VE Day and Pope Leo the 14th

VE Day and Pope Leo the 14th

Across the villages, towns, cities, sleepy hamlets and babbling brooks of England, the citizens of its noble, upstanding folk will reminisce sadly on the events that shook and then traumatised the whole of the world. Today we celebrate the 80th anniversary of the end of the Second World War, a day heavy with poignancy, sombre reflection and lingering thoughts of tragic loss, death and destruction. In May 1945, we celebrated deep into the night as Victory in Europe Day was officially declared. 

Now though 80 years later we lament the passing of those gentlemen and women who sacrificed everything, putting their lives on line and showing enduring dedication to the cause, valour of the highest order and bravery that knew no limit. But there was also a gritty determination to overcome all the odds in the face of adversity, an uplifting stoicism and sheer, no nonsense bravado about us that will never be forgotten. 

For some of the soldiers and troops who always believed that victory would be theirs, today means something very special. Suddenly, on this day in 1945, the air raid sirens stopped wailing, tin helmets thrown into the air with enormous relish, army and navy uniform proudly demonstrated to the world and khaki dispensed with for ever. We all went back to the land of rationality, normality and joyous communication with each other, the memories of the previous six years now receding into a misty distance. 

No more would the world be subjected to a constant bombardment of destructive bombs, crippling damage to its buildings, shops and homes, the millions of innocent people who spent six years of his life tormented by the Nazis, the murderous barbarians wearing evil swastikas on their disgusting uniforms and those who simply wanted to inflict pain, suffering and purgatory on our shores and the world around us. 

But on that final day as peace beckoned and they all gathered around their radio sets to hear Winston Churchill deliver that memorable speech, they too could feel freedom and liberation. It was the day they thought they'd never see but then saw through miraculous eyes. The lights went on at Piccadilly Circus, they did the conga around Trafalgar Square and we danced, sang and partied the night away because they could and they did. Celebrations continued and inhibitions were blown away like a million feathers. 

And now 80 years later we stand undaunted, unscathed, tougher and stronger than ever before and enjoying the kind of luxuries and privileges that none thought possible. We are this generation, the grandchildren of those who can be grateful for life, energy and enthusiasm. We are responsible for setting the standards, morals and values of the 21st century, this is our state of independence, our world to embrace, richly savour and then cherish with all our heart and soul.

Finally we have rid ourselves of those oppressive restrictions, the nightmarish rationing of everyday food and drink, the endless blackouts and every night spent in draughty underground Tube stations. The bombs kept dropping but London remained an oasis of calm, imperturbability and utter defiance. London kept playing old family favourites on the pub piano, singing 'We'll Meet Again' for the thousandth time and London knew that someday the frightening apocalypse would one day end. 

So we thank our heroic veterans, the now centenarians who battled and struggled, fought to the bitter end and would not be beaten. They are the ones who deservedly won the right to show their medals and kept smiling, joking and laughing because Adolf  Hitler had to be crushed into the ground. On the 8th of May 2025 we salute their men and women who went beyond the call of duty, who never gave up or surrendered to the heinous enemy. 

Meanwhile in another part of the world yesterday, we welcomed to the stage a man we frequently acknowledge and deeply revere. In the Vatican, Pope Leo 14th was ordained in a puff of white smoke from the Sistine Chapel. Robert Prevost became the first American to hold down such an honourable position and some of the more cynical of conspiracy theorists wondered if a certain Donald Trump might have had some significant influence on this appointment. 

Now the chances are that nobody has heard of Robert Prevost since few of our Popes from history ever make a fuss or commotion of who they are. But for those who prefer to read between the lines, an American Pope does sound very much like the work of one man. But then we giggle privately and convince ourselves that this couldn't possibly be true. The fact remains that Robert Prevost is the new Pope and as he stepped out onto the balcony and spoke admirably fluent Italian, we wished the establishment that is the Roman Catholic church well. 

In recent years most of us have taken to religion when things looked as though they'd hit rock bottom. Covid 19 lasted for so long and claimed so many lives that most of us asked deep, thought provoking theological questions. It was a hard and challenging world, almost unbearable at times but we rallied together, kept the faith and always knew that the power of prayer would see us through. And so it is that Robert Prevost steps into a world fraught, fractured and horribly divided, a Roman Catholic church that keeps searching for answers but only finds indecipherable puzzles and ever present complications. 

But yesterday evening an American gentleman in a richly ornate cassock, took the appropriate vows and promised to offer a better world free from war and conflict, free from constant argument and what might seem permanent disagreement. You remembered a Polish Pope from yesteryear by the name of St John Paul the second who came to London during the 1980s, travelled around the capital in his Pope mobile, kissed the tarmac at Heathrow airport and generally spread the gospel of peace, health and prosperity to one and all. 

Today, in a still troubled global population, we must hope that Robert Prevost will perform the same acts of kindness, generosity and love that we have come to expect of Popes throughout the centuries. It might be considered a task that would defeat most of us. But yesterday there was something very reassuring about the presence of a religious leader who thinks nothing of spreading happiness wherever goes. Somehow we know he's going to succeed. 

Nigel Farage- a force for good?

 Nigel Farage- a force for good?

He seemed to come from nowhere and the British political landscape may never seem the same again. He is a genuine candidate for elevation to the highest position in the hallowed corridors of Westminster and the House of Commons will now have to accept him as one of the most recognisable figures in British politics. If we didn't know who he was before, we certainly do now. He is the new kid on the block, blunt, outspoken, reactionary, controversial and dedicated to duty. He will never suffer fools gladly and he speaks his mind categorically. He could change our stereotypical perceptions of the British politician.

For the last couple of days or so, Nigel Farage has been moving among the movers and shakers of Westminster's finest, grinning endlessly, congratulating those who appointed him as the leader of the Reform UK party and delighted to be in the public limelight for all the right reasons. At some point, the realisation will dawn on Farage that his is a name to be reckoned with and taken deeply seriously. We thought we'd seen everything at 10 Downing Street during recent years but this almost felt like the most definitive moment.

But this could be a life changing week for the Cabinet and Shadow Cabinet ministers who had thus far felt as if their authority could never be challenged, that the status quo was here to stay and never to be shifted so dramatically. Suddenly though, an imposter has appeared on the scene, a gate crasher at a party who some may regard as unwelcome but then again a valuable asset who could influence the direction in which the political gravy train takes us in the next four years or so. 

Last July, the Labour party headed by the estimable Sir Keir Starmer, won the General Election and Starmer became Britain's latest Prime Minister. It all seemed very normal and ever so slightly exciting. Britain had decided that they'd had enough of the Tory party and gave Rishi Sunak the sack. Once again the British public had spoken forcefully, decisively and critically. And yet here we are in the merry month of May 2025 and the natives are restless, furious, truly exasperated and demanding the head of Starmer.

And this is where a certain Nigel Farage came in from the cold. For a number of years now, Farage has portrayed himself as an honest, respectable, working class man of the people, the Guinness drinking and cigarette smoking bloke who would love to have a proper conversation with the builders, architects, engineers and postmen and women of the world, a non judgmental figure who simply wants the best for his country. 

Recently, the salubrious Essex seaside resort of Clacton elected him as their constituency leader of the party much to the annoyance of those who hate him and a blessed relief as somebody who they thought was a breath of fresh air, a radical speechmaker and a man with the potential to break ranks with everything we'd been accustomed to hearing. Farage is now influential, unashamedly on the side of English patriotism and determined to stand up for English workers and their rights. 

When he emerged from a meeting during voting day at the General Election, Farage was pelted with a milkshake but far from being humiliated. He smiled stoically, got on with the business of whipping his adoring followers into a frenzy and fervently believed that Brexit had been done and dusted. He then presumably went on a long walk to clear his head before remembering that this was the most momentous day of his life. Farage had won over the sceptics and established his presence as a politician with a mind of his own and one with opinions and well defined ideologies. 

But above the hubbub and noise, Farage has promised that the Reform UK party could threaten the two party system in England and, quite possibly, become a bona fide Prime Minister one day. The Reform Party, hey. Now where did they come from, like a bolt from the blue, a flash of lightning, a clap of thunder? It must feel that the House of Commons will undergo its most dramatic transformation within a year or so. The Reform Party sounds like some revolutionary band of men and women who will take to the streets with large, visible banners and then storm the barricades. Is a modern day Reformation about to crash into British society in quite the most unprecedented fashion or are we just imagining all this? 

And yet the mood music does seem to be changing for good or bad. Your mind is taken back to the beginning of the 1980s when the esteemed likes of Shirley Williams, Dr David Owen and Roy Jenkins formed one of the most innovative of all political parties. The Social Democrat Party announced themselves quite forcibly on an unsuspecting nation, surely one of the most intriguing movements in British politics. Sadly the Social Democrats proved a temporary if quirky measure, honourable and well intentioned but completely lacking any real influence, clout or prestige. Nobody would take them seriously and it was all very short lived. 

Last week though could be that crucial, pivotal point in our lives when a new political party shake off the cobwebs of complacency that might be dragging down both the Tories, the Labour party and LibDems. When Sir Keir Starmer hits the pillow tonight and drifts off to sleep he might like to know that there are serious intruders hunting him down. At the moment he may rest easy but the fact is that both Labour and the Conservative parties were severely wounded in the local elections. The opposition are lying in wait and will not  be taken lightly or dismissed as just a passing fad. Beware the Reform UK Party.  

May Day.

 May Day.

Today promises to be the hottest day of the year so far. Britain will wake up to yet another day of glorious, unbroken sunshine, unprecedented warmth and heat and it almost feels we might be bracing ourselves for a magnificent summer of heatwaves, droughts, hosepipe bans, ice cream van jingles sweetening our ear drums and office workers wandering around streets and parks wearing their most casual shirts and suits.

But hold on we're still on the first day of May Day and it may be time to err on the side of caution because we're still in the infant days of only May, the spring robins and cuckoos are still at their most melodious, the tulips and daffodils are flaunting their prettiest finery and Easter is still recent history. It is at this point that we should all be looking for the first buds of optimism and hope that the rest of May, June and July will be a joyous parade of mouth watering picnics in the great outdoors, the familiar array of church village fetes and swimming lidos jammed solid with excitable children, teenagers and families. 

May Day normally provides the trade unions with their most perfect platform to march across Central London and sound off their grievances. Shortly, large flags and banners representing their company or organisation will express themselves vehemently in no uncertain terms. The local political party elections will polarise and unite the nation in a way that has now become, for some at least, a loathsome spectacle. 

In the middle of the countryside, hundreds of quaint market towns and vibrant villages will gather by the maypole, strap tiny bells to their ankles before indulging in the first maypole dances of the year. Men and women in jolly high spirits will spill out onto their blissfully idyllic country lanes and merrily cavort the day away with perhaps a bottle of lager and cider in their hands and love in their hearts. May has indeed come out to play, life is indeed at its most delightful, delectable, free spirited and the best feeling in the world. But then it always was and always will be.

Today we flung open our blinds and curtains and discovered handsome blue skies, deeply pleasant reminders of what could happen in June, July and August and not a cloud in that sky. The cynics will claim that this is too good to be true and that it can't possibly last because we've been here before with the English summer climate. The climate warming voices will be convinced that they were right all along and today's heatwave was somehow destined to take place on the first day of May. 

Even now the lunchtime workers will be spreading their blankets of food and drink over acres of thick green and gorgeous grass, wiping the sweat from hard pressed and fraught foreheads, worrying about the cost of living crisis perhaps. But then they're relieved to just be among the stunning cherry blossom on the trees and the mellifluous birds serenading us with a constant rendition of their favourite tweets and songs. It is England enjoying the freedoms and luxuries of everyday living.

Next Thursday of course England will have even more genuine reasons to be grateful, humble and blessed. On the 8th of May, the world will mark the 80th anniversary of the end of the Second World War when the agonising burdens of pain, suffering and trauma threatened our liberty and rendered life unbearable. Six years of war, tragedy and heartache brought death and devastation to not only England but the whole world. London was reduced to a broken, charred ruin, ravaged and savaged by Adolf Hitler's terrible and tyrannical murder machine. At the time it was thought England would bounce back and make a most miraculous recovery because we were renowned for our resilience.

And yet 80 years after the most horrendous conflict of all time, our generation will be bowing our heads with the utmost reverence. We are now the grandchildren who can barely grasp the ugly magnitude of what happened from 1939 to 1949. The archive footage and documentary evidence still leaves you cold and disgusted. You can still hear the buzz bombs, the V2 rockets, the fire bombed houses in their thousands, the burning buildings, the East End of London blitzed and yet undaunted and the morale of the nation seemingly at its lowest. And yet not. The bulldog spirit remained intact. 

But of course today on this first day of May, it's time to look out across those placid and peaceful cornfields, the majestic meadows, babbling brooks, resounding rivers rippling across gently waving Weeping Willows, beautiful rosebeds  in perfect shades of pink, yellow, red and purple. It is time to look out across wide, hugely expansive fields of the most astounding beauty all the while absorbing the sounds of dramatic, cascading waterfalls, grazing sheep and similarly deep thinking, contemplative cows.

It is time to look forward to another cricket and tennis season and welcome both sports with radiant smiles and an invigorating relish. Close your eyes and ears and you can now visualise the village green game of Sunday cricket where men or women now strap their pads to their ankles, stretch every limb in their body, squat on their haunches and wave their solid, varnished bat resolutely. Then they clatter down the pavilion steps for another day at the crease in front of three or four inquisitive farmers, a couple of blacksmiths and a smattering of folk from the local butchers, bakers and post office.

Suddenly the crack of red ball on the willow of the bat sounds like the first bottle of beer or cider being popped triumphantly next to a timber beamed pub called the Royal Oak. Then there is the gentle applause from the boundary trickling across the ground rather like the stream and tributary next to third man. An umpire stands patiently waiting for the first ball of the day rather like a man waiting for the 9.30 train to arrive from a distant London railway station. He flicks a coin, pulls a pencil from his pocket and the world has never been happier. Oh and before I forget our beautiful grandson Arthur and his baby sister Rosie will be here for the loveliest family party and of course the sun will shine. Have a great May Day everybody. 

Crystal Palace reach the FA Cup Final, beating Aston Villa in the FA Cup semi final.

 Crystal Palace reach the FA Cup Final, beating Aston Villa in the FA Cup semi final.

Crystal Palace were rewarded for their perseverance and the FA Cup once again remembered that it still has a romantic soft spot. For all the world, it did look as if Manchester City had taken out proprietorial rights on all of England's available trophies, sweeping aside all comers and forgetting that football's beating heart was still throbbing away in a private corner. There is still a corner of England that is forever unfashionable, discreetly hidden away from the public eye. Now we can easily recognise one of its more modest inhabitants, a team who have never won anything and might, finally, win the FA Cup.

Yesterday, Crystal Palace were in the most astonishing form of their lives, a team sprinkled with stardust, criminally unfancied and never hogging the back page headlines. Crystal Palace are in the 2025 FA Cup Final. Now how good does that sound. They've made several visits to a Wembley FA Cup Final and never quite been able to thrust themselves over the finishing line. It often seems that the underdog will always be underestimated but Palace will return to the FA Cup Final in a couple of weeks time. 

In 1990, Palace were eventually overwhelmed by Sir Alex Ferguson's swaggering Manchester United side, a United sniffing the rarefied air of success for the first time before greater achievements awaited in future years. Palace were crushed underfoot by the likes of Mark Hughes and company in an FA Cup Final replay after Ian Wright, who first came to prominence with Palace, had made an immediate impact for the Eagles in both the first game and then a replay which would go against Palace.

But 35 years later and Palace are back in the glamorous bright lights of Wembley Stadium and an FA Cup Final is theirs for the taking should they want it. Either Nottingham Forest or Manchester City will be their opposition although Palace will have no preference because they must understand better than most that the middle classes of the Premier League are always content with their station in life. City will be going flat out to prove that they can still win trophies even though the Premier League has now escaped them this season. Forest are just desperate to win the FA Cup for the first time in their history. 

Once again an FA Cup semi final did live up to all its traditional expectations. For those who recall the enchantment of a visit to either Villa Park or Hillsborough, the choice of Wembley Stadium as the now yearly venue for both FA Cup semi finals does have an air of inappropriateness about it. And yet the practical value of taking the game to the national stadium does make some sense. For Crystal Palace there was an earthy air of authenticity about the Cup's magic. Palace could feel it and reach out for it. 

There were those FA Cup semi finals when the alleged minnows almost proved everybody wrong. Plymouth Argyle were once 90 minutes from an FA Cup Final before Graham Taylor's Watford spoilt their party. Then there was Chesterfield who could hardly believe that they were a match away from the pomp and pageantry of an FA Cup Final. Then Middlesbrough dumped them unceremoniously out of the competition in the semi final. It almost felt too good to be true for the men from Derbyshire. For Crystal Palace, this was their big chance and they embraced it for all its worth.

But Palace will always be associated with those flamboyant days of both Malcolm Allison and Terry Venables. Quite how Palace came to be acknowledged as the Team of the Eighties beggars belief. True they did have that classical, dashing and exciting winger Vince Hilaire in their ranks. They had the Hinshelwood brothers, Jerry Murphy, Peter Taylor scurrying up and down the flanks as well, all deceptive trickery and dropping shoulders. Dave Swindlehurst led the line admirably and consistently but Palace were distinctly lacking in regal grandeur and never more than run of the mill. 

On a Saturday springtime evening though Palace beat an Aston Villa whose season has sadly run out of steam. After their gallant exertions against Lyon in the Champions League and defeat to the French team, Villa are in the hunt for another place in next year's Champions League. But Villa simply fell short against Palace and, for all their eye catching passing movements, there was a stale rustiness about yesterday's display. The claret and blue had a sour taste about it rather than a vintage one. 

At the back Marc Guehi has a shining England potential about him and Palace will need to hold onto Guehi if they are ever to harbour any realistic hopes of Premier League survival or much beyond. Both Maxence Lacroix and Daniel Munoz gave the Palace defence an immaculate authority without ever flinching any challenge. With Chris Richards looking stern, unyielding and oozing the security at the back Palace were hoping for, the Eagles were a well oiled machine. Tyrick Mitchell was full of the exuberance of youth while Ebereche Eze is a sensational talent and should be wrapped in cotton wool for England's latest attempt to finally win the World Cup again next year. Ishmaila Sarr was all magnificent suppleness, athleticism and devastating pace, an energetic livewire who broke any Villa resistance. 

It wasn't long before Palace were in cruise control and firmly in charge of proceedings. They took the lead with their first sustained attack of the game, a gem of a goal and so richly deserved. Sarr, always involved in all the good things that Palace had to offer, ran purposefully forward at the Villa defence, shrugging off claret and blue shirts as if they were simply invisible. Sarr found Eze, laying the ball square across the edge of the penalty area and Eze thumped the ball low past Martinez, the Villa keeper, with bludgeoning force.

Villa had no answer to Palace's conveyor belt of attacking prowess and the likes of John Mcginn, Boubacar Kamara, Ezri Konsa, Lucas Digne, Morgan Rogers and Ollie Watkins were struggling to come to terms with a Palace attacking juggernaut that simply rolled along both smoothly and forcefully without ever being challenged by anything Villa had in their repertoire. 

For Palace, the contribution of Adam Wharton was simply a magnificent masterclass. Wharton was full of bite, doggedness and tenacity, his interceptions as smooth as syrup and tackling a joy to behold. Palace extended their lead thanks to Wharton's bullishness and bravery. Wharton won the ball courageously outside the Villa penalty box, prodding the ball into space and Sarr glided into space before drilling the most powerful of shots past Martinez.

It seemed that Palace had been completely unruffled by the penalty miss from Jean Phillipe Mateta. Villa at the time must have feared the worst but Mateta's spot kick was both feeble and sloppy. Briefly, Villa rallied but were then pinned back into their own half by a Palace side now showing both a verve and panache that couldn't be held back. 

In the second half, quite notably, Palace's Eze and Mateta up front, were in the most breathtaking form, Eze now sliding and slipping past Villa players with a sense of entitlement and class. Eze was both stylish and authoritative, a quality midfield attacking player whose positional awareness of his colleagues was almost instinctive. Palace were now flying and as the match ebbed away from Villa, it became increasingly apparent that the claret and blue shirts were now drained and devoid of any ideas.

Palace could afford the luxury of bringing on the former Arsenal forward Eddie Nketiah without disturbing their flow. Nketiah, sensing that Villa were holding onto the metaphorical ropes, sent a outrageously perceptive, drilled through ball past a tiring Villa defence. The portcullis then opened up, Sarr gobbling up the acres of grass before moving onto the pass and blasting home Palace's third goal, the icing on the cake. 

High up on the Wembley terraces and seats, there were vast walls of red, white and navy banners and flags. Palace's fans, some of the loudest and proudest in the Premier League, made themselves conspicuous by their presence. They sung resoundingly, chanted vociferously and then abandoned themselves to rapturous cheering. Saturday evening must have been their most unforgettable experience, when all those years of agonising failure became a joyous drunken stupor. None could deny them their moment in the sun. Even Oliver Glasner, Palace's boss could afford himself a pat on the back. Let those Eagles fly high.      

The Penguin Lessons

 The Penguin Lessons

We could hardly believe what we were watching. This was quite the most extraordinary film we've seen for ages and at the end of Steve Coogan's latest film The Penguin Lessons some of us were reduced to buckets of emotional tears, weeping unaccountably and not really understanding why a film about an English teacher and a penguin had set off so many powerful emotions. So we watched with a mixture of delicious curiosity and much amusement. My wife Bev and I were suitably enchanted. 

In hindsight there could hardly have been less moving and poignant about The Penguin Lessons but it did leave you  crying and not really knowing why. Besides the penguin died at the end of the film and why should that fact alone matter in the least. It wasn't your pet penguin and you didn't invite the said penguin into your family home. You didn't feed the penguin, care for it in the most sympathetic manner and introduce it to a classroom of rowdy, mischievous and disruptive schoolboys in Argentina. You paid to see the film with a cosy tub of of popcorn, a drink and a small bar of chocolate. 

So let's set the scene here and give you a detailed description of what happened in the Penguin Lessons. Steve Coogan, who plays the appropriately scholarly, sarcastic and cynical English teacher Tom Michell, arrives in Argentina in 1976. Argentina is riven by a nasty and sinister military dictatorship, the streets densely populated by aggressive soldiers in uniform and the ever present threat of war. Coogan is the man given the responsibility of handling a group of testosterone fuelled teenage boys who are intent on creating havoc and rebelling fiercely against the system. 

Coogan rocks up at his new job as English school teacher against a backdrop of police arrests on the streets of Argentina, bloodthirsty brutality and general mayhem. He meets Jonathan Price, the learned, professorial, ever so slightly snobbish and condescending head teacher who lectures the Steve Coogan character and leaves us in no doubt that he doesn't trust Tom Michell. The boys are hoodlums and reprobates who need to be sorted out and taught the meaning of the word 'sarcastic'.

Then Coogan, with a restless spirit and an insatiable taste of adventure, flies into the tango cafes of Uruguay where his fellow teacher Bjorn Gustafson, the science man, doesn't really approve of Coogan's love of the high life and his declared passion for wine, women and song. Coogan now settles down in his new flat and finds some kind of domestic stability back in Argentina.

Meeting the first Uruguayan women at a bar, he seduces her with sweet nothings but then finds that she's married and it was all a horrible mistake. It is at this point that the story takes its most bizarre twist. Walking along a beach at dusk, both Coogan and his lady friend accidentally discover a group of heart breaking penguins, one of which is seemingly drowned in an oil slick.

Now the Penguin Lessons takes on a life form of its own. Our friendly penguin, now the central feature of the film, follows Steve Coogan and refuses to go away. Much to the annoyance and embarrassment of Coogan, the penguin now decides to observe Coogan's every day activities. He joins him for breakfast, wandering hither and thither, waddling from side to side in quite the cutest fashion. Now we learn that Coogan's character was married but had lost his daughter in a tragic accident. 

Then Tom Michell, our highly respected English teacher, befriends a mother and daughter Vivian El Jaber aka Maria and Alfonsia Carrocio Sofia. Innocently minding her own business, the daughter is snatched and kidnapped by the Argentine military junta. Coogan looks on helplessly and the action moves back to our friendly penguin who becomes increasingly like a metaphor for the film itself; interested in everything and inquisitive about the human race. 

Eventually Coogan, determined to rid himself of the penguin, wakes up to the sound of marching band and warlike music on the radio, and then decided to take him back to a penguin sanctuary. The sudden realisation that the newly named penguin Juan Salvado would now be confined to a cage for the rest of his life stirs an empathy in Coogan and his conscience is pricked sharply. Juan Salvado can stay and now proceeds to spend time listening to the Jonathan Price character and flirting with Maria and Sofia.The penguin now joins in with the boys playful exploits in the school classroom and wins the hearts of everybody.

But then one day, returning to his flat, Tom Michell finds, much to his horror, that Juan Salvado is dead and some of us were just devastated and mortified. Barely believing what had just happened, Coogan crouches down on the floor tearfully handling all of Juan Salvado's toys. Our lovable penguin, after one final swim in a pool, now lay prone on the veranda floor. It is one of the most heart breaking conclusions to any movie and if you're in the mood for a tear jerker and something gentle and inoffensive then the Penguin Lessons is definitely for you. Enjoy. 

Football in the Championship.

 Football in the Championship.

The English football season may be drawing to a close but there is a fascinating scenario at the top of the Championship and another slowly unfolding at the relegation end of the Premier League. It does seem likely that the teams who were promoted from the Championship may be heading back from whence they came. Life often throws up some of the most charming coincidences and football has a habit of following suit. But this one seems too good to be true. We're not quite there yet but it does look as if history may be about to repeat itself and that wouldn't be for the first time. 

The three teams who were promoted to the Premier League- probably through no fault of their own or maybe it is- Southampton, Leicester City and Ipswich Town are hovering over the relegation trapdoor too precariously for words. All three look destined to go down to the Championship and that may not speak volumes for the current quality of squads now prevailing in the Championship. And just to rub salt into the proverbial wind, the three clubs in contention for a place in next season's Premier League have also sampled the high life in the top flight in recent times. 

Both Leeds United, Burnley and Sheffield United were once well established and prominent names in English football. In the august and learned drawing rooms, pubs, bars and supporter clubs of  football's most active discussion rooms, the word is that we've seen it all before. It is rather like watching the same, stodgy diet of daytime TV programmes with the sound turned down. This is not a case of familiarity breeding contempt more a realisation that some things never change in football.

But now both Leeds, Burnley and Sheffield United are battling it out for the right to compete in the most fiercely competitive and unforgiving League of them all. A couple of seasons ago Burnley treated the Premier League rather like kids at a birthday party trampoline. Under the shrewd guidance of Vincent Kompany they stormed the barricades of the Championship and were promoted back to the Premier League in no time at all. Then it all went disastrously pear shaped and they were relegated back to the Championship the following season. 

This season the Clarets of Burnley,  who once won the old League Championship 65 years ago, are tasting another bottle of vintage bottle of champagne. Former West Ham and Chelsea midfielder Scott Parker, a smooth, hard working and composed player, has taken up the reins at Turfmoor. If all goes according to plan, Burnley will be high fiving and mixing it up convivially with the upper classes once again next season. Burnley are just one example of what can happen when you think you've cracked the code and then discover that it was all an elaborate hoax and you've been caught out, tricked and hoodwinked.

For Leeds United, top flight football in the old First Division became an almost permanent fixture for decades when Don Revie was manager. Then we realised that there were skeletons in their cupboard as well. During the 1970s Leeds were both lovable and despicable in the same sentence. Their football was captivating, beautiful at times, delightfully compelling and just stunning at others. Then there were times when their fans could have cheerfully throttled them although not literally, you understand. Leeds, with tigerish, feverish and hot headed Billy Bremner lashing out with both fists and ferocious tackling, became thuggish, eleven white shirted terrorists who were intent on creating havoc.

And yet several seasons ago now, Leeds hit rock bottom and went through quite the most horrendous ordeal any once legendary team could have been subjected to. Leeds were in the old Third Division and scraping the bottom of a barrel that became increasingly more repulsive as time went on. But stability has been restored to the Elland Road club. Sadly, the likes of Lorimer, Bremner and Charlton, once held in the highest esteem and almost idolised, are no longer here to watch the modern generation and only the very sophisticated Johnny Giles remains from an unforgettable era. 

Leeds United are now literally a match or two away from promotion back to the Premier League and for the neutral fans who could only look on with the deepest admiration during the 1970s, there is a sense that Leeds somehow belong in the Premier League. Of course comparisons with the Leeds of old are just preposterous so we can only form a judgment when the new football season dawns in August. The nightmarishly traumatic 44 days of Brian Clough seem like some historical anomaly, something that was mistaken in the translation and would never be repeated again.

Finally, there's Sheffield United who, rather like both Leeds and Burnley, can never seem to make up their minds about their place in the greater scheme of things. Sheffield United have been like the traditional yo yo in recent seasons, up one minute and down the next. Sometimes you think to yourself that the widely mentioned parachute in footballing circles should be provided to all those teams who keep bouncing between the Championship and the Premier League. 

But such is the current infrastructure exists that in both Premier League and the lower divisions it is hard to imagine how any of those aspirational teams can ever dream of a comfortable residence in the top flight. The financial incentives on offer to the likes of both Burnley, Leeds and Sheffield United are both mouth watering and deeply enticing. TV money from the money tree that is both Sky and TNT sport is dictating the way in which most of the big boys will be conducting their business. We wish both Leeds, Sheffield United and Burnley the heartiest of good wishes.  

Good Friday and the Easter break

 Good Friday and the Easter break.

This is normally the point in the year when most of us descend on our supermarkets and attempt to load as many Easter eggs and hot cross buns in our trolley as we can feasibly can. Then we search frantically for those frozen legs of lamb that we know will complete the Sunday roast and keep the entire family happy for the whole duration of the holiday weekend. It is the perfect culinary experience and eventually we all spill out ecstatically into the garden and leave the kids to kick their football into the neighbours garden with an almost amusing regularity. 

Essentially, springtime in England has now officially been declared because the tulips and daffodils are out in their smartest attire, petals fluttering nervously in the gentle breezes of April before a chill nips at our fleece coats. We then invariably complain about the cold again because we somehow long for warmer weather and the height of summertime. Then the sunshine breaks through the cotton wool clouds that keep playing chess in the blue skies, one moment drifting languidly across our startled eyes before swapping places with another set of nimbus cumulus and then into another neighbourhood.

But, across Britain, the furniture and do it yourself warehouses will be alive with the sound of ringing cash tills or cashless as is very much the case nowadays. Everywhere dads, uncles and cousins will be opening up their garden shed for yet another display of their haberdashery selection of tools, lawnmowers, pruning secateurs, water hoses, remarkable looking bags of manure and compost, rusting boxes of seeds, old Daily Mail newspapers and a transistor radio that was probably last turned on when Marconi was but a lad. 

Inside the home, the kids are excitedly ripping open their Easter eggs with tons of chocolate boxes of Maltesers, Mars bars and a varied assortment of everything that is supposed to be bad for you, damaging your health almost immediately and leading to all sorts of medical complaints in later life. But you remembered your lovely grandma and grandpa opening up their drinks cabinet and revealing those mouth watering chocolate indulgences. It is a cholesterol paradise and yet you never rejected the opportunity to stuff your face with huge quantities of sweet brown confections that you could never get enough of. 

And yet why is today Good Friday? The mystery seems to deepen with every year and you wonder what's so virtuous and excellent about this Friday in particular. It is life of course undoubtedly so. We are now familiar with Good Friday's religious connotations since most of Christianity is suffused with a warm glow, devout churchgoers huddling together in their orderly rows of pews as the vicar preaches in the holiest of worship. Then the hymns flood out of the stained glass windows of many colours and we all sing harmoniously from the same sheet. 

There is something timelessly reassuring about Easter that never fails to hit the right spot. On the TV, we scratch our heads in obvious bewilderment once again at the lack of Easter Parade with Judy Garland. Besides, it is the most appropriate film you could ever wish to see at this time of the year. But the TV schedulers have missed the moment so perhaps dad can finish fixing the bookshelves again or  some more mahogany cabinets, the hanging of exquisite paintings on the wall and don't forget to use the drill and screwdriver, nails and brackets.

This is very much the time for getting out to nature, exploring woodlands, rambling along country lanes in search of the friendliest country pub in the world. It is a time for renewal and resurrection, waking up to the sound of the amiable robin who perches itself on your nearest fir tree and guards your home with an almost touching affection for human property. 

For some of us this was quality time for meeting up with my wonderful family wife Bev, son Sam and daughter in law Lucy, the loveliest people in the world and most precious. And of course there are our stunning grandchildren Arthur and Rosie. You are most humble and grateful for everything that life has to offer. We tend to take our family for granted and then realise just how important they are to us, our connection to the world we live in.

 But Good Friday will now precede another Easter weekend where football begins to slowly wend its way to its natural conclusion. Soon the crack of the cricket red ball against willow bat will be heard across the parklands, garden centres, quaint tea shops and those whirling wind turbines that now dot the landscape of every motorway, roundabout and hard shoulder of Britain.

This is Britain flinging open its curtains and blinds on this Easter weekend. Soon the caravans and motorhomes will return back home from the seaside since we do know how to be by one. This may not be quite the time for abandoning ourselves to deckchairs and ice creams with knotted handkerchiefs on our head but Good Friday is good enough for all of us. You can almost hear the cricket and tennis season. We can see it from every angle and perspective. It is so life affirmingly sweet.