The Vigil on Trafalgar Square.

 The Vigil on Trafalgar Square.

We stood there, united in one common cause. We were there because we had to be on this one very important occasion, an event of almost vital significance. We were surrounded by history and tradition, the heartbeat of London's West End, a specific location that had something momentous about it and filled with poignancy. Wherever you looked, there were hundreds and thousands of people hoping against hope, praying privately because most of us had trodden this road repeatedly without anything that could have restored our faith in the human race. But we knew we had our families and that was reassuring and wonderful.

For as long as any of us can remember, Trafalgar Square has been the official residence of  nosy, inquisitive pigeons, trotting around earnestly, desperately searching for bird seeds from obliging members of the public. The whole area became a breakfast, lunch or teatime for our much loved feathered friends. They were persistent, always hungry, perched almost precariously on our shoulders, fluttering around children because the kids loved the pigeons and their loving parents felt under obligation to feed them. 

But on Sunday afternoon, Trafalgar Square played host to one of the most emotional days in our lives. We were here to recognise the barbaric brutality of war, the senseless murder of innocent civilians who just wanted to live their life in the most dignified fashion. We were here because we needed time to take stock, recovering from a trauma we had never personally experienced but with whom a common connection had just been achieved. 

It was a vigil for Israel, the land of milk and honey, a country cruelly tormented and tortured by war, death, suffering, broken and bereft, and today we will settle down in synagogue(shul) for another meeting of like minded souls. Today is the beginning of Sukkot for the Jewish families of our world, a vast community of men, women, children and extended networks of brothers, sisters, cousins, uncles, aunties, husbands and wives, girl and boyfriends just praying for a peaceful, happy and healthy New Year. 

Two years ago to this day, youngsters travelling from the Nova music festival were ruthlessly killed, shot down in cold blood and, then, horrifically racked with grief and desolation, condemned to die because they were the persecuted and downtrodden ones. They were hated and despised, marginalised by monstrous terrorists whose only objective was to wipe out the Jewish race. Hamas were completely focused on total annihilation before leaving a gruesome legacy of chaos and devastation in their trail quite unashamedly. Sukkot is the festival of fruit and the shaking of the lulav and etrog lemon, the distinctive symbolic act of the day. 

And yet over the weekend we were reminded of who we are, the way we've always been and would choose to live our lives. Trafalgar Square was the place where once we wrote heartfelt messages on the ground, an exhibition of pavement art we would remember in perpetuity. And fittingly, as we gazed out over the iconic fountains and the commanding Nelson's Column, there was something very touching and moving about it all,  that indefinable air of solidarity, defiance and dedication. We were single minded in our pursuit of the perfect world, a world without arms and ammunition and full of love and truth, honesty and permanent friendships.

We couldn't help but notice the new extension to the National Gallery in pristine new stone. There were the striking buildings that have been there for as long as any of us can remember. These were the vast edifices that housed the official business of the day, homages to commerce and finance in equal measure. Then there were the art installations back in Trafalgar Square, crowds of individuals with stunning blue and white Israeli flags, celebrating freedom, the ultimate release from captivity. We belonged, we had conquered, we had won this battle or we'd like to think we had. We are almost there and shortly, we will embrace each other with even greater fervour. 

We considered everything in a much sober perspective than might otherwise have been the case. We acknowledged that all around us was the common consensus, the vast majority of the Jewish population who just felt as if they wanted to be heard around the globe rather than the heart of the West End of London. Opposite us was the main stage where speeches from dignitaries boomed out resoundingly. There was the aching plea for disarmament, the plaintive pleas for the downing of guns, bombs, the lethal shriek of bullets to end once and for all and the end of those destructive, thunderous explosions. No more did we want to hear about the demolition of shops, cafes, restaurants, the livelihood of precious families, where their raison d'etre, their existence, their gift of life is still uppermost in all our minds.

And then you noticed those modern red Route Master buses trundling around Trafalgar Square, stopping and starting almost hesitantly before moving off at the nearest set of traffic lights. Presumably there were the tourists from all points of the world compass, Jewish friends and families hugging each other with the most touching tenderness, a set of emotions whose body language could be seen from miles away. They were just delighted to be in each other's company because they knew that this was the perfect opportunity to re-kindle relationships that would never be allowed to wither away. 

Finally, there were the life affirming, soulful, heartwarming singing, chanting, spine tingling choirs of melodious, age old Israel songs, Hatikvah, the Israel national anthem sung with whole hearted, full throated and lusty sincerity. There was a feeling that could never be felt by anybody else since this was our moment to be among each other, sharing humorous tales of childhood perhaps, the weekend's football results or the latest Smart Phone on the market, possibly the latest and most sleek of all cars. 

Maybe the Jewish population just wanted an end to all war, no more tears shed because loved ones and hostages were still being held against their will. We wanted all Israeli hostages to be released now and not tomorrow or the day after that day since Hamas were just being annoyingly stubborn. But our hostages are about to released, the ones we'll have parties with, bar mitzvahs and bat mitzvahs, weddings of course and the most ecstatic celebrations. We will be back among our closest relations, kith and kin, next to us, on our side, sticking up for us loyally and never to be worried about or agitated because you hadn't seen them for ages. We can feel it in our bones, peace and reconciliation, goodwill and good times. Trafalgar Square, thankyou so much. What joy to be Jewish and life L'chayam to you all.  

Yom Kippur outrage.

 Yom Kippur outrage.

We prayed and yet we were speechless and dumbfounded. We were shocked and outraged but somehow we knew it would happen. We were haunted by history but knew, in our heart of hearts, that the threat was both real and ever present. These are horrifically recurring themes. My wonderful Jewish religion was once again under attack, quite possibly the victim of circumstances but then we shook and trembled, open mouthed with horror because we have been before, visiting that same nightmare. It hit us in the face with a ferocity we could barely believe and then we grieved, shuddering and shaking, distraught and crestfallen. 

It was supposed to be a Yom Kippur rather like any Yom Kippur. In 1967, the Yom Kippur War in the Middle East brought everything to a frightening, grinding halt and the Israeli military infrastructure was attacked. But it failed to destroy the country's impregnable morale. Now though it found itself in yet another traumatic conflict. Yesterday, our worst fears were realised and  the despicable forces of terrorism  had reared their ugly head yet again. 

For yesterday was Yom Kippur and as the congregation gathered at Finchley Reform Synagogue, we heard and saw events unfolding in all their shameful, grotesque, painful ugliness. During yesterday morning, on one of the holiest days of the Jewish calendar, the Heaton Park Synagogue(shul) in Manchester came under fire by a murderous terrorist whose intentions became patently obvious. He was targeting the vast Jewish community, a cohesive, tightly knit and spiritual people who love to be Jewish and were there in defiance, meeting and greeting loved ones and about to observe the 25 hour Fast. 

There were families, friends, children, teenagers and adolescents, huddling together in a stunned silence and wondering where to go next and not really knowing how they could register this disgraceful violation, man's inhumanity to man, woman and much more. They fell into each other's arms, wrapped their arms comfortingly around each other and didn't know what to do. So there was a sharp intake of breath, an abundance of tears and sorrow, before we abandoned ourselves to complete mourning, a sense of mortification that none could put into words. 

For the whole of yesterday evening, when Jews around the world emerged from dusk, there was a genuine air of darkness and heartfelt solemnity which left many of us feeling crushed, emotionally traumatised, severely punched in the ribs. Initially we wandered around the Saracens rugby union club in North London, relieved and pleased to see each other and then devoured huge piles of honey cake. But then it all became excruciatingly unbearable. We were all informed of the ghastly developments that had taken place in Manchester and we buried our heads in our heads. Privately, we must have suspected but never thought for a minute, that the evil monsters who perpetrated this horrendous act of barbarism would ever do this again. Surely. 

In Manchester though, huge armies of police, counter terrorism officers, ambulances and vast acres of red and white tape have cordoned off those still potentially dangerous areas around the shul, streets are like deserted libraries and there's an eerie quiet about North West England that is both terribly distressing and heartbreaking. Constantly we are bombarded with the same impassioned rants, those dreadful diatribes about the blame game and that the fault lies with the enemy. And then we are subjected to another wave of vile accusations and recriminations. It just seems to get lost in the translation and then we keep condemning the unnecessary brutality of it all because we know it might make us feel so much better. The fact is that this is some cliched vicious circle. 

But we then go back to our North London community Finchley Reform Synagogue where all was calm, friendly, welcoming and accommodating. FRS looked resplendent in all its well lit glory. An impressive looking statue of a former Sarries rugby union legend stood proud and upright. There was what looked to be the familiar burger van that nourishes the souls of thousands of Saracens fans. And then there was the souvenir shop with its huge variety of club merchandise, shirts locked away and closed but nonetheless the most attractive of sights. 

And then my lovely wife Bev and I walked into our shul, our meeting place, our social pilgrimage to a land of milk and honey. Rows upon rows of straight backed chairs were spread out across what is normally the home of the Saracens players relaxation space, drinks and food at their disposal and convivial banter ready to exchange. The sombre ambience that pervaded the room on Kol Nidre was immediately followed by the devout worshippers and prayer folk on Yom Kippur. 

Here we had everything. There were the female rabbis and cantors, an Israeli representative and a gallery of guitars wherever you looked on the bimah. In fact there were so many guitars that you'd have been forgiven for thinking that you'd just walked into Denmark Street, Tin Pan Alley in London's bustling West End of London. But this was not Charing Cross Road but the most perfect venue for any religious ceremony. 

So we went whole heartedly into the Morning Service, Mussaf, the Afternoon before arriving at the fading light and Yiskah and Neilah, the final concluding chapter of the day. But we remembered the stunningly ornate paintings on the wall depicting fathers with their sons on Saracens terraces, flat caps firmly in place and the men in action mode at their respective scrums or mauls. One in particular looked like a homage to Lowry, which almost sounded too poignant for words given the industrial heritage that Manchester has always boasted. 

Men and women stood side by side in the bright white tallit, draped so fittingly around their shoulders, kipot or couple on their heads. This was an all inclusive, non sexist where the presence of both women and men lifted our hearts to the highest point. Now they chanted tirelessly and mellifluously, sending a warm glow down your spine.  We hugged each other warmly and continued throughout the day acknowledging the most important and critical points of the day. 

That sense of wonderful belonging and camaraderie seeped deep into every part of our naturally concerned minds. But we got through it all as we normally do so because we were still walking in the shadow of tragic death, suffering and inconsolable humanity. It was the worst and most harrowing episode in the lives of our lovely Jewish like minded people. 

We still had to admire the old, almost ancient laced up rugby union shirts, dozens of gleaming trophies in their rightful cabinets, yellowing and brown programmes that looked like precious parchments, lists of players, football memorabilia, a Saracens European Champions painting and so much more. Outside, the Sarries were hard at work at a vigorous training session, preparing intensely for their next game. There was the delightful juxtaposition of sport and religion in harmony. Our friendly, technical man spent the whole day diligently pressing buttons and twiddling knobs so that the lighting on the day was just right. 

And finally we trickled away at the end of Yom Kippur. Suddenly, we were surrounded by both the strength of the light and the rich tapestry of life. Neilah made way for the memorable sound of the shofar, as we now approached the gates and found our ultimate destination. The day long journey of course had been epic and cathartic, the finest of all therapies. But Manchester is still coming to terms with its loss, full of desperate yearning for the sanctuary of peace and life, wonderful life.

Our security and youth leaders, the people who have always mattered throughout this tragedy, will always restore our belief in the human spirit. As Jews, we will always fight against the malicious deeds of those nefarious terrorists because we will never be defeated. Of course we will have reservations on the subject of those Stand By Israel marches because, although we can't be certain, it does seem these vehement protests are just counter productive. Of course we are proud Jews and we will never go away until the arms are put down for an eternity and peace has come to fruition. Wishing all of my Jewish friends and families a Happy and Healthy, Peaceful and Sweet New Year. Chag semach to everybody. 

Happy Birthday Thunderbirds and Radio 1.

Happy Birthday Thunderbirds and Radio 1.

One was perhaps the most deeply loved of TV children's programmes and the other was a radio station who broke the illegal monopoly of pirate radio, pioneering at the time and almost welcomed warmly as a radical departure from the norm. Both were immensely entertaining, hugely enjoyable and wonderfully reassuring at a time when some of us were about to tackle the academic complexities of primary school. To say we dreaded that first day at school would be the grossest of understatement. 

Today though, we celebrate the 60th anniversary of one of the greatest, most remarkable and loveliest of all children's programmes for that was target market, the kids who couldn't believe that the days of black and white could produce something so prophetic, forward thinking and futuristic. We remember it because we were there to witness those stunning puppet figures and, quite amusingly, the puppeteers pulling the strings. 

It is now 60 years ago to the day since Thunderbirds hit our TV screens. For some of us it was a golden childhood moment and one we'll always use as a kind of cultural reference point. We came home from school barely aware of the wider world because we were so engrossed in Thunderbirds. There were no high tech gadgets, no distractions such as I phones or Smart Phones, no screens, nothing to pre-occupy us in a way that back in 1967 would have been considered tedious or degrading. Thunderbirds was pure escapism, a thrilling kids adventure story, puppets in excelsius and marvellous graphics.

The brainchild of husband and wife team Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, Thunderbirds was quite literally go on this day in 1967. For four years, Thunderbirds was spellbinding and humorous with extremely flexible characters who could adapt so easily to any given situation and had American voices. The Andersons, from the start, were determined to give the children of the late 1960s a wondrous playground of space age figures, a closely knit family unit and absolute togetherness in all crisis.

Thunderbirds always ticked all of our boxes because it somehow felt like an extension of our childish lifestyle, a period of time that gave us even more toys and games. Up until then, we'd always been accustomed to Etch A Sketch, Lego and Meccano for our birthdays and then came Thunderbirds. So, we probably sat down excitedly in front of our dependable black and white DER 12 inch TV set. Now, from what you can remember, there were only two channels up until the impending arrival of BBC Two in the same year and numbers around the dial which represented both the BBC and ITV. 9 was ITV and the BBC was, for all we knew, 65.

What you had to remember is that in those days we had a TV aerial on the top of the wooden box that was our TV and, as we all know, that TV aerial had a mind of its own. It would serve us admirably for the best part of ten or fifteen years. Or it might have been slightly longer but by then we didn't care. The picture was always terrible and fuzzy, there were hundreds of squiggly lines on the screen and there was a slow deterioration into decrepitude, the TV itself just refusing one day to show anything, not working at all anymore. We mourned the loss of our black and white TV because we knew that somebody had just invented colour TV.

And so was born Thunderbirds. On Tracy Island, there was father Jeff Tracy, sitting permanently in some luxurious pad surrounded by weird and wonderful objects that either rose up from the table he was sitting at or just develop into some sophisticated piece of equipment none of us had ever seen. Jeff Tracy had four sons Scott, Virgil, Alan and Gordon, who were always there for each other, the best of friends. It was a relationship that made us feel good about the cohesive family unit. Scott was probably regarded as the leader of the pack, good fun, while Virgil was dedicated and committed to the cause and Alan was similarly loving and supportive and so positive. We liked what we were seeing. 

Meanwhile, in what seemed like some kind of study or a scientific laboratory there was Brains. Now Brains was a clever intellectual, always resolving confusion, always ready to come up with sensible and practical theories or solutions to knotty problems. Brains was a cool guy, a smart dude, reliable and quite thorough in his analysis of anything that didn't seem to make any sense. 

And then there was Lady Penelope and her chauffeur Parker who were always required for emergencies, contingency measures in case the evil villains threatened to blow up Tracy Island.  And there were villains, horrible individuals you would never invite to your dinner party. They were baddies who kept scheming, conniving, plotting behind the Tracy family and hellbent on killing them. It was all we could have wished for in children's TV. In fact, apart from the brilliant Blue Peter and Magpie, it was all we had but did we complain? No, we didn't because Thunderbirds had it all.  Heroes and villains. None of us could ask for more and we were deeply satisfied. 

There was also the other children's TV national treasure of a similar ilk. Captain Scarlett and the Mysterons was in many ways, mysterious but fascinating, another set of puppets to treasure. Captain Scarlett was the he man, masculine, untouchable, unbeatable, a strong and powerful boy comic character who always rescued damsels in distress from explosions and potential disasters. Captain Scarlett was accompanied by the obligatory mermaid. You had to include mermaids on TV and Marina was no exception to the rule. Aqua Marina was soft and feminine, gliding across the bottom of the ocean with effortless ease. 

And finally we also celebrate the 58th birthday of Radio One. Now Radio One was the culmination of a BBC project that, for years, they must have been desperate to complete. While Radio Caroline and London were still ruling the waves of pirate radio, the Beeb were getting all hot and bothered about things that were illegal, prohibitive, forbidden and deeply repulsive. How do they broadcast pop music from a boat next to coastal waters in Essex with a huge transmitter soaring into the air? Who gave them permission to have funky, groovy DJs playing 45s vinyl records and, predominantly, tracks from heavy rock albums?

So was born Radio 1 on this day 60 years ago. Tony Blackburn, a pirate hijacked by the BBC, sat in front of a control desk of turntables with Robin Scott, by then much older than the twenty something Blackburn at the time. The very first record to be played on Radio One, as is also fairly well known, was the Move's Flowers in the Rain. In the years following its arrival on the 247 medium wave band, yet more jolly, funny, at times eccentric and controversial DJs, kept us entertained. Disc jockeys were the voices behind the microphone, invisible presenters but witty and articulate who occasionally stepped over the boundaries of what might have been construed as disgusting and morally unacceptable. 

There was Dave Lee Travis, the recently late and much missed Johnny Walker and Noel Edmonds who deposed Tony Blackburn from his breakfast show hot seat. There was Paul Burnett, Paul Gambaccini, David Hamilton, the superb Emperor Rosko and, more recently, the late but unforgettably magnificent Steve Wright. Radio 1 always kept its fingers on the pulse of modern thinking, never slacking in their quest to pander to the whims of a teenage audience, promoting new bands and sounds, hungry for more and more listeners and introducing the Top 40 on a Sunday evening with Tom Browne at the helm during the 1970s.

Saturday lunchtimes were the exclusive property of Australian DJ Alan Freeman, a lovely, jokey, and always upbeat gentleman who presented Pick of the Pops, a show combining the very best of the retro chart run down from the 1950, 60s, 70s and 80s, juxtaposing both the modern and nostalgic market.  And then there was Canadian DJ Kid Jensen and the deeply respected John Peel who did his utmost to give a proper window of opportunity to up and coming punk bands. Peel loved to be a champion of the obscure and esoteric.

Yes, we all recall what happened on that now far off distant autumnal morning in Ilford, Essex. You walked down to a couple's house where their son was preparing for his first day at primary school. In the mind's eye you can still see the frantic hustle and bustle as the son packed his satchel and milk was hurriedly poured over Corn Flakes or whatever brand of cereal was available. 

Then, mum lovingly switched on the kettle for another cup of tea while dad threw his work papers into the most compact of suitcases. Here was the epicentre of much industry and diligence. But this was 1967 and you can convince yourself that the Beatles were still on the way to the iconic Abbey Road recording studios with George Martin masterminding all of the orchestrations and production values of the Fab Four.  In the fondest imagination, this had to be an authentic memory even though you were only four at the time. Young children are so receptive to the sounds of 1960s music or we'd like to think so. 

But it's happy birthday to both Radio 1 and Thunderbirds. You were like childhood friends in our early youth, accompanying us all the way through to adolescence and teenage years. Thunderbirds was just a fantastic revelation in those early infant years. Puppets were our pals, our buddies on the sofa or those flickering images on a TV screen. And, for all the warm exhortations from our parents pleading with us to move right away from the telly, we invariably thought we were in the land of TV fantasy. Indeed we probably were.       

Graham Potter is sacked as West Ham manager

 Graham Potter is sacked as West Ham manager.

It had to happen because his position had become untenable. He looked like a man who had been tied together with a thick piece of rope and had no idea when he'd be released from captivity. For the last week or so now, former West Ham manager Graham Potter was walking on the most precarious tightrope, hovering over a tank of a piranha fishes. And to complete the metaphorical journey, Potter was also treading on hot coals before just relinquishing his duties because his West Ham team had been beaten too many times for the board's liking.

Last week- and probably a fortnight or two- Potter had gone to great lengths in stating that things had been tough and that West Ham were still looking for a solution to their problems. They were sticking together and pulling for each other, always hoping and never despairing. Then he discovered that he'd just hit a brick wall and could no longer resolve this crisis and had to fall on his sword. The metaphorical journey had ended.

At Friday lunchtime Potter took his seat at his club's weekly Press conference and repeated the same mantra over and over again. He knew West Ham were in the doldrums and struggling desperately but promised that, given time, this horrendous predicament would blow over eventually. But it has persisted and, as West Ham prepare for another vital Premier League encounter with Everton at the Hill Dickinson Stadium tomorrow, they must be aware of the magnitude of their thankless task. Potter has left the building but Nuno has arrived and the new manager must feel like a conductor of an orchestra who doesn't know whether he'll be able to get a tune out of his new ensemble. Somebody is bound to play a duff note on the piano. 

Since the beginning of the season Potter has been a marked man, a victim of circumstances who knew he'd be in relegation trouble because the summer transfer window had been a deplorable one. There was the acquisition of two centre forwards whose combined age was 60 plus, two midfielders who might just save the club and a defence that would crack open at free kicks and corners. 

So, after three successive London derby defeats to both Spurs, a heavy thrashing at home to Chelsea and last week's humiliating loss at home to Crystal Palace, West Ham are slowly sinking without trace. Around them, legions of otherwise loyal and trustworthy fans of the club are storming the barricades and voicing their dissatisfaction in no uncertain terms. Before the Premier League match at home to Crystal Palace, West Ham fans joined together in their droves, loudly protesting and demanding an immediate removal of owners David Sullivan and Karen Brady. 

It almost seemed a dreadful throwback to yesteryear when the wheels came off the West Ham wagon, form deserted the club, defeats multiplied and suddenly the sack of a manager became an occupational hazard rather than an inevitability. There seemed a brief summer hiatus when the signings were signed, sealed and delivered, the trip to America was moderately beneficial but then something went wrong. Despite the wins over Everton and Bournemouth in the United States, the machinery began to creak and there was an air of cynicism and morbidity about the club. You couldn't put your finger on it but it was there out in the open. 

The opening day of the season defeat at newly promoted Sunderland was perhaps forgivable because West Ham had never done particularly well on the first day of a new season. But then the club faced their first London derby against Chelsea and just collapsed, disintegrating like a wobbly old shelf in your living room. The 5-1 defeat at home to the Blues now looks like the darkest moment in the club's season thus far. There was no fight, bite, tenacity, resilience, guts or fortitude. By the end of this debacle, West Ham looked out on their feet and heading towards a painful post mortem. 

But now West Ham have appointed their latest manager Nuno Espirito Santo, a Portuguese gentleman who had recently been dumped unceremoniously by Nottingham Forest. The irony is of course that Nuno was in charge of Forest right up until Forest's 3-0 defeat to West Ham at the City Ground so we may be back in the land of deja vu. So the vicious circle revolved again. It's time to play the game of managerial pass the parcel and embark on a merry go round.

Where though do West Ham go from there? It does look a case of history repeating itself but then the club have been here before so this is no surprise at all. Before one game during the first David Moyes era, West Ham were hammered by fellow claret and blues Burnley 3-0 at the London Stadium. Half way through, a disgruntled West Ham fan ran onto the pitch and stuck a corner flag indignantly on the centre circle spot. 

West Ham were still regarded as a glamorous club rather but one who just muddled their way through the season and were just content with mid table mediocrity. Two years ago though Moyes, on one of the most glorious nights the club had ever experienced, got it absolutely right. West Ham met and beat Italian side Fiorentina in the last minutes of the UEFA Conference Final. West Ham had won a European trophy, the summit had been reached and everything had fallen into place. The celebrations that followed were something the club would never forget. This was the perfect pinnacle and the flag had been planted.

Perhaps the club has now been spoilt because none of us had realistically considered success at any level ever again. Now though the East London club are back at square one, wading in treacle, grasping at the nettle, perilously close to the bottom of the Premier League and looking for some kind benefactor to bail them out of their obvious plight. The fans voices are getting louder and if things don't change shortly and preferably immediately, there could be a monumental revolt. 

The club that had prided itself on its unwavering faith in their managers, has now racked up so many bosses that it barely seems possible. For well over 25 years, West Ham had in their possession two of the quietest and most charming footballing men in the history of the game. Ron Greenwood was a coach at Arsenal at the beginning of the 1960s.West Ham saw his burgeoning potential and snapped up Greenwood, who became one of the most thoughtful coaches and managers in the game at the time. 

When Greenwood left West Ham in the late 1970s, there was a hollow gap, an aching echo, nobody who could apparently do the job half as well. Greenwood was destined for the England job. West Ham were left twiddling their thumbs, worried and concerned. John Lyall, whose playing career had been abruptly curtailed too early, had obtained all of the appropriate coaching FA badges and a job at his boyhood club became his. Lyall almost won the old First Division League Championship for the Hammers in 1986 only to be denied at the last hurdle by both Everton and Liverpool. 

But there was such an easy transitional period for West Ham 50 years ago. Spurs had stood firmly behind Bill Nicholson and Keith Burkinshaw when Spurs came a cropper and were relegated to the old Second Division, Manchester United did briefly panic when the club went in the same direction and although Chelsea once fell of the map during the 1980s, Ken Bates, their bluff and amiable chairman, rescued the club from old Second Division obscurity. 

Now though, there is Nuno Espirito Santo, the man now given the poisoned chalice that is the West Ham job. It will be impossible to form any judgments on the former Wolves boss since there is nothing in a script yet to be written. Santo looked very tactically shrewd and forward thinking while he was at the Molineux but then the club's patience ran out when the team kept losing. Yesterday, though, Nuno was all smiles and wide eyed enthusiasm. West Ham's Rush Green training ground in Romford was suitably excited and allowing West Ham the luxury of one extra day to be ready for Everton tomorrow night. 

And yet there is nervous trepidation at the London Stadium but, at the same time, trembling excitement. Nuno of course loves the purity of the Beautiful Game and is almost word perfect when it comes to the technical football manual. He knows how to organise his defence, encouraging his teams to pass the ball with immaculate fluency through the lines and scoring goals at the right moment and time. Portugal are now a renowned footballing nation and Nuno came through the Portuguese youth academy system as if born to the passing game. 

Tomorrow we'll know for sure where West Ham are now in what could be the most dramatic rehabilitation process if indeed this is the case. It could be that any lasting damage has already been done. For those who have followed the club through thick and thin, in both adversity and triumph, this is not entirely unusual territory. We have followed them through both the Greenwood and Lyall revolution with bitten finger nails and, at times, total bemusement.

'I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles' has never seen so apt a description for West Ham United. Bubbles were always flying high and invariably reaching the sky. Some of us will be hoping for an instant revival at David Moyes Everton tomorrow. Now that would just seem such a huge boost to the club's dwindling spirits. Come on you Happy Hammers. 

  

The Labour party conference, the Ryder Cup and the women's rugby union World Cup Final between England and Canada.

 The Labour party conference, the Ryder Cup and the women's rugby union final between England and Canada.

There is so much going on this weekend that it is hard to know what to concentrate on. In fact at some point during next week, the global and beautiful Jewish community will also be gathering together in their droves. So here goes. Let's see what's first on the cultural itinerary before events unfold and we all brace ourselves for the final days of September. Of course Earth, Wind and Fire immortalised this month with stylishly jazzy homages to September and Facebook is currently offering its celebrated platform to all manner of dances, dance routines and happy go lucky people determined to enjoy the fruits of the autumnal harvest. 

But today it's all kicking off but in a pleasant and civilised fashion. The women of the England rugby union team will be assembling for what could prove to be one of the most momentous and significant sporting occasions of recent times. The ladies of this fair isle will be pitting their wits against Canada, a nation who we genuinely believed had no rugby union heritage. So please forgive your scribe's ignorance but you had no idea that the country that gave us maple leaf flags of patriotism and grizzly bears in forests, had what it takes to become world sporting champions. So come on girls, we can do this one. 

Meanwhile, in the United States of America, the golfing Ryder Cup is up and underway and Europe has got off to a flying start. This is the traditional confrontation between Europe and the USA when the first leaves have fallen and sporting egos are exposed for all to see. A number of years ago, it all got rather heated and antagonistic when both the Americans and the British got all uppity, annoyed and livid with each other. Voices were raised and the putting green at the final, decisive 18th hole turned into a childish flailing of fists and handbags at dawn.

Still, they'll be swinging their meaty, red blooded drivers, irons, woods and clubs from the driving range and a sigh of respectful admiration will be heard from the gallery of fans who follow their every swing and chip from the fairway.Then, a gentle murmur will descend on the green as the players lean forward and hunch their bodies in preparation. But the Ryder Cup is personal and quite spiteful at times because sport matters and this goes much deeper than we might have thought. And maybe that's the point when sport loses all perspective and gets carried away with itself, oblivious to the outside world. 

Back in the wonderful city of Liverpool, the combined forces of the UK government were brainstorming, exchanging witty bonhomie, gossiping and, above all flying the red flag. The Labour party have now been in charge of Britain for well over a year now and the natives are restless. They're sharpening their tools and hunkering in their bunkers like a well drilled army. The delegates and hardcore members who have been Labour supporters ever since the days of Clement Atlee, will be furiously taking notes, gazing across the main debating chamber and wondering what exactly they might be doing that isn't quite right.

Sir Keir Starmer, Prime Minister was supposed to transform the fortunes of the country, boosting the morale of a party that had hitherto been going nowhere and just revolutionising the Labour party in a way they must have thought they'd never see again. After the glamorous days of Tony Blair when everything looked so rosy and righteously idealistic and Gordon Brown when things seemed to take a plunge, there was a 14 year period of Tory domination when things went rapidly downhill. 

But now Starmer is in control and once again the critics are shredding all of those well intentioned ideas from Labour HQ. Firstly, there was the cost of living crisis followed swiftly by hard, hitting, draconian winter fuel allowances cuts on the elderly, poor and disadvantaged. It all just seemed to collapse around Labour's ears like a pack of cards. Then we realised what we'd done or hadn't done. We'd elected a new government rather like a gambler who walks into a casino and hopes they'll become prosperous almost immediately. It was all very haphazard and pointless. Then we discovered the roulette table wasn't working, the one armed bandit fruit machines were malfunctioning and what could we possibly do?

So Keir Stamer kept resorting to his foreign policies and found an unlikely ally in Donald Trump, surely one of the most comical and absurd Presidents of the United States of all time. Or was he? The bloodthirsty wars around him were attacking the remnants of Trump's sanity and Starmer simply lent a compassionate voice and ear. For the British Prime Minister things weren't working out at all well. So he came back to 10 Downing Street and now finds himself between a rock and hard place. 

The outsiders and potty mouthed orators are blathering and nattering away like feuding neighbours, threatening quite seriously to take away Starmer's leadership and demanding a General Election. That brand new party the Reform UK are blustering away in the background, pleading with Starmer to send those illegal immigrants back to their country. Nigel Farage is the cheerleader and suddenly Starmer is public enemy one. Put them back on the boats and send them back from whence they came because Britain doesn't want them and they don't belong in Britain. It's time to take those visas away from them. 

These are trying and very worrying times for the Labour party because they must have thought that all of those well entrenched Socialist ideologies were functioning beautifully. Labour were the party of the working class, the men who grafted away industriously in the mining collieries and pits and always did a decent shift for their country. Your dad voted for Labour and so did the shopkeepers, the factory workers, the builders, the cleaners, the barristas in coffee shops and the people who got their hands and fingernails dirty. 

Now though Britain is still at war with its government and never quite sure where the country might be going. For 14 years, the Tories made all sorts of mistakes and financial blunders that could never be rectified. Poor Boris Johnson just looked on helplessly during Covid 19, crashing recklessly into highly inappropriate statements and horrible hypocrisy. Theresa May, for a while, came across quite favourably but then Brexit sent her tumbling into a tailspin before she had to resign and Liz Truss was here today and gone tomorrow. Her tenure as Prime Minister had to be the shortest in history but none of us knew whether she cared one iota.

And once again Labour are back in control of the purse strings and general welfare of the country and nothing seems to have changed. The party that once boasted the most famous pipe smoker of all time Harold Wilson, was simply disappearing into a hole from which there seems no escape. Wilson gave us the White Heat of Technology and the Open University, promising that while he was Prime Minister, Britain would never struggle or strive, agonise or ever stagnate. Britain would be comfortable, well off, affluent, bright and breezy.

Sadly though the unions announced themselves and destabilised Wilson or was it really their fault? Surely not. However, today the beer and sandwich brigade among the Labour rank and file will be shouldering arms, raising a glass for the proletariat and sounding off about everything from the price of milk and bread to the parlous state of the economy. 

Liverpool has always prided itself on its proud maritime past but this week the Albert Dock will be resounding to the beat of thousands of Labour party feet, treading on hot coals metaphorically of course and then applauding rapturously when the names of Neil Kinnock, Tony Blair, Gordon Brown and Michael Foot are mentioned in conversation. This is going to be a difficult and problematic week for the government but when was this never the case regardless of party colours?

Even now the social commentators, newspaper columnists and clever magazine writers will be hovering around Merseyside, laptop in hand, cheeky, scathing and acerbic words at their disposal. The Labour party will go through the motions and know exactly where their loyal friends are. Some will be climbing walls and sniggering, snarling, chewing the cud before exploding with anger.

 Liverpool is not, essentially, a political city but by the end of next week, we will know much more about the Sir Keir Starmer who had such ambitious plans for the country on day one as Prime Minister. Fear not Mr Starmer, and to quote one of his predecessors, things can only get better. Now where have we heard that before? We know Tony Blair coined this golden phrase because he was an eternal optimist and that's all that matters. 

The first political party conference of the season and British TV.

 The first party political party conference of the season and British TV

You can always tell when autumn has arrived. It's that first party political conference of the year and we all begin to think of the entertainment value associated with British TV. In other words, what's on the box this autumn and winter. As a kid, it was always that moment when the TV Times listings magazine would find its way into the home of your wonderful mum and dad and brother. It was a soothing and comforting feeling because, without this essential piece of literature, we would never have known what to look forward to watching in that week's viewing.

Every Wednesday mum would unfailingly scan a vast multitude of programmes, documentaries, plays, sitcoms, comedy specials, soap operas, hard hitting news, shocking investigations into the sleazy world of politics and corruption while, of course, there were the people who mattered most. These were the actors and actresses, former music hall comics who had now been transferred to the little box in the corner of our living room. 

There were all action films, period dramas, compelling plays about social upheaval, domestic bliss and disagreement, family rows, punch ups, bust ups, explosions, delightful car chases and cop programmes that highlighted the inherent violence and all that pent up aggression which exploded on a forgettable August Bank Holiday weekend in Brighton during the 1960s when the mods met the rockers and the rest is history. 

But now, by the seaside once again, the Liberal Democrats Lib Dems, as they're affectionately known in political circles, have dug their first spade into the sand and then filled up their buckets with the just the right amount of water. Yes folks, the Lib Dems leader Ed Davy has arrived on the sprawling promenades and esplanades of Bournemouth, full of fun, frivolity, general silliness, good humoured pranks and the most electric smile on his face. Davy, of course, is a proper politician and therefore never to be taken at all seriously. And the court jester was it again, marching with a jolly brass band and throwing his baton into the air rather like an American football cheerleader who'd probably eaten far too much popcorn. 

You simply know when government and shadow ministers are in town. Huge groups of party disciples wander along streets and roads, gleefully thrusting posters and newsletters into the hands of the public, full of crusading zeal. There they go, grandstanding, showboating, freely dispensing glad tidings and foolish antics that somehow defy description. In a matter of seconds, they've preached to the converted, becoming accomplished propagandists, schmoozers, utterly persuasive voices and, for some, just a pain in the neck. 

Meanwhile at home, the good folk of the United Kingdom will settle down to the TV, the goggle box, the one piece of furniture in our homes that just seems to sit haughtily in the corner of our living room like some Victorian duke ready to play the piano in a classical concert recital. Now of course TV remains perhaps surplus to our requirements because the 21st century has given us Netflix, Amazon Prime, Disney plus, Apple TV and Now TV. 

If we do get bored with TV, we can always switch on our devices, bring up our screens, plugging into a wide variety of Smart Phones, I phones, Tablets and of course the unmistakable mobile phones which are so much of an urgent fashion accessory that we'd probably be lost without one. But the TV landscape is pretty timeless. A surge of electricity powers its way into millions of homes during the winter and all of those household favourites flash and flicker like a hundred gaming rooms or amusement arcades. 

During the summer, TV seems to go to sleep, wrapping itself in a blanket of hibernation, studios, now more or less, empty and deserted because nothing of any real note, seems to happen. All of the shows, comedies, quiz shows, arresting detective murder mystery series and fascinating nature programmes combine with cricket, tennis and the dizzying array of summer sports and celebrity- driven reality telly that both infuriates and delights in equal measure.

In the old days, some of us had to prepare ourselves for just two channels and very few alternatives that were both appealing and pleasing. Sometime in the first couple of weeks of September when most of us were hurled wildly back into the world of school and academia, the BBC lit up our eyes like an imposing chandelier. It was a Saturday evening and the late Sir Bruce Forsyth introduced us to a game show that had been imported from Dutch TV called the Generation Game. 

Now if memory serves you correctly, the Generation Game would never appear at the height of summer because the assumption was that every home across Britain would be busy enjoying itself on holidays, family barbecues and just drinking leisurely glasses of alcohol outside pub gardens. What had probably happened was that the Generation Game was probably recorded when the first springtime cuckoos and tulips would have first made their first uplifting presence felt. 

Roll forward to this current Saturday evening TV schedule. Saturday evening is now dominated by a fabulous fandango of flamboyance. Strictly Come Dancing is the modern adaptation of the 1960s Come Dancing, that strict, regimented and orderly BBC One national treasure. Here, men in very smart and sartorially correct shirt, bow tie and tails would be swept away imperiously by an equally as dapper woman with flowing taffeta or organza dress. The cynics called Come Dancing stuffy and conservative, maybe a tad too straight laced and disciplined. There was Angela Rippon, the famous female newsreader, Peter West, cricket commentator par excellence and the late but much loved Terry Wogan, all presenters of the highest stature. 

And so we make the adjustment to the winter TV line ups, a fusion of the bizarre and brilliant, the sublime and ridiculous. But these are like cosy roaring log fires that keep us company along with your family and of course, your adorable dog who loves to curl up on your sofa and doze dreamily. Here we are rapidly approaching the end of September and October just can't wait to come out and play. Brace yourself because it could be a visual picnic of familiarity. We've seen them before and we'll never tire of them because that's the way it's always been and how we welcome the glittering jewels of British TV.

Before you know it, we'll be bombarded with yet another clutch of supermarket campaigns ready to remind us of the inevitable turkeys, boxes of chocolates, biscuits and then back on TV, slushy American Christmas related films on Christmas TV. Then there's just a glut of glitz, glamour and masses of festive merchandise, all those goodies that were somehow designed to be made available during the middle of October. Isn't British TV wonderful?   

 

Happy and Healthy Jewish New Year.

 Happy and Healthy Jewish New Year.

Yes folks. It's that time when your correspondent and humble scribe turns his thoughts to the beginning of the New Year. But, surely not. This has to be a huge chronological mistake, a stupid anomaly based on the evidence that we are now approaching the end of September and there are no signs of limp tinsel and glitter from the Christmas festivities and no hearty renditions of Auld Lang Syne in the air. And we're not going to wait for Big Ben to usher in the New Year because that's just daft and totally inappropriate.

But as a proud Jew, you adore the communal harmony in our local synagogue or shul, the reverential chanting of the prayers, the stirring hymns from the chumash prayer books and the lovely feeling of togetherness and solidarity engendered by the belief that family and the family unit always comes first in the Jewish religion.  

And so it is that this Tuesday, yours truly and his wonderful family will gather together once again to acknowledge the chag. i.e. the holiday, that sacred moment in the year when we unite under the beautiful canopy of that majestic building known as Finchley Reform synagogue. It is a time, of course, for solemn reflection on the year that has just passed by and perhaps introspection since the world around us may not be in the condition we'd like it to be. We will ask probing questions of our political leaders and those warmongering terrorists who continue to disfigure this gorgeous planet. We will despair of the rest of humanity and hug our family to our bosom because they're precious. 

Sometime on Tuesday morning we'll be exchanging the familiar pleasantries with family, friends and those who pass regular comment on the Jewish people. They must know that we embrace Judaism with a passionate tenderness that remains as solid as it was thousands of years ago and throughout the generations. Being Jewish is the best feeling in the world because at Finchley Reform shul we'll be all as one, singing from the same hymn sheet, male and female, young and old. 

This is the starting point again, another chapter of our lives, the future that unfolds like the thrilling first few pages of your novel, your identity, your plans and ambitions or maybe the simple contentment of who you are. Of course the Jews have endured so much that is painful and uncomfortable. The persecution complex goes back centuries and millions of years. But we can beat this one and we will. 

We've suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune to misquote the Bard, William Shakespeare.  But, we will be defiant, determined and courageous. This is in our DNA. Jews are paragons of virtue, law abiding, respectable, considerate and sympathetic people, men, women and children with something very meaningful to give back to society. And then we'll tell our children and grandchildren to get out there and prove everybody wrong, to make their indelible mark on the world. 

On Tuesday we'll be ushering in Rosh Hashanah, with its traditional apple and honey symbolism, the prayers for health and happiness, the widespread rejoicing, the vocal congregations with our proud singing voices, the redemptive and rich, honeyed resonance that will boom out across the globe. And then there will be Succot, the Jewish Harvest Festival where the fruits of the earth will hang joyfully from the Sukkah and sweet wine will be sipped before yet another generous helping of chullah bread just to underline the lavish abundance of everything that is good in our lives. 

Simchat Torah of course will bring back so many painful memories of October 7th from a couple of years ago. It was the day when Israel and the rest of the world hung its head in stunned horror at the violent attack on youngsters returning home after the Nova music festival. Even now it hurts terribly and the 1,500 lives lost in Israel on that fateful day will always remain on our minds. But as the proudest Jew in the world, there will be no room for terrorism and murder and we will stand by Israel. 

So wherever you are in the world, a happy, healthy, sweet and peaceful New Year, a Rosh Hashanah that will always keep you for company because it's so uplifting and good to be Jewish and always will be. Chag semach and l'shana tova to you all.