The Jewish New Year- Rosh Hashanah

 The Jewish New Year - Rosh Hashanah

We are now days away from that great Jewish celebration of a brand New Year. This Thursday, the good and honourable people of the world will gather in their millions around innumerable synagogues or shuls for the yearly pilgrimage to the land of apple and honey, that joyous communion where Jews from around every Jewish diaspora will find the core of their being, identifying that precious moment when all should be peace and harmony, the beginning of a New Year, the resurrection of that vital period in our lives when everything looks new, pristine, fresh, unblemished, alive, redemptive and wonderfully promising.

On Thursday, the global population of the Jewish community will be chanting and worshipping, praying and loving life. They will look at the festival of Rosh Hashanah, that timeless reminder of epic Biblical stories when the Torah becomes the main centrepiece of our New Year homage to life, vitality, breathing, living, walking, talking, laughing and smiling, the cherishable sanctity of our human existence. It is a feeling that can never be matched, valued or measured because it is the best emotion of them all.

For as long as you can remember now Rosh Hashanah has been that crucial time frame when reflection and reminiscence can be easily summoned because this is our chance to look back on the year and just express our eternal gratitude. As a deeply proud Jew, this is my opportunity to be thankful and appreciative, to stand with family, staring thoughtfully at our Siddurim or Chumash and sing with enormous relish and gusto, from the diaphragm right up to our lips and mouths. We've been here before countless times and we have experienced both pleasure, poignancy at times but just pure elation at the same time.

This Thursday, my wonderfully loving and eternally supportive family will settle down at Saracens rugby union stadium in the players hospitality suite. It'll be the most bizarre and most improbable setting for any religious service and yet it will be appropriate and memorable because it is the most perfect backdrop to the day. For the congregation of Finchley Reform shul or synagogue, it will represent the warmest of sanctuaries, a place to collect our thoughts, to greet each other with perfect cordiality, the most heartfelt conviviality since it is Rosh Hashanah when a vast outpouring of our souls will culminate in effervescent joy.

Of course, for those who may be impartial observers looking on from the outside world, the beginning of a New Year still feels unusual, almost completely unconventional. Besides, the Christian calendar has always adhered to the same chronological routine. Christmas Day has always been on December 25th and the New Year has always fallen on the first day of January which marks the beginning of a New Year. So here we are on the concluding days of September and by Thursday it'll be the second day of October which, for the Jewish population, signals a New Year. Now that sounds and feels both odd and slightly confusing  

Still, at least we're all together, in complete unison, projecting our voices, delivering the sweetest prayers and blessings, listening to each other admiringly and trying to imagine anything that could surpass these holiest days of the year for the Jewish religion. We call it the chag, chag semach, l'shana tova, beautifully enunciated Hebrew songs from way back when Adam and Eve met up for that mouth watering bite of the apple in the Garden of Eden.

But mention of apples and honey has always had the most symbolic value for all Jews at Rosh Hashanah. It reminds us of sweetness and light, those delicious years of our childhood and, perhaps, awkward adolescence when the struggles to find our true identity may have been a hindrance at times. We would ask questions on Yom Kippur because we knew there was something not quite right at the time and we were young, inquisitive and terribly cynical. Yom Kippur meant a 25 hour starvation marathon, complete abstinence from all pleasures of the palate, no eating, drinking, going to football matches, no entertainment such as the TV, radio and now, more recently, engaging on I Phones, Smart Phones or the Internet.

And yet as a youngster, you were always told that going to shul on Rosh Hashanah meant that you had to dress up smartly and elegantly, suited and booted, shirts crisply laundered, tie immaculately knotted, shoes polished so brightly that you could probably see for miles. At the time it was all a bit too overwhelming, structured and regimented beyond reason and stiflingly formal with no room to relax and enjoy the day. But you knew what had to be done so you just conformed to the norm. It was the middle of September and it was Rosh Hashanah and the congregation was waiting and anticipating.

My late and lovely mum and dad would accompany my equally as delightful grandma and grandpa to our local synagogue in Beehive Lane in Gants Hill, Essex and you can still see it in your mind's eye. In the foyer outside the main prayer room, a plush red carpet was softly trodden by a multitude of feet. Then there were the photos of Israel, Eretz Israel, the cabinet trophies sitting next to impressive looking shields, teenagers and families mingling and constantly passing each other as if this had been a major fashion parade and they were all being marked on both technical and artistic merit. 

The kids would spend all the time wandering in and out almost incessantly, comparing suits, chatting and talking to each other as if Rosh Hashanah would be their only opportunity to share lively banter and giggle at this remarkable social rendezvous. You never quite knew why the female community, women and girls had to be driven upstairs to a gallery of seats in a strange act of gender discrimination, estranged by their husbands and boyfriends if only temporarily.

But for personal reasons you will always have a good reason to remember Beehive Lane shul. My cheder, Hebrew classes for the very young, once bestowed the ultimate honour on me for two consecutive years. You were awarded the top prize for being the star pupil. A vast Jewish encylopedia  published in America landed in my hands. Your reward for these sterling endeavours was a trip to that famous Jewish restaurant Blooms in Aldgate in the East End of London. 

The enduring memories of Rosh Hashanah will never fade into obscurity because they meant so much to me. During the afternoon, every Jewish family would invariably converge on the local Valentines Park. And it was, perennially, outside a cafe that remains to this day. Large groups of young children, teenagers, mums and dads, aunties, uncles and cousins would, en masse, abandon themselves to a hundred conversations and small talk in abundance before cracking jokes and talking about work or school.

Towards the end of the 1980s and, certainly 1990s, there was the most extraordinary of rituals over the High Holy Days. Because of the size of the congregation, there was what they called the overflow service. Suddenly, the now deeply lamented and much missed Gants Hill Odeon cinema became the only choice for an alternative Rosh Hashanah service. A venue that normally played host to popcorn outlets, chocolate bar stalls and hot dog kiosks, had now morphed into a Jewish prayer venue and, although there was only a brief acquaintance with the cinema, it still tickles a funny bone in hindsight.

And so there you are Ladies and Gentlemen. This forthcoming Thursday, the good Jewish folks of the globe will be rallying around together, delighted to be in the same company as each other. At the back of our minds and lovingly embedded in our subconscious, Rosh Hashanah is always there. You normally feel the heartwarming presence of the Jewish New Year when the first autumnal leaves have dropped to the ground in all their yellowing and brown splendour. You can sense it whenever the children go back to school after their yearly summer holidays and then you know that something is special is in the air when our rabbis quicken their step and look very excited. Their beards are now bristling, their kippot on their heads are now firmly placed and they all look fabulous. 

So on behalf of my family and friends may I be the first to wish the whole Jewish community a chag semach, l'shana tova, plenty of apples and honey, excellent and good health and happiness and don't forget to smile at your rabbis. They, too, will want to know the score when your Premier League football team are playing. Then the babies will cry,  the kids will run in and out of your synagogue in a state of utter bliss and finally the shofar will blow mightily because this is the starting point for the Jewish New Year. L'shana tova to all my family and friends and yours too.  

Labour party political conference and British politics.

 Labour party political conference and British politics.

Of course we know that British politics is a mug's game. It always has been and always will. It is a profession for the hard skinned, masochistic individual who just loves to take stick on an incessant basis, who derives enormous pleasure from being viciously and verbally attacked and ridiculed, mocked and derided, made fun of and generally made to feel totally inadequate. There are those who have a democratic right to express their disapproval of politicians, humiliating them, demeaning them and then shooting them down in flames and that is their right.

At this week's first party political conference of the season, the Labour party, now the new incumbents at the very top of the political pyramid, face their critical and judgmental public as the government of the day and full time residents at 10 Downing Street. Allegedly, Larry the Cat is fascinated by all the latest goings on in this legendary corner of Westminster. He still goes wandering around the back streets in search of different types of haute cuisine, scraps of food and then bowls of milk that may have turned sour because Sir Keir Starmer may have forgotten about Larry in all the heady excitement of the last month or several. But, Starmer has been wowing the crowds in Liverpool for the Labour party political conference and it's time to get down to the nitty gritty of political discourse.

But this year marks his debut appearance at a major Labour party celebration. Now they're the governors, the leaders, the overall bosses and crucial decision makers, the men and women responsible for either making or breaking the United Kingdom. What we need now is, perhaps, a moment of sober perspective. The Labour party, who had hitherto completely lost their way on their route back to governing the country, have this week been back in the spotlight just when they must have thought everybody had assumed they no longer existed.

And yet after 14 years of bumbling incompetence, foolhardy behaviour, comical statements straight from the British music halls of the Second World War and general mismanagement, the Tories have now taken a back seat in some wild wilderness where only loneliness and grudging remorse may be the harshest of realities. Nobody wants to know what happened to Boris Johnson, fewer are interested in the stuffy pomposities of Jacob Rees Mogg or so it might be thought and as for Dominic Raab, Liz Truss and Nick Hancock, the less said the better for us all.

We survived those darkest days of Covid 19 because we could hardly believe the improvisation comedy act who was Boris Johnson, as Johnson simply went from one verbal disaster to another. Every time Johnson appeared at that now memorable Press conference lectern accompanied by his medical scientists Sir Chris Witty and Sir Patrick Vallance, we knew it would fall apart at the seams fairly rapidly. And it did so embarrassingly. In hindsight, no one political party of any persuasion could have stopped this calamitous tragedy, this horrible decline into confusion, complication, obfuscation, denial, counter denial and then, suffering on a monumental scale.

But now that the Conservative party are out of office, Britain can now look for its latest set of sitting targets, another set of buffoons, pranksters, tricksters, exploiters and ministers who are about as useless as chocolate tea pots. Hold on though. The Labour party have been in government for just over four months and there's still dust in the curtains of 10 Downing Street's windows, the furniture has only just been installed in the dining room and a certain portrait of a former Prime Minister had to come down.

This week though, the Labour party have been selling their wares in Liverpool, once the city of culture and now hosts to a new government for their annual shouting match. It will be a hotbed of fierce debate, a thousand private discussions, confidential whispers and a platform for profound statements and expressions of either delight or frustration.

It used to be the case that wherever the Labour party went, trade unions and militant voices would jump to the defence of Labour because they were the ones with those good, old fashioned Socialist ideals and the working class proletariat would come together over yet more beer and sandwiches. Labour represented the working man or woman, those who once plunged into dangerous mines and coal faces with dirty faces, clocked onto industrious factory floors and grafted for their living.

From the earliest days of Clement Atlee right through to the gruff and forthright Harold Wilson, the Labour party have arrived at the front door of 10 Downing Street and left it behind because something had gone terribly wrong with the machinery and the country was either flat broke or just an international joke.

When Wilson declared his White Heat of Technology speech a resounding success, there were still grumblings of discontent. The economy was still in a ropy, parlous state, our standing on the world stage was no longer secure and even Swinging London had become a hollow cliche. The Vietnam war had slowly degenerated into agonising death and grotesque bloodshed and all Wilson could claim as his major achievements were the Open University and the addition of BBC Two as Britain's third new TV channel.

Fast forward another 30 years and two men were conspiring to pick up the pieces of a Labour party who may have been accused of being stuck in a time warp. Both Michael Foot and Neil Kinnock were competent and conscientious politicians who knew all the wrinkles of political etiquette. But Foot seemed to drag the Labour party through a muddy quagmire of wrong turns and ill conceived legislation of dodgy policies. The final straw of course for Foot was that infamous appearance at a Remembrance Day service when he thought nothing of wearing a shabby coat and the kind of dishevelled look that seemed to bring disgrace, shame and disrepute upon the Labour party.

Neil Kinnock of course had been an admirable speaker, an orator of the highest quality and status, a fiery if hugely intelligent academic who knew exactly what to say and had no reason to apologise for any gaffe or indiscretion that might have passed his lips. But at the height of Margaret Thatcher's reign as Prime Minister, Kinnock stuck his shoes onto the most explosive minefield of them all. In the lead up to a General Election, Kinnock was deliberately photographed with his wife Glenys running along a beach before being swept away by a huge tidal wave and falling onto the sand without a care in the world, faces wreathed in smiles.

Little did he know it at the time but that would spell the end of Labour party until the now well respected tenure of Tony Blair as Labour Prime Minister. Labour went into hiding and hibernation after Kinnock and, after Blair had performed minor miracles in rescuing Britain from another meltdown, we are now back where it all began with Blair.  The political party with an authentic heart and soul, the party with compassion written all the way through them and the party who always cared for the downtrodden and neglected, were officially back in charge. Leave it to Labour. They'll know what to do. That's for sure.

And so it was that Sir Keir Starmer came to the microphone in Liverpool yesterday. He stood up at the microphone, composed himself, took a sharp intake of breath and just spoke rather like the bridegroom who just wants to say the right thing to family and friends. He looked down on his piece of paper and then swiftly looked up at his adoring audience because he knew just what this all meant to his party. They had come this far, toiling away furiously behind the scenes and then finally reaching the summit.

Starmer began to thank all of his colleagues for their unstinting, tireless contribution to the Election campaign trail, outlining his plans and promises in a steady, measured style. There were no grandiose five year projects, nothing to suggest that the country's woes and troubles would be remedied almost immediately. He spoke about sunny uplands but then we knew he would because new Prime Ministers have been expressing the same sentiments since time immemorial. He warned Britain again that this would be no picnic, no easy task and there was much to do. Of course things would never get better overnight and there were no medical or homeopathic treatments that would transform everything tomorrow or indeed this morning, afternoon or evening.

But he then got started on the controversial winter fuel allowance that had pre-occupied so many minds in recent days. Apparently the elderly would have to sit in cold dining rooms during the winter without any comforts apart from Strictly Come Dancing on Saturday night TV. Oh dear, first clanger dropped and suddenly the blustering voices were in full angry mode. How have we come to this juncture? Weren't the Labour party, the party with a benevolent heart of gold? Apparently not. Or have they simply been misunderstood?

And then there was the weekend fiasco of sleaze and scandal. Sir Keir Starmer is one of the now many Prime Ministers to swear their football allegiance to a leading Premier League club. Starmer is a fervent Arsenal supporter, a Gooner and therefore a man of the people. Starmer is the man who loves to share a pint with his fellow football supporters, leaping into the air when Arsenal score and slumping back into his seat in an inconsolable state of despondency when Arsenal lose, a feeling that's unfamiliar to them at the moment.

So what was all the fuss all about? We have now been reliably informed that Starmer wants his own seat in the directors box at the Emirates Stadium rather than mixing with the great and good in the crowd. Labour have been handing out free tickets to all and sundry and up to all kinds of deceit and skulduggery. The knives are out for Labour, sharpened and ready to be used when necessary. Suddenly, Starmer has become public enemy one, taxing  those who should never be taxed, upsetting everybody and then finding there are slight cracks in the structural integrity. Doubts are being uttered and all of the dizzy euphoria of General Election victory in May is  beginning to taste like flat lager.

It does seem though this may be a temporary blip in the proceedings, a minor setback, teething problems, a transitional period for the government. Patience has to be a virtue. Besides, Rome wasn't built in a day but the bricks and mortar used for this political project may be needed sooner rather than later. This is going to be one long and painstaking operation, laborious in the extreme but trust has to be placed in Starmer since there can be no plausible alternative.

The ghosts of Foot and Kinnock may come to haunt Starmer in due course. But now maybe now is the time to sit tight and hold onto our seats. Labour won this year's May General Election by a comprehensive landslide with a vast majority that almost feels unprecedented in modern times. They won because the UK wanted a refreshing change, shiny new innovations, more housing, an education system for our children that should rightly be considered the best in the world and an economy that thrives in no time at all.

Starmer re-assures us that the NHS will be his first and most important priority because our doctors and surgeons are just exemplary role models, outstanding in their very public roles. The health of the Britain has to be addressed almost immediately and no elderly member of society should have to be expected to languish in a hospital corridor for hours and hours, day after day. 

So there we are Great Britain, it's the party political conference for the Labour party in Liverpool. Be there and pay attention because Sir Keir Starmer is talking and talking positively. And then, much to the amusement and hilarity of the nation but not to me personally, Starmer, in a brief lapse of concentration, in an emotional moment in his Gaza - Israel dialogue with the fellow members of his party, referred to the 'sausages' as opposed to the hostages detained at the moment. It must have been the lights in the hall and the beads of sweat on his face. This was the most unfortunate of cock ups but then again Starmer is human after all. So much for Punch and Judy politics.

Daniel Dubois beats Anthony Joshua in classic heavyweight boxing title.

 Daniel Dubois beats Anthony Joshua in classic heavyweight title boxing title.

This could not have gone any better for Daniel Dubois. Wembley Stadium, normally the witnesses to traditional FA Cup Finals, was baying for blood although metaphorically, none was spoilt thankfully. Instead Daniel Dubois, whom none could have foreseen as a potential heavyweight title hero, sent Anthony Joshua wobbling, swaying, rocking and then toppling to the canvas ring like a boat stranded out at sea. It was the kind of enthralling, gripping, captivating and, ultimately memorable boxing contest any of us had seen for quite some time. 

But the result was one that had come completely out of the blue. Anthony Joshua was his usual cocky, confident, assured and insouciant self, just oblivious to the thought that any prize fighter could possibly beat him. Joshua could always talk a good fight. We knew that much. In fact so articulate and streetwise had he been for so many years before this fight that victory almost seemed inevitable and academic. But Joshua looked as though he hadn't done all of his homework rigorously enough because Dubois was ready for him, prepared to stare into the whites of Joshua's eyes and challenge Joshua's heavyweight dominance with a snarling impertinence. 

Throughout the generations, we have seen so many British heavyweight boxers come and go with varying degrees of lucrative success. We just adored Frank Bruno because, of course, he was vulnerable, gullible and horribly impressionable. We knew Bruno could beat the best and, to that end, he fulfilled that boxing remit. Maybe we were not entirely surprised when Mike Tyson came along and gave Bruno the severest battering and cudgelling. Poor Bruno was never the same fighter, the private demons set in and the mental health issues were cruelly exposed. And yet Bruno has recovered his poise in contented retirement.

Then there was Lennox Lewis, the Canadian East Ender from the grand old capital city of London. Lewis was another fierce puncher with all the necessary tools in his repertoire. Lewis had his days in the sun as well but, rather like his British contemporaries, it didn't last for long. It was sad but true. Then there was the legendary Henry Cooper, our 'Enery Cooper who sent shock waves through the heavyweight nerve centre when Cassius Clay, who had hitherto shown strong signs of achieving transcendent greatness, helplessly cowered under the relentless onslaught. Cooper let loose  with a fiery, barnstorming, grandstanding barrage of punches that sent the man who would become Muhammad Ali falling into the ropes like a giant oak toppling into the undergrowth. 

The shots were clubbing Clay's head painfully and Cooper almost became a British heavyweight sensation. Regrettably, this was not to be Cooper's night and the rest is well documented history. So, fast forward 60 years later and Anthony Joshua, the current contender to the crown of world heavyweight champion, announced himself as a future champion who would never ever be beaten. We suspected though, there was something in the air before the first bell at Wembley but then Joshua thought he had this fight in the bag, an immovable object who would have to be blasted into submission and left dazed, dazzled and down.

After five gruelling rounds, the familiar war of attrition that normally characterises these big boxing nights, Daniel Dubois became acclaimed as the new kid on the block, the all conquering hero who took most of us unawares. We knew that he'd established an impressive reputation but Joshua would be one impregnable obstacle too far. And yet how wrong would we be. Boxing is a hard, unforgiving sport, brutal and barbaric at times, almost callous and heartless at others, a spectacle that can often be terrifying to watch but almost sadistically satisfying to the discerning punters who pay good money to see a good, old fashioned punch up. This one had a no holds barred feel to it and Joshua emerged at the end like a bewildered tourist who had knocked on the door of a bed and breakfast hotel by the seaside and asked how much a couple of nights would be.

From the first round, Dubois went straight to work, unleashing his savagery, driving into Joshua's body with a formidable barrage of full blooded jabs and uncompromising shots to head and stomach that could almost be heard at Wembley Park Tube station. Then the gloves flung out with wild abandon, flying and swinging away with ruthless power into Joshua's midriff. Joshua was immediately taken aback, stunned by this wholly unexpected attack on his supremacy. Some of us lost count of the number of times that Joshua staggered helplessly, reeling away as if shocked to the core, eyes glazed over.

The second round was much the same fare, a diet of destructive upper cuts, frightening jabs that were meant to destabilise Joshua. By now Dubois could sense victory without finishing off Joshua in the way he would have liked much sooner. But then yet much more decisive punishment was dealt out to Joshua. The punches were now like deadly missiles and Dubois waded in with another irresistible assault on Joshua, working his way through Joshua's now fragile defences with crunching, thudding blows to Joshua's head that almost sounded like some discordant piece of music in Joshua's ears.

The third round marked an even more dramatic deterioration. Joshua was now hiding away from Dubois in case the paramedics would be required to jump into the ring to save him. Dubois's low blows into Joshua's forehead were leaving AJ crumpled and almost haggard in the face. This was a merciless attack on the former world heavyweight title, an insult to Joshua's intelligence, a degrading act of violence that should never happen again but did last night. Perhaps though Joshua had assumed too much and we know what happens to those boxers who adopt an air of haughty presumption. They lose and they lose quite heavily.

By the fourth round, Joshua was gasping for air, holding on for dear life, head now spinning, resistance quite futile. There was no way back for AJ. Dubois was just tormenting Joshua, rifling punches into Joshua's dignity, scaring the life out of him as if boxing had been a lifelong vocation and where now the scars of bloodthirsty defeat had sucked the life out of him. One after the other the punches arrived, Joshua slowly dropping to the ground for those now final, concluding chapters of this vicious fight to the bitter end. 

In the fifth round, the round where the final towel of surrender would shortly appear, Joshua looked as though he'd had enough. Dubois started bombarding Joshua with all manner of punishment, rabbit punches at first and then the ultimate artillery. There were lethal punches to Joshua from all angles and suddenly, the end. One classical swing hit Joshua flush on the face and the muscular, powerful man from London crashed onto the canvas as if hit by a bulldozer, while his opponent Daniel Dubois almost revelled in the glorious moment of victory.

In the audience was one Tyson Fury who must have been licking his lips in anticipation at any future confrontation with his long held rival and antagonist. Fury loves mind games and the kind of big talking that leaves promoters salivating with delight. This one could still be on, a genuine possibility. There are tickets to be sold and seats to be occupied so boxing could be on the verge of one of the greatest showdowns in its illustrious history. Joshua would be up for it without any shadow of a doubt. His pride was left in tatters last night and he wants to touch the stars again.

And yet this was Daniel Dubois night, one that must have astonished even the most impartial observers. It is hard to form any judgment on Dubois because, although he might have been considered as a surprise package, boxing is one of those sports where even the improbable can become the most incredible fairy story that came true. Whether Joshua now retires from boxing remains a moot point but on the evidence of last night's spellbinding punch up, you can't help but think that Joshua is no defeatist and the hunger is ravenous as ever. We shall see. 

Goodbye Evening Standard.

 Goodbye Evening Standard.

It was the saddest day for British journalism and London journalism. We shed a river of private tears because we knew just how much it meant to thousands of London commuters on their way home from work. It was our reference point for the entire population of London because London loved it, treasured it, revered its presence, knew where to find it and were always delighted to get our hands on one of London's greatest evening newspapers. 

The London Evening Standard, or the Evening Standard and occasionally referred to as the Standard, became a reliable mainstay of our lives, a reassuring constant for as long as any of us could remember, an essential read for the local news, politics, art, international news, an advertisement opportunity for the latest theatre, music, cinema and all manner of fascinating stories that veered from the sublime to the ridiculous. 

Today the Evening Standard rolled its presses for the last time as a daily evening newspaper and many of us, although far from heartbroken or desolate, will still mourn its passing. The Standard will close tonight but remain a weekly paper, no longer the hugely informative and deeply literate voice for the capital city. And yet we will cherish the memories, the hard, investigative and probing articles, the superbly measured and balanced news coverage, the impartiality that any newspaper tries so hard to maintain at all times. 

And so it is that a vast majority of the capital will look forlornly on at now empty and noiseless Tube stations, a veritable graveyard now silenced by the harsh realities of modern technology and, quite possibly, Covid 19. Once one of the biggest selling of all evening papers in London, in recent years the impressive popularity of the Evening Standard had now fallen away dramatically. Some of us privately suspected that the market had disappeared, the demographics had changed quite evidently for the worse and people were taking their news from now prosperous social media networks.

Then there were the wide variety of alternative podcasts and online information that was so overwhelming at times that the Standard's days were always likely to be numbered. Most of us receive our news and sport almost immediately and, as soon as we wake up, we know exactly what Sir Keir Starmer has had for breakfast and, of course, the latest comedy routines performed by Donald Trump. But we'll miss the Standard deeply because it always seemed to be there. You could hear the vendors outside most of London's biggest and most influential Tube train stations from miles away because it assumed an almost vital significance. 

Outside the Bank station, Liverpool Street, Fenchurch Street and all the major newsprint arteries such as Paddington, Waterloo, Kings Cross and St Pancras, were hives of activity. Every day, five editions of the Evening Standard were rushed out of speeding vans and dumped respectfully onto the well trodden pavements of London's vibrant streets. Gentlemen wearing dark coats and caps would sling the Standard over the railings and we knew we were in business. The evening had arrived and this was the catalyst for performances of beautiful theatricality.

Suddenly, the Standard news seller would start up a stirring rendition of repeated yelling, shouting and hollering at the tops of their voices. The air would be split by deafening, stentorian announcements and pronouncements. "Standard, Standard, they would cry in heartfelt fashion, get your Standard". Only 50p. And throughout those classically eventful days of the 1960s when wars would meet headlong with the current fashions of Swinging London, the Evening Standard would accurately reflect all of those life changing developments in the very heart of the capital.

Some of us of course still recall the Evening Standard's sister paper with undiluted affection. The Evening News was equally as valued and surely one of the most highly esteemed evening papers. The St Paul's Cathedral masthead in the corner of the Evening Standard's front page gave the paper its distinctive identity but the Standard was a must read, a necessity as you squeezed onto a train carriage fit to burst. 

Then there were the everyday struggles with the redtops, tabloids as well as those distinguished broadsheets including the Times, Guardian and the Daily Telegraph. At this point, rows of seats would unfurl masses of print, smartly attired City economists and bankers carefully turning those huge sheets of paper with almost religious zeal. The bowler hats and pin striped suits would suddenly sink into a world of devoted reading of the Financial Times stocks and shares. And then, quietly unnoticed, the London Evening Standard would be revealed in all its literary glory.

This was, so to speak, the standard routine for huge swathes of Londoners who just wanted to know the latest greyhound results in a small corner of the Stop Press with brief details from White City, Catford, Walthamstow and Romford. It may have seemed unimportant in the wider scheme of things but to those who adored the dogs, this was an absorbing read never to be missed and always looked forward to.

Personally there were the football writing virtuosos of Bernard Joy, formerly of Arsenal and Michael Hart, latterly Ken Dyer and Steve Stammers. There was Neil Allen on the athletics track and boxing ring. The cricketing words of wisdom were delivered by John Thicknesse and there was always lively comment from these sporting scribes of some distinction. 

And finally, who could ever forget the wonderfully learned and remarkably knowledgeable Brian Sewell, for years the art critic of the Evening Standard. Sewell seemed to know everything there was to know about art from the most avant garde Impressionists, Surrealists, sculptors, Cubists, curators of museums right across the capital and a general egghead who kept us right up to date with the very latest exhibitions including every portrait and landscape gallery in London. Sewell, was, probably by his own admission, an eccentric but simply a man who filled up most of his weekly columns with paragraphs the size of a country mansion or a pied a terre in Kensington.

But above all, we'll miss the crosswords and the much bigger crossword on a Friday, the detailed analyses of London councils, politics, the familiar royal occasions, the invariably heavy traffic which the Standard were always there to report on, the tragedies, disasters, the rich tapestry of life. There were the big West End musical reviews, the gloriously observed plays, the famous and obscure without forgetting those who were on the fringes. There were the lesser known and the stage celebrities and performers who were always available for a comment and opinion from the Standard.

So there we are folks. It's time to bid a fond farewell to the London Evening Standard. Time to say thankyou for the superb Max Hastings, eminent historian and the man who covered the Falklands War with such rich eloquence. Time to say to express our gratitude to the incomparable Simon Jenkins, who seemed to know London like the back of his hand. And of course  there was Milton Schulman who wrote so brilliantly with his wonderful, American turn of phrase.

Finally you'd just like to add your personal thanks to the London Evening Standard because although you didn't quite make the grade as a jobbing journalist, the Standard were all stars in the highest firmament. Oh, before you forget, thankyou to my Facebook friend's dad Manny Robinson. You're a gentleman and scholar because you lived in my neighbourhood of Gants Hill in Essex and wrote about sport for the Evening Standard quite magnificently. Thankyou sir. Goodbye the London Evening Standard. The moments were magical and we'll never ever forget you.

Holiday in Marrakesh

 Holiday in Marrakesh.

It was almost midnight in Marrakesh and it was all very atmospheric and electrifying. It had been our holiday of a lifetime. The horses were galloping across a sandy arena in deepest Morocco and it felt as if the whole of this Middle East paradise had come alive, loud and proud, deafening and powerful but entertaining, a night to remember. But your eardrums had been blistered by the raucous sounds of experienced horsemen who had probably performed this same ritual for as long as any of us could remember, blasting out gun fire, smoke billowing into the sultry Middle East air. 

Then we heard screaming women with those anguished cries that, to those who were not in the know, sounded pretty terrifying and deeply disturbing. But then again this is the way they do these spectacular horse shows in Marrakesh, a reminder of a historical past that goes back ages and centuries. After a meaty dinner in what can only be described as the most palatial marquee you could ever hope to see, a stillness descended and the show burst upon expectant tourists who were gathered here to witness a stunning display of controlled horsemanship with hugely disciplined rows of beautifully jingling and jangling, shining and caparisoned horses.

This was our last night in magisterial Marrakesh, a location so deeply exotic that it almost felt as if you'd been transported to some far and distant land where Aladdin once floated on a magic carpet. Our hotel, called the Diwane, was a wondrously impressive testament to architectural perfection. The Diwane was just a towering edifice, rich in all of those Middle East furnishings, stunning marble columns wherever you looked and the wealthiest looking chandeliers that hung almost effortlessly from a domed ceiling.

Outside the hotel of course, was the obligatory swimming pool complete with sun drenched loungers and sun umbrellas, the kind of parasols that tourists from all over the world have come to expect. For much of the day, the umbrellas just remained defiantly upright as a protection from the baking heat. Temperatures were nudging 100 degrees Fahrenheit almost every day and as you gazed blissfully into a blameless blue sky, the sensation was one of complete pleasure.

For a while, Lawrence of Arabia analogies could hardly be avoided. But then, Peter O' Toole always did know how to handle those magnificent looking camels. But back at the hotel, all you could see were those memorable, brown turrets around the edge of the roof, castellated ramparts that reinforced the impression of a medieval castle that once belonged in the Middle Ages. Once settled on a day of relentless sun bathing, you couldn't help but imagine that you were in some Hollywood movie. There were bare chested gentlemen, women in suitably clad bikinis and those with Kindle literature in their hands or the good, old fashioned, conventional books you could feel as if they were precious stones.

Throughout, my lovely wife Bev and delightful daughter Rachel lay prostrate on our sunbeds, shadows of light glancing across the pool, shaded in some corners and then there was a blazing sunshine that bathed the whole of Marrakesh landscape in a luxurious, sweltering heat. It was hard to believe that here we were in the middle of September, tanning ourselves rapidly, our faces now handsomely varnished and now scarcely believing where we were, still in holiday mode at the beginning of Autumn.

Every day we ventured out to explore the varied and seductive charms of this multi cultural and cosmopolitan country. On all the streets and street corners, there were elderly men riding horses and carriages, pitifully begging for their next meal and then a multitude of both camels and donkeys desperately jostling for space on the roads.

As is often the way, there were also blatantly commercial homages to the world famous Macdonald's. There was  KFC chicken and chips shop, a thousand stalls selling colourful spices and hot lemon tea always poured from a great height. And we shouldn't forget local tagines accompanied with yet more spices, pungent flavourings of everything that was indigenously Middle East. We might have been dreaming this whole experience but this was really happening to us. We pinched ourselves and this was a fantasy we were not hallucinating.

By the evening, a relaxing meal of tangine and potatoes provided the perfect end to an impeccable day. We had enjoyed the ultimate tour of Marrakesh, the souks and market places bartering and haggling, stall traders holding out valiantly for the right price. There were narrow, twisting and meandering, cobbled alleyways with tiny selling spaces selling opulent jewellery, gleaming rings, necklaces and watches imported from every part of the globe. But wherever we went, the locals were invariably delighted to see us, dark, brown and swarthy faces wreathed in smiles and utter contentment.

During one of our visits there was the Medina, a glorious garden of wild flowers and plants. Your breath was caught by thick clusters of cacti, sharp green and yellow plants, small outcrops of palm trees and the kind of greenery that took you right back to Mother Nature. Out of the corner of your eye, you couldn't help but notice wandering stray cats softly padding up to cafes and restaurants in the hope of finding a cheap dinner.

Marrakesh is rather like any busy or bustling city in the world, cars, buses and lorries honking their horns almost incessantly, a Middle East orchestra that had every kind of percussion and woodwind instrument conceivable. You had to understand that, in Morocco, everybody is in a permanent hurry, motor bikes and cycles buzzing around in the darkness intrepidly, wives, husbands, girlfriends and boyfriends clutching hold of each other as if their lives depended on it. Even children who couldn't have been any older than about seven or eight, were tightly gripping hold of mum and dad's waist.

And so our holiday to Morocco drew to a close. We had seen everything the Middle East is somehow synonymous with. Shortly after our evening meal, we all headed to the entertainment on offer during the evening. Now this had to be the most familiar sound we could ever hope to find. Three gentlemen wearing fezzes and the most exquisite grey silk coat plucked on their violins and what looked like an ancient dulcimer or maybe it was just a cool looking guitar. Next to these wise and venerable men was a member of the trio, banging on his bongo over and over again. The songs themselves sounded as if they'd been played in every mosque in every town, city and village across the wide expanses of Morocco.

We were now on our way back to Gatwick airport and another unforgettable family holiday had concluded in the way they normally do. You walk into the local airport and embark on a marathon, through seemingly endless and rigorous security checks, passports refusing to accept your best pleadings and entreaties and grabbing hold of your suitcases as if determined to milk every moment on your holiday, quality time with your lovely family. How good it felt and always will be.

Party political conference season in Britain and politics.

 Party political conference season in Britain and politics.

We are now heading into party political conference season in Britain and, once again, all is not as well as it should be. All the preparations have been made, the stages are set, the microphones are in place, the banners and slogans are emblazoned all over the locations where the new Labour government, the Conservative Party and the Liberal Democrats may be situated. It used to be the case that seaside resorts were the preferred choice for these lively debating chambers but the last time we looked there were no politicians playing with buckets and spades, no sandcastles on the beach and very few candy flosses to go around.

The trouble is that most of us tend to think of as politicians as prepubescent children who do nothing but create mischief, and then, in later life, get caught up in scandal and financial difficulties from which there is no escape. For the last 14 years or so, we thought we were trapped, ensnared in the muddle and negligence that the great British public never really forgave them for. It had to be the Tories, of course. It had to be their fault because nobody else was responsible for the lies, betrayals, the confusion, misunderstanding and one calamity after another.

But now that the Tories have left the building, it may be only a matter of time before the new Labour government, under the supposedly stabilising influence of Sir Keir Starmer, mess it all up again. Typical, hey! You leave 10 Downing Street for the last time under former Prime Minister Rishi Sunak and all hell threatens to break loose. But fear not. All may not be lost. Hold on tight. The Labour party may be enjoying their honeymoon period but then they'll return from their romantic idyll and harsh reality bites.

At the moment, Sir Keir Starmer looks cool, composed, unruffled by hitherto dormant turmoil. There can be no need though to panic though because this has to be Starmer's sabbatical period. He can probably relax for a while because nothing untoward or disastrous has happened so far so it's time for him to put up his feet metaphorically of course and just assess his next plan of action. But there are those out there who probably think he should be busting a gut to rectify the terrible mistakes made by the previous government.

So where are we at the moment. Starmer is bedding into his new job, the long, probationary time frame, the searching examination of his ability to just get on with the business of running the country. The eyes are firmly trained, the microscope is out and dragons are breathing fire down his neck. This could be very awkward and uncomfortable for the Labour party. They've had to wait 14 years to kick out the Tories and now the burdens of responsibility are hanging heavily on them. You'd better roll up your sleeves quickly because the hard work starts now. It's time to paper over those gaping cracks and just repair the damage.

Historically, the Labour party have invariably been faced with all of those grossly inaccurate budgetary miscalculations left behind by the Conservatives. But, depending on your point of view, Labour were hardly angels themselves. But when Harold Wilson left office at the beginning of the 1970s and Edward Heath arrived at 10 Downing Street, we were still in a state of flux, our economic state in rags and tatters, our morale at its lowest. Then Heath became Prime Minister and eventually it all went belly up again. During the mid 1970s, the miners went on strike almost indefinitely, the electricity was turned off for ages, we all had to stumble around in the dark with candles and chronic power cuts reduced Britain to its lowest point.

Now trade union anarchy dominated the news agenda, men in dark coats and caps rubbing their fingers together desperately for warmth around smoking braziers. It was the winter of discontent and boy did we know it. The nation was stamping its feet in anarchic anger and poor old Ted Heath didn't quite know which way to go or who to turn to in its deepening crisis. So he went on onto the TV and reassured us that as soon as the electricians and miners reached an amicable agreement then we'd be up on our feet and striding towards the promised land of green pastures and breathless prosperity.

Today though Britain faces the party political conference season at a critical stage. We could turn in the wrong direction and find ourselves back where we before or just hope for the best. According to Sir Keir Starmer, there are no magic wands and these things will take time. There are no wizards or sorcerers, no potions or bottles of medical pills that can suddenly hasten a miraculous recovery overnight. Starmer will pace himself very patiently and then slowly exert his influence. The cynics may be telling him to get his finger out, becoming immediately proactive and busily industrious.

The chances are that whenever the political parties get together for their yearly junket there will be much hearty laughter, gallows humour by the lorryload and, for some, childish behaviour. There will be back biting, fierce sneering, sniping, snarling and character assassinations to the fore all the time. No love will be lost and they'll be up there at the top table, delivering statements of the obvious, passionate denunciations and furious speeches full of fire and brimstone. Sparks will fly behind the scenes, hotel reception areas will be simmering with hatred, insulting invective and the kind of language that would have probably deeply offended the likes of moral campaigner Mary Whitehouse.

This year will surely be no different to any other. They'll be climbing onto their controversial bandwagon, rattling each other's cages, winding each other up to breaking point and stressing everybody out into the bargain. The volume will be ratcheted up, hollering and shouting will become a temporary Olympic medal winning event and nothing will be achieved in the short term and, regrettably, the long term quite possibly. Votes will be taken to the hall and members of respective political parties will air their forthright opinions. Before you can bat an eyelid thunderous applause will greet the Prime Minister because of course he knows what he's doing and nobody should ever contradict him in these early months of a brand new government.

And this is where the fault lines become instantly apparent. At the moment, Sir Keir Starmer is out on his own with little or no opposition from the Conservative party. Although Rishi Sunak is now shadow leader of His Majesty's government, there is no influence, no voice, no real presence, a vital threat to Labour's supremacy. The country is in no win territory. Labour are still being scrutinised and judged while the Tories are just licking their bloodied wounds. So what on earth is going to happen this year at party conference time?

Will Sir Keir Starmer just hold back from whatever may be going through his mind? This is supposed to be the most exciting time for a new Prime Minister. But there can be no time for bragging and boasting because on the opposition bench are the Tories and there's nobody to argue with. The Conservative party are in the middle of an election campaign for a new leader which means that Starmer is stuck between the devil and the deep blue sea. He can't criticise and attack the Shadow cabinet because that has now gone missing. How good it must have felt for Margaret Thatcher when she discovered either Michael Foot or Neil Kinnock were sitting on the opposition green bench. In theory, this must have felt as if Thatcher was talking to nobody in particular.

So here we are again and the roles have been reversed quite dramatically. For years, The Tories were in seventh heaven, smug and vindicated, very pleased with themselves because nobody could ever challenge their overwhelming superiority. Thatcher just stood there like a commanding officer in the army, bellowing out dogmatic instructions to her Cabinet colleagues, asserting her unassailable authority and demanding respect. She wandered around factories which were slowly heading towards bankruptcy, three million people were allegedly unemployed, job centres resembled football crowds and Thatcher just revelled in polarising the nation, dividing it in half.

Then there was John Major and, more recently David Cameron, Boris Johnson and Theresa May while Labour were just tormenting themselves. They must have thought Tony Blair would be in Downing Street for ever but even he'd had enough after 10 years at Number 10. Gordon Brown, sadly, just came and went in a flash of a camera bulb and then there was Cameron, Johnson and May with just a five minute shift from the fragrant Liz Truss.

And now the decks have been cleared once again for powerful ranting, ministers getting all hot and bothered and discussion rooms with secretive back chatting. At frequent points the audience will start clapping frantically and then whole heartedly so hard that if there are any residential areas within earshot, doors will have to be shut up and you'll have to hide your animals well away from all the noise and madness. Board up your homes and shut windows, folks. The politicians are on their way.

World Letter Writing Day.

 National World Letter Writing Day.

In a world where modern technology becomes more dynamic by the day and mass communication has almost been taken for granted, some of us may have forgotten the traditional methods, the old school approach, the way it used to be way back in the past and now no longer is. To some extent, nothing of  in the way of a dramatic transformation has taken place. It just seems as if it has and we'd taken our eye off the ball. 

Today is National World Letter Writing Day. There you are, it's been said and, for those of a nostalgic turn, this celebration of the written word has to be regarded with a wistful longing for pen, pencil, ink blotters, sheets of A4 paper by the ream load and plenty to say for yourself. Let's face it, the days of letter writing have been more or less consigned to history. There may well be a small corner of Middle England or suburbia where computers have yet to be embraced, nobody has a Nokia mobile phone and a Tablet is something you probably take when you're unwell. But this is the present day and the foreseeable future.

The fact is that some of us still yearn for the day when sitting down at your davenport desk of the richest mahogany and carefully assembling your thoughts for a letter to whomsoever, was something we'd love to do one more time. Because nowadays nobody writes letters if they can possibly help it since there's something called the Internet and the World Wide Web and we e-mail our families, friends and colleagues.

We click onto the Outlook page of our PC, start tapping furiously away on our keyboard and then remember that an e-mail address has to be negotiated. Simple, really. But what could be further from the truth. Firstly you've got to go through the whole tiresome rigmarole of making sure that all the requisite dots in the address are present and correct. Then you have to ensure that the address itself is the right one otherwise you may be sanctioned by your computer for misleading information. Suddenly, the letter you've sent sends the message back to you as invalid and lost in cyberspace. 

By the end of your e-mail your friendly PC may ask you whether you're completely satisfied that what you've already written has been spelt grammatically right or is just completely wrong. And yet, you're convinced that you've carried out the procedure and why on earth should you want to change something that makes perfect sense? There's something wrong with Outlook but we just rolled with the punches and got on with the business of expressing ourselves with the medium available to us and tried to forget everything we'd been told as children. We were now in the high tech age.

Now the chances are that most of us can remember when letter writing was a well organised operation that was both enjoyable and extremely satisfying. We've been writing letters since time immemorial and Dickens was a boy in shorts. Dickens didn't have to agonise about the hacking of Facebook accounts or sorting through the complexities of X or Twitter or increasing his number of friends on Snapchat or Instagram. It was so much easier for one of the greatest Victorian story tellers. But who knew back then?

His day would have consisted of a leisurely breakfast before retiring to his peaceful study. He would pick up his quill and pen thousands of words, sentences and paragraphs, hunching over his bureau and then sighing with irritation and obvious impatience. There had to be a simpler way of transmitting his thought processes in a quicker, smoother and much less time consuming fashion. Besides, chapters of his books seemed to be taking whole months and were just a painstaking ordeal. There had to be something that would be labour saving, convenient and altogether more comfortable.

But what happened if, in the act of committing words to a paper with a fountain pen, you accidentally used the wrong choice of words or got in a muddle over the construction of a letter. Perhaps it should have been phrased differently or more appropriately. And then we fell into the trap. You scratched your head, acknowledged your mistake in a state of high agitation, screwed up thousands of pieces of paper, chucked the missive in the bin and started over and over again. How infuriating? So you crossed out the offending words and then drew through the erroneously written words before scrunching up another piece of paper. This would happen over and over again and nobody batted an eye lid because computers were over a hundred years away from reaching our homes, schools and offices.

Now though letter writing is just some obsolete art form that used to make sense and was intelligible. It was the accepted norm. In the world of newspapers, some letters were rewarded with a couple of shillings in the old days or maybe a £150 if it was a competition. Agony aunts such as the Daily Mirror's formidable Marj Proops must have accumulated huge sacks of mail with letters from boy and girl friends, aunties and uncles, cousins and nephews worried about the state of the nation. Then there was Disgusted from Dover who would invariably air their impassioned grievances about loose morals and dubious programmes they'd seen the previous night on the TV.

So we'd finish our lengthy letter to the highest authorities whether it be council related or your friendly politician or some influential money expert. Then we'd start complaining about the iniquities of the  tax system or the vastly confusing benefits that we should be entitled to. But a certain generation relied exclusively on letter writing because it was our only way of making us feel understood by the rest of the population. 

Then the said letter would be dropped into the nearest red pillar post box and we'd breathe a sigh of relief because it was relevant and effective. What we were expecting was a prompt dispatch so that birthday cards would get to a relative on the day of your birthday. But we still love the postman or woman and we wouldn't have it any other way. There is still something comforting about letter writing because it just feels like the personal touch rather than the informal way of the old days. You could take your time over the kind of words you want to write and a letter is so much more rewarding. 

Most of us knew that the name and address of a letter would normally be found at the top of the page  with the date below. Then the words would spill out lovingly and meaningfully and who cared if words had to be rubbed out by pencil or just smudged out with blue ink? There was a brown manilla envelope next to you so you folded the said letter and tucked it into the envelope safe in the knowledge that the letter had found a safe home.

Then there were the endless letters sent to our bank manager which smacked of formality. Now here was an opportunity to tell your bank manger exactly how you felt about them. Since when did you go to into overdraft and owe money to a company you'd absolutely no knowledge of? But the bank manager was a figure of respectability and solid integrity so they were not to be argued with. Perhaps they'd give you the benefit of the doubt and all would be swiftly forgotten once the bills had been paid and everything was hunky dory.

So there you are Ladies and Gentlemen. It's National Letter Writing Day. It was the day we once connected with a perfect stranger on a childhood holiday to Spain with your late and wonderful mum and dad.  They called it pen friends or somebody you felt a common affinity with at the time. And so we chatted and discussed our passion for football at the time. He was a Manchester City fan if memory serves me correctly and you were a claret and blue West Ham supporter which, in the light of yesterday's events in the Premier League match between the two teams, seems almost ironic. But then there was nothing ironic about the result because some of us would have been childishly sulking or maybe not. It was, after all, just a game.

For a while my pen friend Terry from Manchester were, quite literally on the same page, exchanging latest developments in our adolescent lives. And then one day you'd come to the realisation that neither of us had anything in common with each other. You can remember needing at least five or six pieces of A4 paper to scribble so much information onto one side that some of the words were just colliding into each other. You were now rapidly running out of lines and everything had to be squeezed into a confined space. But then it occurred to you that both Terry and yours truly lived completely different lives, came from hugely contrasting backgrounds and, besides, you'd completely run out of paper.

We all know that distinguished authors are men or women of letters, learned scholars and university lecturers. Letters had a palpable air of seriousness about them, businesslike in their execution. You deliberate and consider every word or letter without worrying whether you've hit the wrong letter on your keyboard and found, much to your horror, that the whole process has been wiped into obscurity, never to be retrieved and lost forever. May we should cherish letter writing as something of a fundamental means of expression. Whatever you do though, don't forget to stick  a stamp on the corner of your letter because without it, that letter is going nowhere. Happy Letter Writing Day everybody.