaculately polite and well mannered if anybody spoke to them. For seven days the Norwegians were doing it again, perfect and genial hosts to British tourists even though there were few conversations between us. 

When anybody mentioned Norway to any of us personally, you were transported back to that famous World Cup qualifying football match between Norway and England in 1981. Under the shrewd and knowledgeable guidance of manager Ron Greenwood, England were expected to win by at least a cricket score. But, when the final whistle went for the game, the Norwegians had sensationally beaten their so called footballing superiors and a particularly partisan and impassioned Norwegian commentator waxed lyrical about England's Lord Nelson, Lady Diana and Margaret Thatcher being given a substantial thrashing. England should have been deeply ashamed of itself. 

And yet to those who probably felt there was something too bland and uninspiring about Norway to warrant anything in the way of poetic prose, this proved the complete opposite. How wrong were they? Of course there is nothing could be described as culturally uplifting about the country because the lush countryside probably speaks volumes for it. We all did a fair amount of wandering and roaming among the gloaming as a family and there was a a never a dull moment so nothing mattered apart from family.

Our P and O cruise ship itself was the model of exemplary construction, craftsmanship and engineering. It was a vast floating city -cum hotel of the highest five star quality. Wherever you looked, there were those typically elegant marble and spiralling staircases on one of the many floors within the vessel itself. There were the upright pillars and columns, a Hollywood style lighting display glittering from all of those very opulent ceilings. 

We sailed to Stavanger for our first port of call and began our walking journeys among the lush hills and handsomely verdant forests tucked together neatly, huddling together for company. Then there were the meandering paths and crashing, cascading waterfalls that seemed to fall from a great height ecstatically. It was hard to imagine a more pleasant and more life affirming spectacle. Above us loomed zig zagging, undulating mountain ranges that reminded you of the Swiss Alps. This was Europe in a nutshell. Norway had excelled itself once again.

On our next leg of the cruise we paid an all too fleeting visit to charming Olden, another suburb within a suburb of shimmering rivers, placid fjords, world famous geysers  and lakes and some of the most stunning looking chalets you've ever seen. Olden consisted largely of those lovely gabled Swiss chalets with triangular shaped terracotta roofs that seemed to go on for ever. There was a Nordic neatness and order about Olden that has to be highly recommended from all quarters. Your eyes were caressed with the enduring beauty of your surroundings.

On leaving one of our ports of call we were waved away from the quayside with the most respectful farewells. It was somehow typical of a nation that had also suffered so awfully at the hands of the Nazi murderers and savage terrorists during the Second World War. The capital city of Oslo and then Trondheim were brutally attacked by the German killing machines and the country was just devastated by the impact of Hitler's heinous henchmen.

But what we all saw was a country that had been at such peace with itself and comfortable in its modern identity that you would never have fought that any country could have lifted a finger against them. Nowadays, Norway just minds its business and never interferes in any kind of military battle. Every so often the country gets all excited at  regular and good natured Viking confrontations in some remote Nordic harbour where the helmets will clash light heartedly and much laughter will just explode from all points of the compass. And then they'll drink moderate glasses of Norwegian lager before shaking hands almost honourably and slumping their heads on their pillows to sleep.

We then headed for Hellesyt, an even smaller corner of Norway that looked so gentle, humble and unobtrusive that you would never have known it was there had not somebody pointed it out. By now, the darker clouds had gathered and the weather was both overcast and dull for much of the day. But no, oh not again. Not that old chestnut of the global weather patterns of the world. We knew it would rain in Norway because George Orwell had once mentioned it in his well informed meteorological assessment of the country. But then Orwell was a bit of a know it all, both a learned essayist and scholar so who were we to argue with him? 

But as we made our way around Hellesyt, rain just seemed too predictable for words. You can remember faint shafts of sunlight peeping through the glowering clouds above us but then went back into hiding. It was a source of much frustration and this was a self fulfilling prophecy. And yet who cared because this was our golden family holiday with my lovely wife Bev, our kids, our wonderful son and daughter in law, Sam and Lucy, our King Arthur, our beautiful daughter Rachel and her brilliant boyfriend Lior.

We had breakfasted together, lunched together, drunk and ate merrily, laughed and joked in harmony, revelled in ukelele players or banjo musicians of the highest order, dancers and singers performing at the peak of their exceptional talents. We were once again reminded of the remarkable entertainment that cruise ships had always guaranteed us. This was an evening of showbusiness cabaret style that reached the loftiest dimensions.

And then sadly and forgettably there was the last visit on our whistle stop tour of Norway with a brief excursion to Haugesund. Now it was that yours truly went missing and fell sick with what must have seemed to be a bug that confined me to bed. What you didn't miss was a day of torrential downpour and the distant sight of gloomy looking shipyards and cargo freighters that just disappeared into a sweeping carpet of rain.

But this was a holiday to remember, a holiday to treasure, watching the next baby steps of our delightful grandson Arthur, smiling at his every movement and development, his every smile, that tentative standing on his two feet, the sparkle in his eyes, the animation and the exuberant eagerness to explore, before crawling at lightning pace again and lifting our hearts once again. These are the magical moments that any parent or grandparent could ever hope to experience. We arrived back in Southampton glowing with lifelong memories. Thankyou Norway. 

Josh Kerr brings home Olympic silver.

 Josh Kerr brings home silver

Josh Kerr hit the final bend of the Olympic Games 1500 metres Final and suddenly saw the perfect alignment of the stars in the sky. This one had to be seen to be believed. We were anticipating a thrilling finish to the winning line and we got exactly what we were hoping for. But then, four men pulled away from the hunting pack and this one was anybody's race. It was just totally absorbing, a moment of epic monumentality, of breath taking virtuosity, sport at its most most beautiful and supernatural, that isolated point in any athletics race where time stands still and everything becomes a blur. 

Once again, the Olympic Games of 2024 in Paris had delivered magic, wonder and enchantment, a scene from the world of fantasy, four men sprinting for all their worth, legs like pistons, striding away together as if in some private conspiracy, whispering into each other's ears but revealing nothing at all. They were the perfect athletes for the occasion, tailor made to negotiate all those stifling doubts that may have briefly descended on all of them. But Josh Kerr simply turned on the afterburners, bursting away emphatically from the rest of the field, a blistering, burning pace which would narrowly miss out on the big prize with the silver medal that meant the world to him.

But this 1500 metres men's Final belonged to a completely different and parallel universe. We remembered the masterful Kip Keino of Kenya from an Olympic yesteryear and thought we'd seen it all. Keino just blew away his chasers as if they were somehow invisible. Gold was his before any of us had had the chance to breathe, process or rationalise with what we'd just seen. Then there was the celebrated duo of Seb Coe and Steve Ovett  who won gold with long legs the length of a billiard table and the kind of memorable head to head finish that will just echo and resonate down the ages for ever.

Last night Paris was out en masse, proudly patriotic and wildly vociferous, supporting their nation faithfully, the Stade De France once again packed to the rafters. They were backing their nation to the hilt but then recognised that their allegiance to the country was perfectly understandable. And yet on the athletics track once again, Team GB just happened to be conducting the orchestra and doing rather well into the bargain. So the violins and percussion section picked up their instruments and the Brits just continued to make a noise.

When Josh Kerr appeared from behind the purple doors, the French were none too pleased to see what they must have regarded as an impostor, an invader, an unwelcome sight who should never have been there in the first place. So they cheered with another stirring rendition of their National Anthem and all was well again. So the eight men who comprised the 1500 metres field, took their place at the start, leaning forward earnestly, arms akimbo, and faces just fixed again. It would become another Olympic race that would come to define the Olympics, its obvious personality and all of the mannerisms that we've all become accustomed to every four years.

Among the pack were the charismatic American duo of Yared Nuguse and Cole Hocker. Then there was the best of them all and the one so highly fancied as overwhelming favourites with the bookies. Jakob Ingebrigtsen, the Norwegian stick of dynamite, exploded from the starting line like an express train. Ingebrigtsen was so fast and determined to pick up his gold medal that it only seemed a matter of time before the race would be declared over before it had even begun. He stormed into the front like a whirlwind and was so confident of his bearings that he might have assumed that the rest of his competitors had just given up the ghost.

With the field stretching out almost inevitably, Ingebrigsten quite literally ran out of steam towards the end, realising that the abundant supplies of petrol he thought he had in the tank were now no more than a trickle. Soon, there was a private gathering of bodies, a collision of mentalities and wits, judging to the exact second the right time to leave the stragglers far behind them. It then became clear that this was just the most intriguingly balanced  middle distance Olympic Final we'd ever seen. There was hardly a cigarette paper between the men leading from the front.

And then on the final lap, the sudden break was made. Ingebrigsten was still narrowly ahead, going towards the final bell but Josh Kerr slowly accelerated before rapidly making ground on the Norwegian. It was a psychological battle that became a middle distance classic. Kerr moved up to Ingebrigsten's shoulder, inching his way past the fading Norwegian. Now we had a race on his hands and the ball was in Kerr's court. By now, Team GB were on their feet in unison. Kerr responded to both the occasion and night and looked as though he'd done enough. With metres to go, one Cole Hocker crept through an inviting gap and just went like a rocket, running like the proverbial wind and sprinting to gold.

Meanwhile, the ladies were having a ball in the Women's 200metres Final. Britain had Dina Asher Smith in Team GB but realistically this was never going to be her night since the opposition had far too much class in their repertoire and weren't about to waste it. Gaby Thomas, one of America's most consistent and durable of performers, lived up to most of her star billing and just breezed home to the gold medal with undoubted style and a most commanding authority while Julien Alfred of the paradise islands of St Lucia could only watch gasping with disbelief but a silver medal nonetheless in her athletic CV. Brittany Brown brought home the bronze for the Americans but by now it was just a consolation prize.

Outside the main athletics track, some of us were trying to come to terms with what seemed like the more idiosyncratic events of this Olympics. Now this is surely a matter of subjective opinion but when skateboarding, trampolining and BMX biking are suddenly spoken of in the same breath as the ancient and traditional narrative of the Olympic Games, you have to keep your judgments to yourself.

We are now days away from the closing ceremony of these Olympic Games in Paris. The drug cheats have yet to surface and may never rear their ugly heads and doping scandals may just have been consigned to the dustbin of history. Sport has never looked so clean and attractive on the eye and the cynics may have to take their scepticism to some other discussion room. Those colourful Olympic rings on the Eiffel Tower are simply resplendent and beautifully symbolic. Just ask Cole Hocker. He'll tell all of his family, colleagues and friends. Hocker was the all American hero and we knew the unexpected had become a surprising reality. Paris, take a bow. 

Keely wins gold for Team GB and Noah wins gold for the USA.

Keely wins gold for Team GB and Noah wins gold for the USA.

With her blonde pony tails dancing in the early evening Parisian breeze, Keely Hodgkinson captured the hearts and imaginations of the great British public, grabbing gold for Team GB once again. Somehow we were almost expecting another night of the gold standard for a Great Britain team who have now become extremely blase and conditioned to success after success after yet more success.

We have now moved onto the athletics track in Paris 2024 and we're in fruitful territory for Team GB. Already acclaimed as one of the most stunning middle distance runners in modern times, we had no reason to believe that a gold medal for Hodgkinson would be no more than some wild fantasy or the impossible dream that was just agonisingly out of her reach. Hodgkinson was already a World Champion par excellence, an athlete of outstanding quality, modesty personified and without any hint of brash arrogance or blustering bombast.

Keely Hodgkinson just lined up as usual on a mauve athletics track in the Olympic Stadium at the Stade De France where, normally, rugby union takes precedence to any other sporting distraction. She was nerveless, poised, in complete command of her emotions and oblivious to the threat that she might just be beaten. There is a warm reverence for Hodgkinson that goes well beyond the normal expectations of British athletes. We demanded a gold medal last night and we were not to be disappointed.

Last night, Hodgkinson smiled for the camera innocently, blowing flirtatious kisses and holding up cute love heart gestures with her fingers to all and sundry. She knew she had this one wrapped up, signed, sealed and delivered, a gold medal around her neck, the podium hers to milk the rapturous applause from a Parisian public who perhaps reluctantly acknowledged that a Brit had won on French soil. It used to be regarded as somehow forbidden, a taboo subject that should always be swept under the carpet and then passed off as shameful.

Here the fierce rivalry between France and England has been well documented. The stereotypes are now well established and set in stone. The French are simply those deeply unpleasant men who cycle down country lanes with berets on their head, bags of onions on their bikes and the repulsive smell of garlic on their breaths. They get all hot under the collar when Britain do something that they may regard as just distasteful and repellent. But that's just all balderdash and poppycock, nonsense. It's all a matter of opinion, though.

Last night was about something much more than parochial needle between the French and the British. It was a night for almost ceremonial gusto for British athletes, the inevitable coronation and very public appointment of a genuine superstar. Keely was the girl next door, bubbly, buoyant, winsome, feminine and just very natural. There were no airs or graces about Hodgkinson because that isn't the way she does an Olympic Games 800 metres Final. This was the ultimate reward for early mornings, relentless perseverance, pushing herself beyond all limits and a tireless figure who just adores her sport.

She reminded you of those other golden Olympian girls from years gone by. There was the blonde, powerful and enchanting Mary Peters who won gold at the tragic Olympic Games of Munich 1972. There was Anne Packer, who ran like a dream for Great Britain in the Tokyo Olympics of 1964. She was Britain's finest Olympian, an irresistible force of nature and just about the most polished athlete Team GB has produced for many a year.

And so it was that the Olympian girls stood next to each other, heads perfectly balanced, eyes fixed enthusiastically on the task at hand and only one objective on their minds. But Hodgkinson was prepared, measured, controlled, composed, enlightened and an exemplary role model for her generation. There was a look of knowing, savoir faire as they say in Paris, discipline in every muscle and bone, a sense of patriotic obligation about her that allowed for no error or horrific lapses of concentration.

For most of these Olympics, the likes of Hodgkinson have been perfect representatives in one of the most prestigious sporting festivals in the world. She has conducted herself with the dainty dignity  and decorum that most of us had assumed would always be the case. She has answered questions in probing press conferences with clarity and honesty. She has never shirked away from the often unbearable pressures that can so often destroy British athletes. She is one of the most uplifting ambassadors for Team GB, shrewd, understated but quietly confident as we knew she would be.

And so the gun went for the 800 metres and Hodgkinson made immediately for the front of the huddle of  girls who spent the entire race, jockeying for position, shoulder to shoulder, moving in and out of each other warily, changing laps almost constantly, watching each other with a fascinating vigilance, monitoring the other's movement like hawks. Then Keely gingerly stepped up the pace from third, fourth or even further back. There was a vivid meeting of great minds, Olympians respectfully avoiding the traffic, before floating effortlessly between each other, waiting for the right moment, timing their sprint finish and then holding back, withdrawing from the front again. It was chess on an athletics track, a staggering display of patience, cunning and strategy.

Now the cream of the crop rose to the surface. There was Tsige Dugama, from Ethiopia, the country who just keep turning out Marathon geniuses because that's their forte. There was Mary Moraa from Kenya who also find themselves on Olympian podiums because their kids run to school in the morning and then race back home in the afternoon. All three girls began to pull away from the rest of the speed merchants and took it in turns as the 800metres Women's Final approached its enthralling conclusion. Suddenly Hodgkinson, Dugama and Moraa kicked for the finishing line crucially and vitally and, before you could blink, Keely from GB, had this one in her pocket, lengthening her stride handsomely and just streaking away from her pursuers. The gold was hers but we just had that feeling in our water, anyway.

In the end, Hodgkinson did what all gold medals do, flinging their arms joyfully into the air, staring wide eyed with utter amazement at the electronic scoreboard and discovering that perhaps he'd broken another record. The purple track was just a vision of fluttering Union Jacks, Team GB just revelling in the moment, admiring both the brilliance and simple virtuosity that only Hodgkinson could have provided. It was her evening, her moment to show off, waving elatedly at all and sundry. The smile was electric and nobody could begrudge her unbridled joy. Keely had won gold. It was her richly deserved reward. We had no need to worry. This one was in the bag, no sweat, job well done. 

We then recalled the men's 100 metres Final a couple of days before. We still felt privileged to be part of Usain Bolt's wondrous and stupendous feats on the track for Jamaica. We thought Bolt was unbeatable, invincible, unsurpassable and unquestionable. Bolt used to spring from his starting block in an Olympic Games 100 metres Final as if his life depended on it. The whole contest was over in seconds because those long legs would eat up the track in no time. Bolt was a human cheetah, body straight as an arrow, legs like the proverbial tree trunks, surging towards the finishing line and just winning by several hundred country miles.

In Paris 2024, it was the turn of Noah Lyles to become the new Olympic champion for the United States of America. Before the 100 metres Final, Lyles leapt from the tunnel of assembled athletes like a man who was out on a cross country run and knew he'd win the race with his eyes closed. He started jumping and bouncing across the track, like the kid who'd just been released from school for the  summer holiday. Or maybe he was just enjoying the whole occasion. Most kids probably feel as though they've been freed from academic captivity and that's exactly what might have been going through Lyles mind.

Lyles had for esteemed company Kishane Thompson from Jamaica and Fred Kerley. Lyles reminded you of the man who knew his superiority would never be challenged. He hunkered down on his starting blocks, finger tips on the line, head tilted forward in eager anticipation because he knew he had this one sewn up. What followed was one of the closest, most fiercely contested men's 100 metres Final you could ever have witnessed. Whereas Bolt would have left most of his contemporaries lagging behind as if they weren't there, Lyles did run powerfully and highly impressively and there was only an arm or elbow between the eight men. 

But Lyles just plunged over the finishing line, arms raised but, for a moment, held in suspense. Then the scoreboard revealed him to be the gold medal winner. The Stars and Stripes were soon flaunted and the celebrations could begin in earnest. The USA had done it again but this was the most intriguing Olympics 100 metres sprint that we'd ever seen. Lyles was an Olympic champion and the bouquets of lavish praise could be his to just immerse himself in.

Meanwhile back in the gymnastics hall, Team GB seemed to bid farewell to one of its all time heroes. Max Whitlock has been one of Britain's greatest Olympic gymnasts. He's been a multiple gold medal winner but in Paris 2024, there would be grave disappointment, utter frustration and a feeling of shuddering anti climax. Whitlock missed out on the medal podium this time and the look of helpless sadness and regret could only be imagined. Still, none of us would ever forget his sterling contribution to British gymnastics. 

And so it is that the Paris Olympics of 2024 will continue to roll on forward with a deferential nod to tradition. Generally speaking, this has been an excellent Olympics with only the occasional moments of controversy to overshadow it. But if you're a member of Team GB, then the world may be your oyster. There are now four days left before the closing ceremony and the completion of another Games. Apart from a forgettable opening ceremony, sport has flourished and sportsmanship has cleaned up on the medal count. We can only but extend the warmest gratitude to Britain's fastest and strongest. 

Paris 2024 - Olympic Games.

 Paris 2024- Olympic Games.

The Olympic Games has always been about solidarity and heroism, defiance of the odds, bravery and bravura, jolly good friends and company, team bonding and camaraderie, hugging each other even though you've just won silver and bronze and somebody had to win the gold. It is a time for mutual appreciation and admiration, going that extra yard. Of course it is the taking part that should count, graciousness in defeat and just an acceptance of the status quo. Those Olympic rings have become its distinctive symbol and nobody could deny that.

Yesterday in Paris, they were slapping each other on the back in congratulation because friendly bonhomie and beaming smiles had restored our faith in humanity. There was no spite, nastiness, malice, resentment nor any hint of jealousy. None of us could see any sign of evil nationalism because this is the Olympic Games and nobody should hold a festering grudge to anybody. There were no doping cheats or excessive drug takers who might just have broken into the Olympic movement and stolen its dignity.

There were no East German or Russian shot putters with arms and shoulders the size of a small country estate who had quite clearly been bulking up their already strapping physique with poppers and stimulants. There was a time when the Olympics carried around with it a disturbing notoriety, a contemptuous disregard for the legal morals and ethics of sport. We knew that the Games could be clean, pure and puritanical because it had done it before and you shouldn't really resort to the lowest common denominator since that was the ultimate law breaker.

Back in the swimming pool, Team GB were spreading the goodwill and, for the first time on the athletics track, the girls were wrapping their arms around each other's shoulders, extending the best of wishes even though one of them had to come last. The Olympic swimming pool was just beside itself with good vibes, swimmers just openly delighted with each other's notable achievements because, in essence, they had risen to the challenge and Baron Pierre De Coubertin had a fair point.

But when French heart throb Leon Marchand got into the pool yet again, the crowd were just screaming for Marchand, willing him on fervently, waving the Tricolours flags with overflowing passion. Marchand had responded to his wildly patriotic audience because France were the perfect hosts and this was their man. Marchand has been performing out of his skin, focused, consumed with the intensity of the occasion and knowing that there could only be one winner and he had to win a gold medal.

So the gentlemen of the world lined up in their respective lanes, crouched forward, swung loose arms, adjusted goggles and then just embraced the moment passionately. It was there in the whites of their eyes, devotion to the cause, unflagging commitment and just determined to win for their country. There is something in the look, the piercing stare into the distance, the awareness of what it all means to your country. Swimmers have those qualities in abundance.

It was a night though seemingly dominated by the French with just a respectful nod to their cross Channel neighbours Great Britain. There has never been anything but jovial rivalry between France and Great Britain or, to be more precise, England. Occasionally, it all gets a bit personal at times, mutual animosity and loathing lurking ominously under the surface. But then, they shake hands, thinking of nothing but entente cordiale, harmony, neighbourly communality and just getting on with the business of good, old fashioned sport.

We have yet to hear about illegal supplements, amphetamines, illegitimate mood boosters and clandestine pills sneaked into the Olympic village where nobody can find them anyway. So far, all the athletes, swimmers and all of the star names have been paragons of virtue, good boys and girls. They know all about the dreadful repercussions that will follow if they so much as swallow a Paracetamol before a big race. Of course they face lengthy and, quite possibly, permanent bans from any future Olympic Games. But this is serious, competitive sport and not some local competition where there are no medals. 

And now it was that the eight men who were about to take part in the 200 metres individual medley stood excitedly and historically on their marks before taking that crucial plunge. They must have briefly engaged with friends and family in the swimming hall because the fleeting waves to mum, dad, brother and sister had been seen by all of us. The honour of the nation was at stake and the pressure could be almost felt and touched, nerves shivering down their spines. Then they closed their eyes again, shrugging shoulders, bracing themselves, bodies itching to just launch themselves whole heartedly into the pool. It was time for action, going for gold or any medal that would ensure instant celebrity status.

Suddenly the hooter went off, the gun blasting at just the right dramatic moment. Eight men simultaneously flung themselves into their personal quests to write themselves into the history books, genuine immortality. The French knew they could do it and so did Team GB. Private fears and thoughts were blocked out immediately and it was time for the big show, everybody. Just concentrate on the singular task in hand. You can do it and we know you can. So the Anglo French alliance was left on the back burner just for a  couple of minutes. The celebrations and consoling pats on muscular shoulders could wait. None of us were going anywhere. This was it. All good friends.

Half way through the race you could almost feel the immensity of it all, the classical grandeur of the Olympic Games once again making its presence known again. Team GB had also once known moments of glory when Duncan Goodhew had captured British hearts many decades ago. Then, after the first 100metres had been completed and bodies were rolled around in the water, it was a straight head to head between the Frenchman Marchand and Duncan Scott. Arms almost locked together in combat, both Marchand and Scott were neck and neck, legs frantically kicking, cruising towards the finishing line with nothing between them. 

Meanwhile, back in fifth position was one Tom Dean, who seemed to be thrilled to be part of last night's swimming extravaganza. Dean knew, that although he'd already won an Olympic medal, this was not to be a repeat performance. Now though the spotlight fell on both Marchand and Scott. Racing towards the wall of the pool, both men went for it. In our hearts, most of us had recognised excellence when we'd seen it. Marchand just reached out for another French gold medal and a nation cracked open a bottle of Beaujolais. Scott blinked back drops of water, grinned happily and then planted his hands on his victorious counterpart. So that's what the Olympics is about. All fair in love and war.

Elsewhere, in the gymnastics hall, the wonderful Simone Biles had taken everybody to their hearts. Over 40 years ago, both Nadia Comaneci of Romania and only four years before, the Russian Olga Korbut had endeared themselves to the Olympic Games sisterhood. They had swung on the bars almost miraculously, performed almost balletically on the floor and then undergone yet more sophisticated tumbles, twists and turns on the pommel horse. This was gymnastics at its finest, most spellbinding, aesthetically appealing. Both Comaneci and Korbut had become kindred spirits, where extraordinary agility and flexibility simply looked impossible to match.

But then Simone Biles of the United States of America went through what looked like the most demanding routine, gymnastics had ever seen. The floor was hers. Her technique on the pommel was almost sublime, legs achieving an immaculate co-ordination, swinging and flinging, powdered hands clutching onto the apparatus in much the way that she'd done a million times in her dreams. For a moment, she'd perfectly encapsulated the true spirt of the Olympics, all glittering sequins, toothpaste smile and the most engaging of all personalities.

Once again, back in the swimming pool, there was further Team GB representation and didn't we know it? Ben Proud was just happy to be at an Olympics let alone win anything. But, at the back of Proud's mind there must have been a burning ambition, an inner drive, a sense that he could actually do something both his family and friends would never forget. So, France once again, in the 50m freestyle, were at the centre of the Olympic universe, critical but forgiving at times but absolutely nuts about their exemplary Olympian Florent Manadou. This was a no brainer. Manadou had to win because this was their year, their month and their week. Time stood still and even the Champs Elysses must have caught its breath.

So Manadou and his fellow Olympian protagonist Ben Proud clasped hold of the mantle and just went for it. Before you knew it, Manadou threw himself into the pool and just went for it full pelt. With a breathtaking pace, the Frenchmen just ploughed through the water, assurance in every stroke, smooth, disciplined and, ultimately unbeatable.  Manadou was both stately, serene and, at once sensitive to everything around him. The gold medal was in his possession and nothing else mattered for France. 

And so the Olympic Games had reached its half way point. Next on the nutritious and wholesome menu is life on the athletics and field track. Now this is where the Olympics really does come into its own. This is where records are broken, hearts shattered and medals are worn with just as much as distinction as the swimming events. It was Mary Peters who captivated the whole of Great Britain with the mightiest of shot putts in Munich 1972, Daley Thompson emerged as superhuman in the LA Olympics of 1984 and the memorable feats of Seb Coe and Steve Ovett won gold medals but not necessarily in the right order to quote the great Morecambe and Wise.

Whatever you may think of the Olympics as a morally bankrupt force and a sporting spectacle that almost reeks of cheating and corruption, we are now at the end of the first week. Nobody has been accused of taking any hormone supplement or just something that was questionable. We had one horrible moment shortly before the first day in Paris when a potentially damaging blow almost stopped the show before it had got going.

An arson attack which disrupted the railway system and, still petty differences of opinion, had now drifted into obscurity. Be prepared for more marvellous medal winning performances and breathlessly palpitating Olympian races to the wire. We've seen it before but we're more than happy to see it again. It is indeed the greatest show on earth and we can never cease to be amazed.

Paris 2024- Olympic Games, the story so far

 Paris 2024- Olympic Games, the story so far.

The country that once gave us Proust, Balzac, Rousseau and Matisse, once again gave us an evening where France could once again wax lyrical about so profusely. The 2024 Paris Olympic Games is slowly building up a head of steam and, after a day of sweltering heat in the capital city of France, this really was uplifting in the extreme. There were golden heroes to be found in Leon Marchand in the swimming and France could barely contain its merriment  and ecstasy.

The local boy had captured the hearts of every Frenchmen and women. Leon Marchand had emerged as just one of the musketeers the French must be pinning their hopes on for yet bigger and more bountiful harvests of medals. The city of romance and love had fallen for Marchand because here was a man who had suddenly represented all of those Renaissance ideals the nation had been so rightly proud of. Art and literature are somehow symbolic of everything that is French and an Olympic Games in Paris just seemed so welcome and appropriate after a century's absence. Marchand had won the 200 m butterfly and did so with a typical display of dash and elan.

After the kind of opening ceremony that most of us would want to totally wipe from our consciousness as soon as possible, France opened its doors to magnificent cyclists on some of the wettest streets you're ever likely to see. The French have been longing to embrace an Olympic sports festival because 1924 must feel like ancient history now. The street artists still entertain the public, the croissants are tastier than ever, Le Monde remains one of the most educational newspapers in Europe, the breakfast baguettes are just mouth watering and the Eiffel Tower is still one of the most striking pieces of architecture.

When a Frenchman or woman sits down to his or her cafe au lait and petit dejeuneur with just a hint of cinnamon in their morning pastry, they may invariably think  their the day will just be perfect and flawless. They will look back to that historic night in Paris when France, decorated with the idyllic portraiture of Emmanuel Petit, Thierry Henry, Robert Pires, Didier Deschamps and Marcel Desailly, won the World Cup in their own backyard back in 1998 and now believe that things will be elevated to an even  higher sporting plateau.

Yesterday though, it was Team GB who brought home the gold to those discerning followers of the triathlon, an astonishing exhibition of remarkable stamina, endurance and sheer grit. Alex Yee, with a smile as wide as a boulevard, sprinted home to victory gracefully and almost effortlessly. After a battle of wits with New Zealand's Hayden Wilde, Yee timed his moment of glory to clockwork precision. Rounding the final bend of a punishing triathlon, Wilde's legs were beginning to turn to jelly and Yee seized the day. Yee chased after Wilde like a man who thought he'd get to the bus stop before Wilde. 

Then, an explosive turn of pace and electrifying kick, left the New Zealander gasping for breath. Yee duly burst for the finishing line, shoulders pumping with adrenaline, legs powering towards the finishing line. It was the most triumphant night Team GB had probably seen since Sir Mo Farrah streaked away from the rest of the field for Great Britain in London 2012. Yee has that fresh faced, cherubic look of youthful effervescence that some of us thought we'd see again but were never sure when.

We are all now blissfully aware of Team GB's illustrious record on the rowing lakes of the world. When Lauren Henry, Hannah Scott, Lola Anderson and Georgie Brayshaw dug their oars into the water with purposeful conviction, we knew we were about to witness another Team GB masterclass. The girls strained and stretched every muscle in their bodies, faces contorted with pain but realising that a gold medal was theirs for the taking. It was gold for GB and, for one brief and heady moment, we cast our minds back to Sir Steve Redgrave and Matthew Pinsett and knew we'd seen this before, a stirring rendition of a similar song.

Back at the swimming pool, Team GB were once again shouting from the rooftops, celebrating wildly with gold yet again. This was a Tom Dean moment and he was suitably accompanied by Duncan Scott, James Guy and Matthew Richards. All four men swum like the proverbial fish, cruising through the water with consummate ease, heads turning from side to side in mathematical unison, arms gliding through the water almost instinctively and then charging for the winning line. It had been the most pulsating 4 by 200metres freestyle Final any of us had seen and Team GB had done it again.

Out on the equestrian field, Lauren Collett, Tom McEwan, Ros Canter had displayed all of the finest horsemanship that has always been Team GB's forte, one of its favourite moments in the sun. This was Britain doing their best at something they've excelled at for years. You were reminded of the middle classes of Hickstead in Sussex, England, where the esteemed likes of Lucinda Prior Palmer would light up high summers in England with a joyful gallop on her equine friend, leaping over fences with a staggering class and refinement.

And last but not least there was Tom Daley, who not content with winning gold at Olympics of recent years, did it all over again. Daley, who lists as one of his hobbies as knitting, once again threw himself off a diving board from quite the most amazing height as if he'd done so a million times in the past. He tuck piked his body, before flipping over again and again, spinning like a child's top before hitting the water without even a hint of trouble. Daley is one of Team GB's greatest divers of all time and showed exactly why the public have taken to him, a wonderfully amiable figure who just makes his sport look so easy and straightforward. Let the show continue, Paris. It's pretty spectacular and most of us are just besotted with every single moment. The Olympic Games are well and truly alive.