Local football derbies, Manchesters City- United and Spurs- West Ham

 Local football derbies, Manchester City, United and Spurs- West Ham

It hardly seems like it but local football derbies in Britain are as old as time itself. They date back to a time when Queen Victoria reigned supreme over her dearly beloved UK and the Commonwealth. Some have now been lost to memory because only photographic evidence remains and the British tabloids have perpetuated their images and vivid action shots. They have now become embedded in football's soul and bloodstream.

Yesterday, Manchester United beat their noisy local neighbours City with a 2-0 win that could well prove to be decisive in those final 16 or 17 matches before the season's end. United, still struggling to replicate the extraordinary years of Sir Alex Ferguson, found both their balance, focus and a thrilling rapport with each other that hasn't been seen for a number of seasons now. Reuben Amorim has gone and United are rather like a stalling steam locomotive train who have just hit upon a mini renaissance and are quite happy to be where they are in the here and present.

Interim coach Michael Carrick, with those dulcet Wallsend Geordie tones nicely oiled, stands on the deck of the great ship that is Manchester United and, yesterday, for a while at least, it felt good to be in the groove. Carrick looks as though he's thoroughly enjoying himself even if the gig is a part time one and United are still in transition, waiting patiently for the right moment to set sail on another voyage of discovery.

So, for the first time in what must now seem ages, United were reminiscent of the team who once conquered Europe, won the Champions League with an almost effortless nonchalance, a team joined and fused together rather like electrical wiring. There was a unity and collective ethos about United that some at the Streford End at Old Trafford must have forgotten all about. But victory, of course, sweetened by the flavour of local bragging rights, couldn't have come at a better time for United and Manchester City were numbed, dulled and reduced to wandering souls who had lost their way and needed some friendly guidance.

And then we realised where we were. For well over 100 years and much further back in time, Manchester City and Manchester United have locked horns with each other like feuding stags determined to inflict as much as damage on each other as possible. At Old Trafford, we saw the latest instalment of the local derby that is absolutely definitive in the eyes of those who have been watching this fiery contest for so many years. It has been football at its most argumentative, nasty at times, tasty on others, essentially confrontational, bittersweet on some occasions, heart breaking on others but so often personal that you would think they couldn't stand the sight of each other. 

When Manchester United were known as Newton Heath and Billy Meredith was scoring goals for fun at United, even then there was a pathological hatred and vicious antagonism between them that has endured for countless decades. In Victorian times, the city of Manchester was dominated by the ship canal where barges and boats of every conceivable description would glide up and down the canal sedately and the supporters of City and United would cross bridges before a football match would break out. And none of a nervous disposition would ever dare to come between them. 

City of course for their part, played at Maine Road and even kindly allowed their neighbours United to use their ground after Old Trafford had been bombed to smithereens during the Second World War. But you can imagine them, teenage boys with flat caps, neat and tight waistcoats and the colours of red, white and blue clashing on the terraces. Scarves, rattles and rosettes were still a prominent feature of football's weekly conflicts. Nobody questioned their existence for this was the working class game.

But local derbies are full of spice and rich rivalry, matches with that very distinct air of neighbourly parochialism, communities fiercely divided on the day by two football teams who were probably just a terraced home from each other. During the week they must have shared a factory floor and the metallic grind of iron and steel could probably be heard on the other side of the Pennines. But come Saturday afternoon at 3pm they were sworn enemies, ready to pick up a bayonet, flintlock and blunderbuss and fire off their footballing artillery. 

And then there was that famous Manchester derby when United's world fell apart almost tragically but without any hint of the Greek about it. In 1974, Manchester United experienced the most wretched and horrendous season since the club was first formed. For most of that season, things went from bad to worse to rock bottom. United dropped into the lower half of the old First Division and languished there like a rusting and neglected building that hadn't seen a lick of paint for at least 70 years. What followed next was a disastrous decline into the world of relegation and the old Second Division. 

On the final day of that forgettable season for United, the now late and much missed Denis Law just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. In the middle of an emotional minefield, Law was now wearing the light blue of Manchester City rather than the Red Devils shirt of United where the Scotsman had spent some of his most fabled and legendary years. It was goal- less for ages and then it happened. It was like a flash of lightning or a clap of thunder. 

City, breaking with some speed and regularity, kept pressing United back while United just flapped and staggered around like a drunken sailor at sea for whom buoyancy had now proved impossible. Law, loitering with intent on the edge of the six yard penalty area and with his back to goal, almost apologetically back heeled Manchester City's winning goal and looked totally ashamed of himself. It was never meant to happen like that but United were down and out and heading for the old Second Division.

Meanwhile, back in London and the capital city, there was another local derby and one that defies any kind of geographical understanding. Spurs have always been based in North London while West Ham are undoubtedly situated in East London. For reasons that have never really become abundantly clear, Spurs and West Ham just don't get on with each other. In fact they'd probably challenge each other to a heavyweight boxing match given half the chance. There is an almost unspoken malice and red blooded antipathy between the two of them. 

Yesterday Spurs, drifting through the season and bobbing precariously around the lower half of the Premier League, will certainly not be relegated. But after their 2-1 defeat at home to local neighbours West Ham, a vast majority of Spurs were loudly booing their team for ages before manager Thomas Frank finally emerged for the media, not exactly a broken man but wondering whether Denmark would still throw a warm homecoming reception should he be sacked any time shortly. Spurs fans have reached the end of their tether, disgusted at the team's miserable malaise and slump into the land of nowhere. 

And yet West Ham themselves are still deeply troubled, a team not only fighting for survival in the Premier League but well and truly up to their neck in the murky waters of a relegation crisis. Simply put, West Ham have been the victims of some of the shoddiest acts of mismanagement and after two quick fire changes of manager following the exit of Julen Lopetegui and Graham Potter, the East London club are looking for any light at the end of the tunnel. 

After a 10 match winless run, the Hammers are going through the mill. But at the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium yesterday afternoon, West Ham had the rub of the green and the tea leaves looked very healthy. At long last something clicked and all the attacking mechanisms were functioning. Crysencio Summerville, the Dutch winger who looked as though he'd been frozen out of the team by Mohammad Kudus, who then left for Spurs, picked up the ball after a nimble footed exchange of passes, cutting inside his defender before driving a beautifully accurate shot that beat Spurs keeper Guglielmo Vicario.

Spurs were, by their own admission, both poor and dysfunctional, huffing and puffing in the most haphazard fashion and never really looking like a goal was within their capabilities. But when captain Christian Romero equalised for Spurs, it must have felt a lifeboat had been thrown in their direction. In the 93rd minute though, an Olly Scarles corner for West Ham dropped invitingly into a bus queue of players before Callum Wilson nudged the ball over the line for a crucial winning goal for West Ham.

And yet you can still see those early days of West Ham- Spurs battles over the years. Over on the industrial docklands and tobacco warehouses of London's East End docklands, West Ham would welcome visitors to the old Upton Park. Spurs fans would jump onto a trolley bus, tram or horse drawn landau if the money was good and then traipse down the Seven Sisters Road before disembarking at White Hart Lane, seething with anticipation 

Then the newspaper sellers doing a roaring trade with the Star, Evening News and the still wonderful Standard, would hand out their final programmes, Peaky Blinders caps firmly fixed to their head.  But the London derby between Spurs and West Ham would still baffle the neutral. Spurs came into this world when a group of schoolboys would gather under street lights and discuss the fortunes of their local football team while the iron foundries were hammering out their story at West Ham.

West Ham played at the Boleyn Ground and the historical connection with royalty sounds as if dear Ann would probably have been very flattered had she known that her name would be employed in footballing circles several centuries later. Local football derbies will never lose their enduring appeal and yesterday may well have proved the point. Manchester and London were on the same territory once again and how football was so delighted to be part of the local derby scenario.

Reform UK and Robert Jenrick

 Reform UK and Robert Jenrick.

Meanwhile, back in the hallowed corridors and lobbies of Westminster and the House of Commons, rumblings of revolution, dramatic appointments and new brooms are now upon us and not for the first time. There is always something vaguely comical and hilarious about the mysterious goings on in the crazy world of British politics. At some point, we'll all be suitably enlightened about what exactly is going on but, for the time being, it is now important to carefully monitor the latest developments in case we've missed something important. 

Yesterday, it all seemed to kick off when Nigel Farage, the new hot shot and upstart in Westminster's wackiest circles, looked as if he was creating some of the loudest noises. Nobody has ever seen a man like Farage because he's about as far removed from being a conventional politician as it's possible to be. He doesn't follow the standard script, he won't be told what to say and his personal agenda would appear to be in stark contrast to both the Tories, the Labour government and the Lib Dems. 

Of course Farage has to be taken seriously because he's already a political activist in the House of Fun at Question Time. During the week,  he stands on the side of humanity, the good of the people, their vested interests, their futures, their health, happiness and education. There can be nothing wrong with that and besides there is something of the man in the pub about his demeanour, something grounded, outwardly conveying common sense and, if you think about it, he's probably right. Or maybe not depending upon your point of view. 

What happened yesterday was truly mind blowing and truly unbelievable. Former Conservative MP Robert Jenrick appeared on the same stage as Farage's newly packaged Reform UK. Now Reform UK is a bolt from the blue, an astonishing political force, a radical breakthrough movement, the shifting of the tectonic plates and political dynamite. Reform UK, or so it would seem, does what it says on the tin. They want to give Britain back in the hands of the British, the perfect medicine to cure all of Britain's ills and ailments.

At the moment though, Farage does sound like the archetypal troublemaker, a dastardly demagogue, a powerful and convincing voice but 10 Downing Street could be wishful thinking on his part. He oozes confidence, makes his points clearly and eloquently but then reverts back to the kind of conversations we've all heard a million times over and over again. He loves his country of course he does but he just wants those who aren't British to be kept at arms length. 

You'd be forgiven for thinking that Farage is a rabid racist, xenophobic, outrageously controversial, nationalistic and just a bit of an anarchist. He sits in his local boozer with the man on the street, foaming pint of Guinness in his hand, cigarette clenched between his fingers and a decent geezer into the bargain. Good old Nige. He'll lead us to the promised land. There is a rainbow on the horizon. You can see it. It's over there. 

As soon as those French, Spanish, Italian, German or those fleeing war and persecution, are sent packing and told to stay where they are, the better off we'll all be. You do know that all of the above have taken all of the jobs the Brits should have been offered years ago. Yes, it's their fault and they're the only impediment to a prosperous British economy. Farage points the most accusing finger of blame on all of the families desperate to land at Dover.

For quite a while, we've seen the well documented news images on the TV. Thousands of nationalities are floating across vast seas in flimsy boats, risking life and limb, striving with all their might to find a warm sanctuary in Britain, a safe haven for the oppressed and downtrodden. So they stumble on dry land, scampering across the sand and searching for a sympathetic shoulder, a good meal and a welcoming environment. 

But Farage is on the warpath. In one breath, he maintains that everybody should feel a sense of real belonging and integration into the British way of life is theirs for the taking. Theoretically, he has no problem with the people genuinely looking for a good job, a normal, healthy lifestyle, highly rated schools for their children and plenty of work. So here's the sticking point. According to Farage though, if they're here to just claim the substantial benefits, then they should be prevented from going through Customs and never be allowed anywhere near the United Kingdom. And yet, Farage denies these alleged remarks with a vehement insistence. If you listen to Farage you simply can't go wrong. 

Yesterday though Farage shared a platform with Robert Jenrick and it all seemed very surreal and supernatural. There is something weird and abstract in the air, politicians jumping ship, deserting the party they thought they could trust. Now at Westminster, there is an air of betrayal, grave disappointment and disenchantment, a revolt and insurrection. Jenrick was fed up with the Tories, tired of the same old soundbites, platitudes and promises of full employment in all of their future plans.

So both Farage and Jenrick smiled for the cameras, determined to rectify the country's problems, lifting at once the cumbersome weight of all its chronic troubles. Maybe we should have seen this one coming. For decades, the political landscape has been full of dirty smudges, sneaky skulduggery, mischievous whispers and malicious rumours. First it was Boris Johnson, the blond bombshell who thought he could be Prime Minister but then ended up with a global virus called Covid 19. Poor Boris this was not what he'd signed up for. Then there was the right honourable and well intentioned Theresa May.

Despite relentless damage limitation and much hard work, May just couldn't hold back the tide of savage character assassination. Then Liz Truss wrecked the finances of the UK  five minutes after her brief tenure at 10 Downing Street. The country was in ruins. So Rishi Sunak stuck some more plasters on the bleeding wound and when somebody spotted him in the director's box of Southampton football club, we knew where his famous priorities lay. But of course Sunak wanted a better way of life for all of us. Nobody, though believed him. 

And so we return to yesterday's business. The Labour government, headed up by Sir Keir Starmer, is in control but not completely if you were to believe some. And that's where Jenrick and Farage came into the equation, through the tradesman's entrance. We knew that here there was a definitive moment of groundbreaking innovation, new brooms sweeping clean. The two men explained what sounded like the first pages of Reform UK's manifesto and we all held our collective breath. It'll never happen. Nigel Farage will never be our next Prime Minister. Or could he? 

Late last night we were informed that some other delusional entrepreneur who didn't go by the name of Nigel Farage, predicted with absolute conviction that the first hotel on the Moon was seeking planning permission. The rumour was that, eventually, a stunning five star hotel with lavish restaurants, friendly reception and suitcase carrying porters would be up and running within the next five to ten years. We greeted the story with the laughable scepticism it thoroughly deserved. And then there was Nigel Farage. 

Today we will be digesting the lofty ambitions of Farage and Jenrick. We will listen to both men and will try to make sense of their far sighted thinking. There will be curiosity followed by a large helping of cynicism. Farage will continue to travel the country, spreading the gospel and banging the drum for Reform UK while Jenrick  will become the latest traitor to abandon his party and leave the Tories dumbfounded. There may have been a more fascinating time in British politics but we may have to ponder about that one for quite a while since this is beyond our comprehension. 

National Holiday and Celebrations Day.

 National Holiday and Celebrations Day.

Are we still hungover after the festive frivolities? Did we really eat and drink far too much that was bad for us in the first place? Now, the chances are that all of us have made a full recovery from the excesses and vast consumption of food and drink. Christmas really does take everything out of us or perhaps you enjoy seeing the family and wish you could do Christmas 365 days of the year. But there can only be one specific period where party games are acceptable and nothing else seems to matter. 

And yet today is National Holiday and Celebrations Day and TV is convinced it's 86 in the sweltering heat outside and you should have packed your suitcases by now. Besides, the upper and middle classes are already on the skiing slope dressed appropriately in boiler suits and this is definitely appealing. But here we are in the middle of January and people are still half way around the world on the cruise of a lifetime and in the Seychelles, they're lying back in their hammocks surrounded by stunningly colourful hibiscus, wonderful eucalyptus and the gorgeous scent of jasmine.

Summer holidays seemed to belong to a completely different planet and country. Spring seems a lifetime away and the trees look bare and forlorn. The green foliage of the trees now feels as though it may never return anytime shortly. Once again the British weather was at its most predictable but then again this was never different. It rained heavily last night but then again who cares? The street lights remind you of a local theatre but without the curtains. Everything is thrown into sharp relief. It's dark at half past four in the afternoon, runners racing past you at full pelt and they just look like dark shadows. 

Yesterday afternoon all of us would have quite happily jumped onto plane to an exotic island in the Far East and just spent the rest of the winter drinking coconut water, bathing in turquoise coloured Indian ocean seas and just relaxing in some luxury and comfort. Politicians are just oblivious to the economic problems in Britain and Prime Minister Sir Keir Starmer is just the most shocking PM Britain has ever known. What's the point in politics or politicians? You'd be well advised to head straight to your local high street travel agency or book a vacation online. 

TV advertisements come in all shades of pastel. You either love or loathe them. They've been around now for so many decades that you'd be forgiven for thinking that there wasn't a time when they weren't there. But here in the middle of winter and there they are, like an old friend in the corner of your TV screen. They're smiling at you, laughing and joking at you, jumping into hotel pools and dancing in their summery swimming trunks. But, hold on, these are the commercials that are supposed to be good for you. 

Commercials on the TV are supposed to be the ultimate morale booster, lifting of spirits, restoring the feelgood factor, making you feel as if you too could be experiencing this release from the workaday toil and drudgery of the modern world. There go the family with toothpaste smiles, full of unbridled happiness and enjoyment. Dad is wearing a bathing ring, mum is closely following behind dad and the kids are way ahead and about to leap into the hotel pool. They then declare that they're on the beach which is factually incorrect because the beach is probably five miles away.

During the winter in Britain, there were TV programmes called the Holiday programme or Wish You Were Here introduced by Judith Chalmers and Chris Kelly. They were brilliant pieces of telly because their sales pitches were so persuasive that you had no hesitation in booking your summer holiday immediately. Judith Chalmers always looked bronzed and well tanned and, at the time, Majorca, Benidorm and Lloret Del Mar sounded like a Spanish paradise to the British tourist. 

So it was that my late and wonderful mum would be ready and poised for action. By this time over 50 years ago, she would invariably be down at the local travel agents in Ilford, Essex and scanning the delights of the Iberian peninsula. She'd bring home all of those glossy brochures and, without fail, always have something special lined up for her family. 

At the time there was Thompson's holiday, Cosmos or some colour supplement holiday book replete with half built hotels and cement mixers in front of you. Then we'd stare in some astonishment. On every page, there was the standard photograph of hundreds of hotels with seemingly endless balconies, a less than flattering image of the swimming pool but, then again, it did look good to you. After a while, you began to wish that your mum would make the choice as soon as possible. This really was exciting. 

So we flicked through this golden document and we marvelled at the grandeur and size of these glorious retreats and knew that, sooner or later, June wouldn't be that far away. But to a schoolchild, it was hard to escape the feeling that six months down the line you too would be taking off on a plane. Then, you'd realise that the kids in your class at school probably went with their family on caravan holidays or camping in the country, quite possibly a week in Clacton, Great Yarmouth, Blackpool or Brighton. 

You were aware, quite quickly, that there was a travesty of justice here. Quite possibly, you were the only kid in your class going to Spain for 10 days. Now at the time it may not have occurred to you fully because none of the children of my age felt deprived. For they, too, were about to go on holiday with their parents and that had to be regarded as the greatest adventure as well. 

But with swimming trunks by the ready, plenty of T-shirts and shorts packed, off you went. For a reason that none of us questioned at home, mum would always pick a 10 day holiday. It was always 10 days and that was always sufficient. She would peruse the list of days and prices and somehow that same figure would always register vividly in her mind. It was by far the cheapest bargain on offer and far more affordable than a fortnight in Fiji which, of course, would be astronomical. 

To this present day, people need to look forward to a summer holiday because January is the middle of winter and June represents summer and warmer weather. The contrast could not be greater. So it is that we celebrate National Holiday and Celebrations Day. We should always cherish carnival days, festival days, families licking ice cream with natty hats, kids chasing each other with complete impunity and without any inhibitions at all. 

Regrettably though, come April the 23rd this year we'll probably forget about this day of all days. It is quite the most momentous day and should be celebrated as such but never as much as it should be. It is St George's Day, the most obvious excuse to allow patriotism to seep into our soul. But on Shakespeare's birthday, there is a sense that the day is just like any other so we close the curtains, nip out to the pub for a quiet pint and acknowledge nothing in particular before just going about our business as usual. 

But hold on everybody. It is admittedly January and the beginning of the year and there is no real incentive to go sailing on a yacht, going on safari in Kenya or just soaking up the sun. Still, we can pretend that we are indeed on the beach provided we close our eyes and imagine that we are. We can all find time to dream about the sand, sea and gallons of sangrias. We can drink cocktails by the bar because that's what you do on holiday and travelling does broaden our horizons.

So pick up those Crocs and Flip Flops and don't forget the bottles of Sun Factor 45 because that's essential. Over 50 years ago, as a kid, you felt an obligation to just sit in the sweltering heat all day long. In hindsight, you should never have been quite as foolish as you were back then, but, at the time, we were just blissfully happy to be abroad. We'd be warned of the consequences of spending too long in the sun and, of course, you felt the soreness, the excessive red burn marks all over your body. How foolish.

That evening was devoted to smothering myself with Calamine cream which soothed the agonising pain on your chest, legs, arms and backs. You were completely burnt and the discomfort lasted for days. Still, your holiday had unfolded in front of you and there was always that magical pinball machine. As a kid you'd never seen anything like it. Here you were in the middle of Spain, watching both adults and children enthusiastically watching  that silverball bouncing off lights and numbers on a machine that rewarded with you another go if you'd accumulated 370,000 points. 

So there you have it folks. We're into the third week in January and it's time to think about celebrations and holidays as if they were always there in the background. Wherever we are in the world, it's the same procedure. You gather by the water cooler in your office or the drinks and snacks machine at school or college and the discussion is the same. They're off to India, the Maldives, Nigeria and South Africa before stopping off at the Ivory Coast for a week or two. Such talk, 50 years ago, would have been happily fobbed off as some ludicrous piece of wishful thinking. But over a quarter of a century into the new century and the world could hardly be a more different place. If you're drinking a pina colada in some far away land on the other side of the world, enjoy folks. Have a great time everybody. 

Aston Villa knock out Spurs in the FA Cup third round.

 Aston Villa knock out Spurs from the FA Cup third round and Macclesfield are giant killers. 

Wow! This may be the time for a sharp intake of breath. The FA Cup third round is rather like some old fashioned cabaret show, a burlesque that draws rapturous applause from its audience but then rubs its eyes with bewilderment. Saturday afternoons were designed to keep football supporters on the edge of their seats. Yesterday they were biting on their fingernails while delivering a steady supply of intrigue, pathos and bathos, the kind of mystery and mystique that never fails to be anything less than enchanting. 

Last night at the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium, Spurs were once again shooting themselves in the foot, trundling awkwardly, painfully and ultimately out of the exit door of the FA Cup. This was not Tottenham's evening and for some of the more hardened Spurs fans this was rather like watching the same cowboy film over and over again. You almost expected a whole cavalry of horses to charge stampeding through the Wild West saloon doors and just firing bullets from guns that were clearly not loaded. 

From the kick off, Spurs were on the back foot, the home team but only in name since Aston Villa simply played Tottenham off the park quite literally at times. This has been one horrendous season for Thomas Frank's team so far. They will certainly not be relegated but, at the moment, are just treading water and going nowhere fast. Next weekend Spurs play their most loathed London rivals West Ham at home and this will not be a game for those of a nervous disposition. There are gloating derby rights at stake but, for both, this should be an opportune moment to hide behind the sofa. 

By the end of a ludicrously one sided match during the first half, Villa were just taunting and spinning around white Tottenham shirts rather like that silver ball on a pinball machine that just leaves you breathless and disbelieving. Under Villa boss Unai Emery, Aston Villa have grown into the season and now find themselves playing the most breath taking football ever seen at Villa Park. After a sluggish start to the season, Villa are a side liberated, independent, carefree, boastful and brazen, moving the ball around with an almost joyous abandon, neat, short passing that has been nothing short of invigorating.

During the first half,  Aston Villa were quite literally running rings around the Spurs defence rather like a fairground carousel that just keeps getting faster and faster. There is the sweetest fluency about some of Villa's football that reminds you of the Ron Saunders years. Admittedly, Saunders was the strictest of disciplinarians and there was still something of the military sergeant major in his managerial approach. But the likes of Tony Morley, Gordon Cowans, Denis Mortimer and Gary Shaw still prospered with easy going, pleasant, sedate and measured football that often had a mind of its own. 

But this is the Villa of the 2026 class. Villa's League championship winning year of 1981 may sound like medieval history but the victorious European Cup winning year the following year may have been mentioned by somebody at Villa. If this was the case then no more motivation was needed for Aston Villa since their 2-1 FA Cup third round victory was a masterclass. For Villa, an FA Cup Final victory at Wembley may come as blessed relief since the last time Villa won the Cup, Eddie Cochran was at the height of his career and Bill Hayley and the Comets were rocking around the clock. 

The FA Cup does like to leave us hanging in suspense at times but for Villa, this game was all but over by half time. Aston Villa scored two of the most sensational and sumptuous goals seen on any British football ground for quite a while. They were both the result of passing of the most spectacular order, passes coated with the most gleaming emulsion paint and passes that had the finest texture and breeding about them. For years English football has been crying out for the kind of football that Villa produced last night against Spurs. It had simplicity, purity and an idealistic romance to it. 

From Ezri Konsa to Pau Torres always searching, foraging and linking to delicious effect, Villa were simply weaving in and out of Spurs shirts rather like a spider hard at work with its web. In the middle of the park, the stunning playmaking talents of Youri Tielemans consistently opened up the home side rather like a child tearing apart the wrapping paper on Christmas Day.  Matty Cash and Ian Maatsen were piercing holes in the Spurs defence with the most beautiful flourishes while John McCginn continues to give the impression that he may be the best and most effective player Scottish football has given us for many years. 

McCguinn carries the ball into the opponents half with a style and panache that is so rare in the Grampians that even the most optimistic Scottish supporter must be dreaming of success in this World Cup year. McCguinn is full of passion and purpose, vision and perception, seeing things in front of him that lesser players would find impossible to fathom. Yesterday evening, McCguinn and the superb Morgan Rogers were making their respective cases for World Cup inclusion.

Villa's opening goal had an air of inevitability about it. Spurs were like startled rabbits in the headlights so great was Villa's attacking superiority. A four man pincer movement from Aston Villa sliced open the tattered remnants of a dwindling Spurs defence. Through Lamare Malen, John McGinn and finally Emiliano Buendia, Spurs were turned inside out and left gasping at oxygen. The passes were quickfire and spontaneous, as if somebody had just flicked a switch before Buendia drove home the goal for Villa.

For at least an hour, Villa just sent out a veritable Morse Code of passes along the ground that had Tottenham speechless and dumbfounded. Then in the second half, Villa relaxed their hold on the game and the balance began to tilt in the home side's favour. There was a noticeable sea change and Spurs began to find their players and feet with a gratifying accuracy. It was another optical illusion though and the home side were well and truly beaten at the final whistle. 

Now it was that cultured midfielder Joao Palhinha, still capable of floating through games like the vastly experienced that he is, was joined by Archie Gray, one for Spurs future, Micky Van De Ven, neat and classy. Then there was Ben Davies who always looked good on the ball and perpetual in motion. Kevin Danso and Mathys Tel were doing their collective utmost to drag Spurs back into the match but by now Villa were digging in obstinately and refusing to be beaten to the first ball. 

Then the same combination of Rogers, Malen and Buendia found Morgan Rogers twisting around the Spurs penalty area like candy floss at the seaside. Rogers found space for himself and slammed the ball low past a helpless Spurs keeper. That, you might have thought, was definitely that. But then Spurs launched an impressive comeback in the second half. When Xavi Simons drilled the ball wide of the Villa keeper and into the net, Spurs looked to be clinging onto unexpected lifelines but the moment had already passed. Villa hung on grimly for their victory and a place in the fourth round of the FA Cup. 

So it's Aston Villa who progress to the next round of the FA Cup. Spurs may just have to console themselves with now distant memories of their 1991 FA Cup Final Wembley triumph against Brian Clough's Nottingham Forest. It may not be much but somewhere in there is an excellent team struggling to get out. How Spurs miss the likes of somebody like the late and great Martin Chivers. Big Chiv would have known the route to goal but Spurs will find their stylish rhythm again. But Thomas Frank's men may have to go back to the drawing board. 

FA Cup third round day

 FA Cup third round day.

Throughout the ages, the FA Cup has stamped its authority on football's consciousness. In the first or second week of January, the New Year's resolutions have once again come down with the Christmas tree and all that lies ahead is one superlative sequence of FA Cup giant killers, shocks, surprises and revelations. It is the most democratic, inclusive, non judgmental, completely unbiased Cup competition in the world. There are no impostors, no intruders and everybody is welcome with an open heart. 

For well over 100 years now and counting, the FA Cup is a level playing field, free of prejudice and pomposity, no airs or graces, simply equality and the ridiculously unexpected. In a sense it is the one afternoon of the football calendar where nobody turns up their nose at those who earn their living at the grassroots, the amateur spirit, the lower classes, the teams who play for the sheer fun and joy of playing the Beautiful Game. 

There will be none of the presumptions and assumptions from those who believe the FA Cup should only be designed for the likes of Arsenal, Manchester City, Aston Villa, Spurs and Chelsea. Oh no, not the FA Cup. For they have no divine right to climbing the steps at Wembley Stadium in May to collect the FA Cup. We believe the FA Cup means much more than entitlement and hierarchy where only the rich and pampered should always win the FA Cup.

The trouble is of course that we know and you know that the FA Cup should be for everybody, not some class obsessed object where the Davids of the footballing world should be brushed under the carpet and dismissed out of hand. Goliath is out there waiting for them, a mammoth presence, a much stronger and more powerful force that has to be taken seriously. For this is the FA Cup, the real thing, a thing of stirring authenticity, blood, sweat and tears, heroes and villains, impish wingers who dominate the Monday back page headlines. 

Of course the FA Cup is the most romantic liaison of them all, an intimate, candle lit rendezvous in a quiet restaurant where the main menu consists of non League pretenders. It is a moment of time when those obscure butchers, bakers and greengrocers come face to face with the strutting peacocks of the Premier League. In theory, the third round of the FA Cup should represent their only opportunity of being genuine contenders, the glory boys in the big time spotlight. But this is never the case.

The harsh reality is altogether more stark. For instance Boreham will meet Burton in the clash of two teams with no FA Cup pedigree. Boreham Wood and Burton play their football in the backwaters of football's distant wilderness, a place where pretty parks live side by side with boating lakes and summery tennis courts. This is the one location where nobody disturbs the serenity of an idyllic day in June or July. But life has always been idyllic so nobody really cared. What a day and what a fantastic spectacle. 

And so relegation haunted Premier Leaguers Wolves meet Shrewsbury, the only team who employ a fisherman to throw a ball back into their ground whenever it lands in a placid river. You would expect Wolves to book their place in the Cup's fourth round but there are no certainties in this competition because the FA Cup is so teasingly flirtatious and loves to play with our emotions. Shrewsbury once knocked Manchester City out of the FA Cup but that was a thousand years ago although that's a gross exaggeration. 

At Pride Park there is a rerun of that explosive old First Division clash between Derby County and Leeds United. Some of us will remember with, mild amusement, the fisticuffs punch up between Derby's Francis Lee and Leeds Norman Hunter. In hindsight, it seemed like some acrimonious scuffle in the school bike sheds but at the time it just felt relevant to the times. Derby are in the Championship at the moment, the old second tier and Leeds are back in the big time of top flight Premier League. Both teams have been through the mill in recent seasons, bouncing up and down the Leagues and yo yo fluctuations.

Tomorrow, Manchester United who have mopped up all of the biggest trophies that football has offered up and were once almost unbeatable at times, face Brighton. Here's an FA Cup coincidence. This is the 1983 FA Cup Final and poor Gordon Smith, Brighton's plucky and spirited striker, must have nightmares about that last gasp, last minute missed open goal that would almost certainly have brought the FA Cup to the old Goldstone Ground. Manchester United keeper Gary Bailey must have thought it was his birthday. 

At St James Park, Newcastle will be setting out on that traditional FA Cup journey, hoping it'll culminate in their first FA Cup winning trophy for the first time in over 70 years. Last season, the Magpies and Toon finally broke their hoodoo when they collected the League Cup( the Carabao Cup) against Liverpool who would go on to win the Premier League quite convincingly. Newcastle face Bournemouth in the FA Cup third round and it's hard to know which Newcastle will turn up on the day. This could go the wire, so fiercely contested that both teams will require nerves of steel. 

Meanwhile at the Etihad Stadium, once four times Premier League winners in quick succession Manchester City will lock horns with Exeter City. Now in the grander scheme of things, United, on any given day, should trample all over Exeter and score a lorry load against the Grecians. But for Manchester United, their world has been turned upside down. Reuben Amorim, United's boss was sacked by a United board who will not tolerate anything less than perfection and, ideally, the FA Cup every year. Storms and tempests are raging through Old Trafford and the natives are restless. For Exeter  this should be a tasty bone given the adverse circumstances but United should make FA Cup progress.

On the South Coast, Portsmouth, who won the FA Cup in 2008 by beating Cardiff City in the most improbable FA Cup Final of all, find themselves in the mix against runaway Premier League leaders and, quite possibly, Champions elect Arsenal at Fratton Park. They'll be ringing the Pompey chimes with firm conviction and Fratton Park will be summoning old sea shanties to delight the ear.  Arsenal of course will not be intimidated at all since they know exactly how to handle these juicy Cup ties.   

In the Midlands. Stoke and Coventry will be battling out a spicy confrontation and local bragging rights. In London, Chelsea, who are now under the managerial leadership of Liam Rosenior, a seeming novice in the fiery furnace of the Premier League. Rosenior will be hoping that Chelsea will remember recent FA Cup winning trophies and that classic FA Cup Final against Leeds 56 years ago. Then the foundations of Old Trafford trembled to the thunderous sound of Billy Bremner and Ron 'Chopper Harris' boots. Chelsea face Charlton Athletic who once graced the old Wembley twin towers just after the Second World War.

Spurs, who will be hungry for FA Cup redemption after 45 fallow years, take on high flying Aston Villa who would love nothing better to get to a Wembley Cup Final and actually win it  for a change. At the moment, Villa are unstoppable, in rousing form and challenging for honours on both the domestic and European front. This one could go either way and somebody is bound to leave the exit door of the FA Cup.

At Everton's new plush Hill Dickinson Stadium, expectations will be high again. It's been quite a while for the Toffees since the FA Cup sat proudly in their trophy cabinet. After some shaky and nervous seasons, Everton have re-discovered their Messiah again. David Moyes, for whom West Ham fans will be probably wishing he'd stayed at the London Stadium, is back at Everton. This time Sunderland are the visitors to the Hill Dickinson and this is a mouth watering prospect because this one sounds like a feast for the eyes and senses. Sunderland, promoted to the Premier League, have reached the giddy heights of brilliance and should fancy their chances and the temperature is rising. There is a feeling that the thermometer should soar dramatically. 

So wherever you go this weekend on your FA Cup travels, it should be pointed out that the FA Cup third round is still a palatable dish best served both cold and hot. The FA Cup has never left the building. It's still there, always pleased to see us even though it may have been criticised quite savagely at times. It may never go away because its presence has spanned so many generations. Last year, Crystal Palace discovered for the first time, that the FA Cup Final is the ultimate celebration. Long may it reign.     

Martin Chivers dies at 80

 Martin Chivers dies at 80

The death of Spurs legend Martin Chivers at 80, reminds us once again of a golden generation of footballers who never put a foot wrong quite literally. Chivers simply never broke football's moral code of conduct and behaved with  an exemplary politeness and kindness towards those who were struggling to make their way in the game. In several words, he was one of Spurs greatest strikers and, rather like his Spurs predecessor up front Jimmy Greaves, Chivers could scare the life out of terrified, trembling and trepidatious defenders.

There was something of the nobleman about Chivers that somehow smacked of good, old fashioned chivalry from another age. There was nothing false or conceited about Martin Chivers because Big Chiv, as he was affectionately known, always knew where the goal was and his very stature in the game was there to be admired. Chivers had presence, style and sheer class on all occasions. He was as tall and imposing as a lighthouse, towering over his Spurs colleagues with the air of a lieutenant colonel in the military and yet he was very much a team man, an integral cog in the Spurs machinery. 

Football loves to honour its finest ambassadors, acutely aware though of its fragility and vulnerability when one of its veterans passes away and the history books tell their own story. Martin Chivers, bought to Spurs by one of their most highly esteemed managers, Bill Nicholson, took a while to settle into the groove but once released into the concrete jungle of the old First Division, Chivers became the master of his craft. 

Signed from Southampton whose manager Ted Bates must have deeply regretted his decision to let Chivers go to Spurs, Chivers soon established himself as an awkward, menacing, baleful, lethal striker or centre forward as they used to be called. He began to score goals in huge quantities for Spurs and was so prolific that opposing defenders must have been shivering with fear every time they came up against him. 

Chivers had all the necessary qualities to fit the striker stereotype. He had a broad shouldered but controlled aggression, a muscular physicality that was commendable and then developed a reputation for goal scoring that was quite astonishing. His heading, aerial ability was second to none, flawless in its execution and refined to perfection over the years. Big Chiv had a strength, formidable power and a complete mastery over defenders who dared to tread near him. 

Spurs were never genuine contenders for the old First Division League Championship but Chivers was fearless, courageous as they came, rising for crosses like the proverbial salmon and sending headed bullets that bulged the back of the net in no time at all. The centres  from Jimmy Neighbour or Cyril Knowles on a marauding overlap from his customary full back position, came in the most abundant supply and Chivers ruled the roost at White Hart Lane.

In two consecutive years, Spurs won two consecutive League Cup Final winning two consecutive medals at Wembley against both Aston Villa and Norwich. In 1971, Chivers was imperative to Spurs UEFA Cup Final victory against Wolves but that was very much the sum total of his achievements. Alongside the graceful Martin Peters, the permanently authoritative Ralph Coates and the ever effervescent Steve Perryman, Chivers also found a kindred spirit in the delightful Alan Gilzean, a gliding cruiser of an attacker who knew instinctively what was going through Chivers mind. 

And then England honours arrived for the man from Southampton. Chivers was always a persistent nuisance up front when Sir Alf Ramsey needed somebody he could rely on to ruffle feathers. The Spurs striker featured crucially in vital World Cup matches. But the one game that came to haunt him was probably the 1973 World Cup qualifier where England unravelled like a ball of cotton wool. The visitors to Wembley that fateful night were Poland and Chivers just happened to find himself in the line of fire. 

Both Tony Currie, Mick Channon, Alan Clarke laboured desperately to find the goal that would have sent England to the World Cup Finals of 1974 which would be hosted by West Germany. The kitchen sink and various canteens of cutlery were thrown at Poland that now distant October evening. But they were never going to be enough to break down the obstinacy and stern intransigence of a Polish defence that refused to buckle and Chivers simply accepted his fate with a dignified graciousness that was most typical and becoming of the man. 

When Chivers left Spurs to join Swiss club FC Servette, he was very much the elder statesman but still as fresh and young at heart as would always be the case. He would presumably learn French and spoke with an eloquence that would endear him to both his team mates and the club. Now into his late 30s, Chivers would retire and embark on the familiar after dinner circuit like a man born to it. He was charitable to a number of good causes and immensely likeable, admired and highly regarded by everybody and just oozing the kind of modesty and humility that was always in evidence. 

And so it is that we bid fond farewell to a man who belonged to a time when football's entertainment value could never be questioned. Martin Chivers will always have a place in the hearts of all of those critical but discerning Spurs supporters who paid good money to see this gentle giant. Martin Chivers we salute your memory and the old White Hart Lane will never forget you. Thankyou sir. 

Luke Littler retains darts wold title.

 Luke Littler retains darts world title.

There used to be a time when darts held all the appeal of a council meeting in a local town hall or the dullest political discussion you were ever likely to hear. It had all the excitement and mystique of beige wallpaper or an afternoon spent asking the late and great comedian Tony Hancock about ways of relieving the tedium of a Sunday lunch. Poor Sid James. He had no idea. So James went back to reading the News of the World and Hancock just sighed with an anguished cry, misunderstood and always at war with the world.

So there they were gathered last night at Alexander Palace for the PDC darts world championship final and a young gentleman named Luke Littler retained his world darts title. Now, in the bigger scheme of things, that may have mattered to nobody in particular. You see darts has developed something of a reputation over the decades, a notoriety that may be totally undeserving and a foul stigma which, to the experts and pundits, belongs on both TV and in some ancient low timber beamed pub in the country.

Here they love their darts, treasure and nurture it as if it were its child or baby, a precious offspring that needs constant tender loving care. And so it was Luke Littler, barely out of his teens and still wearing the air of a young child rummaging around the toy shop, who triumphed yet again. There are so many misconceptions about the world of darts that it may be best not to go into any kind of detailed analysis about it. It's a sign of a mis-spent youth, a guilty pleasure, a relaxing pub game but about as sporting and physically demanding as dominoes or shove ha'penny. Or so some might say. 

And yet the evidence is there for all to see. Darts is big business, the sport of millionaires, financially rewarding and a decent spectacle there to be appreciated by a captive and enthusiastic audience. Darts is highly prestigious and last night we discovered why. By the end of the evening, Luke Littler was a millionaire and didn't they know it? The cynics were devouring their peanuts and drinking their copious jugs of lager as if it were going out of business. They recognised the magnitude of Littler's achievement even though the sceptics were less than convinced. 

According to some, darts is just degrading to the naked eye, a hideous sight for sore eyes, designed only to entertain the kind of people who spend some nights in the pub joking and laughing light heartedly about those wretched politicians who keep messing up the economy. So for years and decades we've found ourselves caught up in the current saloon conversation and dismissing darts as an enjoyable hobby but no more than that. 

It must have been over 50 years ago that darts was viewed an astonishingly popular attraction. Every Saturday afternoon London Weekend Television's sports programme World of Sport prominently featured a major darts championship at tea time. The late and great Dickie Davies, that charming TV personality who used to be a cruise ship entertainer, would sit at his desk trying desperately to stifle his laughter. There was a sense that Davies may have been just very diplomatic and simply keeping his thoughts to himself.  

And then it happened. It was over to Alexander Palace in North London or the Purfleet Leisure Centre in leafy and bucolic Essex. For this was the regular venue for everything associated with darts. It was a vast hall surrounded by boisterous, roistering men who cheered from the rafters every time a dart was thrown at a board. The rafters were shaking and the foundations trembling. Darts had class, social status, an earnest and business like air about it. It was now very important and had to be respected. 

But above all there was the booze, the obsessive alcohol intake at times, much to the detriment of your health but who cared? Out in the audience there were innumerable tables groaning with vast quantities of Guinness, Heineken, Fosters and, in the old days, Mackeson. But darts was up and running, hitting the ground by doing so. It was full speed, full pelt, in your eyes, pumped up adrenaline, cigarette smoke curling into the air rather like incense or some mysterious ceremony, the best thing since sliced bread. 

No longer now would darts would be regarded with a dismissive and contemptuous shrug of the shoulders, a snooty raising of the eye balls, the look of some appalled government official who had just seen the vile misdemeanours of a hardened criminal. How dare they inflict darts on the public? This is an affront to the intelligence of those who can see no point in it. It was deeply offensive, loud, somehow common and a vulgar pastime. But let's hold back for a minute. It is a hugely impressive sport which has the capacity to make vast amounts of money so it had to be admired. 

Back in the 1970s darts had the charismatic Eric Bristow, the formidable Scot Jocky Wilson, the bubbly Bobby George and a whole gallery of the great and good. Whole days would be dedicated to the pursuit of throwing tungsten darts or arrows, as they're now referred to, at a black and red board. Both Bristow and Wilson were the heaviest of smokers and drank life fish as became readily apparent. After a series of games both men would find themselves required to score that elusive 180 for the umpteenth time. Darts failed to have the desired impact on your senses. But darts just kept building its fanbase.

But then we reserved judgment on darts because we were never entirely sure why or how this pub based activity had caught our imagination. What could be so gripping about a game that needed no physical exertion whatsoever and left you numb and underwhelmed? Last night, Luke Littler, who learnt his trade in St Helens where our lovely son and daughter in law and stunning grandchildren used to live, emerged, at the end of his PDC world title final with the Dutchman Gian van Geen, victorious. 

The applause for Littler's world title winning moment could be heard in the Cotswolds. Littler wore his silk shirt with inordinate pride and bunched his fists together as if he'd just won the Lottery once again. He grinned for what seemed like an age and the enraptured fans at Ally Pally just exploded. The score was 7-1 to Littler but this seemed insignificant because  a win was a win for Littler and, besides, for a teenager, this was just fairy tale territory.

For Littler's family, this was the crowning moment of glory for their precious son. Not only was he a world champion once but he'd done it again so let's hear it for Luke Littler, the boy from Warrington, the kid who none of us had reckoned with because he was just a young adult and therefore perhaps underage. Littler should have been at university studying for an English, Maths or History Degree or dealing on the City trading floor, a man with stocks and shares in everything. He should have been a lawyer or professor, mathematician or some aspirational Etonian student. Darts was simply unacceptable, revolting and distasteful. And yet Littler is a millionaire again and he had the last word. Luke Littler is world darts champion. Now that sounds good, doesn't it? Nobody can possibly argue with him on that point. Well done Luke.