International Women's Day

 International Women's Day.

Now where on earth would we be without women? Women, of course are renowned for their multi tasking, their undoubted versatility, their down to earth practicality, their stunning logic, their maternal instinct when babies are born and nurturing becomes second nature. Women can spin plates simultaneously, adapting and adjusting, organising, making plans for the future and then just getting on with the business in hand without any objections.

But then history tells us that they also produce some of our finest Prime Ministers, our most respected humanitarians, excellent nurses, kind, generous individuals who left an unforgettable legacy on society. When Florence Nightingale provided a warm, caring and sympathetic heart to the wounded soldiers of wartime England, it was widely felt that women had asserted their authority, well and truly arrived. But Nightingale was one of the leaders, pioneers, a woman who loved and cared unconditionally. 

There was Indira Gandhi, formidable prime minister of India from many moons ago, Golda Meir, the Israeli Prime Minister, who was there at the start of Israel's great Independence era, a strong, forthright, positive, ruthless, uncompromising world stateswoman, a woman of clear thinking, radical ideas, controversial statements, no nonsense theories, an almost incessant smoker but revered in a way that few women had been up until that point. 

And then in 1979 the United Kingdom welcomed its first woman into 10 Downing Street as Prime Minister. She was a feisty intellectual, a professional chemist, smooth talking but direct, pragmatic, forceful, outspoken and attracting both huge respect and notoriety in huge measures. When confronted by the might of the mining industry during the 1980s, Margaret Thatcher gave as good as she got, attacking Arthur Scargill's militant colliery workers and miners, breaking down political barriers by threatening and then destroying their resistance. 

The memorable sight of Thatcher striding across barren wasteland where once there were prosperous pitheads and coal faces will never be forgotten by the enraged working classes. Thatcher hated Scargill and his hard working, gritty miners who had left school at the age of 14 and known no other employment. But Thatcher was deliberately disruptive according to some, perhaps dangerously divisive and just a pain in the neck. She was single handedly responsible for the three million unemployed who had now found themselves lost and bereft, out of work, no money in their pockets to pay bills and look after their families. However, that may have been questionable to those who thought she was superb. 

Nowadays women occupy some of the highly prestigious roles in modern times. In the old days women were, and still are, accomplished legal secretaries, acknowledged PA's,  human resources administrators of  the highest calibre, eminent high court judges, prominent lawyers of some repute and women of strength, character and resilience. Women strike with vehement intentions, protesting for their rights with bold placards across the world. Women rightly complain about gender inequalities, feelings of injustice and persecution in a man's world.

The truth is that feminism is still a movement that has to be taken seriously. Women are fervent campaigners on behalf of worthy causes because they believe, quite firmly, that they're right. And who could possibly disagree with them? Emily Pankhurst, leader of the Suffragette movement, was steadfast and loyal on behalf of feminism and would never be silenced. Emily Davison, who bravely threw herself under the Kings horse in the Epsom Derby way back when, is still regarded as an iconic figure by millions of women. 

Then, there are today's artists such as Tracy Emin who threw back the frontiers of her profession when she presented us with the famous unmade bed and displayed it in an art gallery for all to see. Germaine Greer joyously advocated women as powerful and influential, raging against alleged sexism and women's subordination and oppression, while men threatened to take away what must have seemed their waning influence. 

Who could ever forget the perception of women in the world of music? Ella Fitzgerald was the dominant and mighty voice of jazz, a woman whose magnificent and gifted voice travelled the globe and made a lasting impression on her fans and admirers. Billy Holliday was the heartbreak and bittersweet voice of the 1950s, crying and sobbing into a microphone as if she'd been rejected in love yet again when we knew she hadn't. 

And then there were the likes of Barbara Castle and Shirley Williams, hard, indomitable spirits who knew theirs was the right opinion and none could contradict them. Female politicians will always model themselves against the inimitable Margaret Thatcher but then again who could ever deny them their moment in the sun?

Women in sport have never had it so good to quote an old Tory Prime Minister. Football enjoys a phenomenal global popularity and the Women's Super League in England is a flourishing force with the national team defying all expectations at times. Women's cricket has yet to emerge as a recognisable entity but does seem to making genuine progress at both club and international level while women's rugby is slowly developing and may take a while to make a dramatic breakthrough. 

So it is that we mark International Women's Day. They will be flying their flags, marching impressively down high streets and traditional West End of London landmarks. My mum and grandma will always be important members of my own family because they fought and overcame the horrors of the Holocaust. They provided me with the opportunity to express my gratitude for them here and now. Members of my family of course on the distaff side, will always be guiding lights on my life. So wherever you are in the world Happy International Women's Day. This is your day. 

Donald Trump and that argument

 Donald Trump and that argument.

So there we were minding our business on the first weekend of March when, suddenly, it all kicked off. You've never seen anything like it. It was almost as if somebody had set light to one of the biggest fireworks parties in the world. There were rockets, ferris wheels, sparklers, catherine wheels and things that blow up and soar into the night air and, under normal circumstances, this would have been a spectacular sight but on Friday morning in downtown Washington, it must have felt as if all the grenades had exploded at once. 

Huddled together in the Oval Office in the White House, the President of the United States of America Donald Trump delivered his most lethal and most ferocious metaphorical punch at the President of Ukraine Volodymyr  Zelensky who used to be a comedian in another incarnation. But at no point during a violently combustible Press conference, was there anything remotely funny or hilarious about the verbal boxing match that was the hostile showdown between Trump and Zelensky. 

There have probably been moments in political history when two men have almost come to blows over a tragic and lengthy war. But there are now thousands of innocent civilians who have been brutally killed, murdered and shot down in cold blood over that old chestnut of territorial domination. Fists have been raised and they even assassinated a former American president for just mixing in the wrong social company. But this latest ugly development in the continuing war of words between both America, Russia and the Ukraine is a symptom of a world that is both fractured, fractious, troubled and never at peace. 

On Friday evening, the world's Press, hungry cameramen and women, photographers, radio and TV microphones assembled for one of the most horrendous bust ups ever seen by two powerful and, in hindsight, two thoroughly incensed men who would willingly have put on gloves if they thought it would sort out this unseemly and unsavoury mess. 

The irony, of course, is that both Zelensky and Trump were sitting next to each other, in what turned out faux harmony, all of the pent up frustration of the last three years erupting in front of the rest of the world like some deliberate act of sabotage. In fact so staged and premeditated was the whole Friday charade, that Trump had the gall and chutzpah to declare that this had been great TV. And so it had been but probably for the wrong reasons. 

And yet it had all started so promisingly. Both Zelensky and Trump exchanged pleasant jovialities, Trump perhaps sarcastically congratulating Zelensky for dressing up smartly for the occasion. Then we went through the formalities of a peace agreement being reached and how we were all ready to celebrate a permanent ceasefire. The important documents were about to be signed, confirming that both President Putin and Zelensky had finally recognised that enough death and destruction had been inflicted on the people of both Russia and the Ukraine. So far so good. 

But then as the questions were fired from the Fourth Estate and journalists had exhausted their battery of questions, the air became poisonous. An American gentleman from the Press piped up with perhaps the most crass inquiry ever heard at a gathering such as this. Why, he asked, wasn't President Zelensky wearing a suit and, more to the point, did he even own a suit because the good people of America were anxious to know why and had a right to be informed?

You could almost see the dark clouds hovering over a crowded and tense room of politicians and journalists. A Polish broadcaster thought the time was right to ask Trump whether military action would intensify to such an extent that eventually Poland would be dragged into conflict. Now it was that the volcanic atmosphere would simmer and boil threateningly before just steaming over. Things would spiral dramatically out of control. 

Vice President Vance, conveniently situated on a chaise longue from a middle class living room in California, joined in with the bun fight. Landing savage hooks and jabs into Zelensky's head metaphorically once again, Vance seriously wondered whether Zelensky would ever thank his so called American allies for busting a gut in the relentless quest for peace. For everything that Vance and his colleagues had done to save Ukraine from complete annihilation, the least Ukraine could do was show their gratitude. 

At this point, the American president with the ridiculously long red tie, bristling orange hair and a navy suit that Robert Redford once wore in one of his films, started raising his voice. Before long, Donald Trump simply went berserk. So angry, inflamed and impassioned did Trump become that it wasn't long that his fingers and hands were in full confrontational mode. The body language became tiresomely familiar and there was the old fashioned routine of gesturing, gesticulating, stretching his hands to make a pertinent point and then glancing around the room with those sinister glares.

Trump just kept going on and on about the deals he was famous for doing, the non existent wars he'd stopped and then perhaps the most outrageous comment. In the middle of another raucous rant about the Ukranian insistence on continuing the war, Trump became convinced that Zelensky was quite happy to gamble with millions of lives with a Third World War repeatedly.

Shortly, after another heated exchange of facts and the obvious statements, both men looked as if they were just eye balling each other contemptuously. Trump looked just fed up with the whole occasion before claiming once again that Zelensky just wasn't co-operating and that wasn't a nice thing. He then resorted to that celebrated vocabulary where the whole act of being disrespectful to America and the world, was driving him around the bend. 

And after what seemed an eternity, Trump just engaged with his audience with one of those looks that suggested that butter hadn't melted in his mouth. He kept looking for approval and rapturous applause but didn't get it. The President of the United States had just concluded one of the most astonishing and memorable political Press conferences ever heard or seen. 

It could be said that we'd just witnessed the gaudiest, cheapest and sleaziest political scenes but then we must have known this to be the case. Donald Trump had behaved with all the politeness and decorum of one of those individuals at Speakers Corner at Hyde Park who do nothing but shout, expostulate, holler at the the top of their voices, spouting seeming nonsense, insulting invective and contempt for everybody. 

But of course Trump had the vested interests of peace and pacifism at heart, a buccaneering hero who should win the Nobel Peace Prize and be widely acclaimed for being the perfect gentleman. Sadly, we turned our eyes away from last Friday night in shock and horror, bafflement and confusion, hardly believing the evidence of our eyes. It was truly terrifying TV and certainly not one of Trump's finest hours. We may hope and pray that we never ever see its like ever again.  

Brazilian carnival week

 Brazilian carnival week and March.

In England, we celebrate street carnivals on the August Bank Holiday when the summertime pageantry is drawing to a close, the sweet heat of May, June and July is sinking grudgingly and slowly on the West London horizon and everything and everybody becomes sad and regretful. The parks and gardens are sprinkled with the first of the early autumn showers, the leaves are slowly turning brown and life assumes a different mood and complexion. But you can still hear the steel drums and always see the colourful dancers. The Notting Hill Carnival is under way and thriving. 

Next week, starting from today, Brazil, perhaps the most hypnotic and rhythmic nation in the world, will burst into life once again for the traditional street carnival in Rio. It is a now well established institution, the one event in the year in Brazil when the happy-go-lucky people of this South American jewel abandon themselves to carefree and joyous togetherness. Carnival in Brazil is a remarkable revelation, hundreds, thousands and millions of Brazilians smiling incessantly, young girls wiggling energetic hips with wonderfully ostentatious feathers, thick lipstick and mascara on their faces and a passionate love of life. 

We all know about the Brazilian outlook on life: vividly optimistic, always cheerful and deeply attached to the umbilical sporting chord of football. And here are the striking parallels with carnival. Carnival and football are almost spiritually compatible with each other. They both exude community, a genuine sense of harmony and there is a realisation that nobody can match their desire to be amongst each other if only to present to the rest of the world a lasting image that people can still get on with each other. 

High above Christ the Redeemer and Sugar Loaf Mountain in Rio, there will be the natural exuberance of youth, the infectious samba beat blasting from the speakers, the striking sensuality of carnival on quite the most magnificent scale. At the moment, you begin to think that the world is in desperate need of something to get excited about for politics and wars invariably capture the news agenda. We know what happens when we gather together for either a party to remember and memories to cherish. We get lost in the moment, swallowed up with a communal euphoria. 

The Notting Hill Carnival is a delightful outpouring of goodwill, like minded instincts, men, women and children devouring massive helpfuls of jerk chicken, all manner of exotic, spicy foods and general bacchanalia. Notting Hill winds its way through the streets and back roads of this salubrious West London suburb and in Rio, too, they think and fantasise about winning yet more World Cups in football and the yellow emblem of Brazil becomes a shield of honour. 

And yet here we again on the brink of March and England in springtime turns its attention to healthy outdoor pursuits, the glorious vision of the floral spring festival and nature at her most sumptuous. Finally, winter downs its tools, leaving behind it the gloomy dark melancholy of long winter evenings without any sunlight and spring emerges from behind the grey curtains of post Christmas bleakness. 

Tomorrow signals the start of the meteorological spring calendar when weathermen and women point at the computer graphics with warm fronts streaming across Europe and back out into the rest of the world. Spring will always be synonymous with picture postcard yellow tulips standing proud, an air of almost noble haughtiness about them and the most uplifting aura. Then the crocuses and snowdrops push their way animatedly out of the ground and seemingly smile at all round them while the rest of humanity feels a sense of utter privilege. 

Here in North London, a stunning wetlands provides a wonderfully scenic and idyllic backdrop to life itself. Wherever you go, there are young children, wheeling around the pathways with that almost traditional innocence and outward glee that can never be restrained. Kids have been cycling for as long as we can remember and, in a world of high tech electronic screens and social media, maybe that's a blessing. Then families loosen their scarves and coats, removing layers of thick pullovers with undisguised relief and generally exchanging work or family related pleasantries. 

In our part of the world, kingfishers and great crested glebes join forces with beautifully proportioned swans, ducks and Canadian geese who look as though they're simply ruling the roost. Last summer, the most aesthetically pleasing on the eye white swan could be spotted sitting on her nest, lovingly protecting her chicks. Mum was devotedly keeping a close eye on her offspring and all was well with the world.  

But for those with sporting interests, spring can only mean two specific cultural events. Shortly, the good folk of Aintree in Liverpool will be opening its equine doors. The Grand National will give the spring sporting calendar its most impressive presentation, those memorable days when the paddocks and stables produce smoothly groomed horses and thoroughbreds. Our friendly four legged friends will be trotting gently around the parade ground as if acutely aware of the National's historical importance. 

Jockeys and trainers will be socialising amiably and deep in conversation about financially lucrative afternoons in the spring Liverpool sunshine. Then the Aintree bookmakers will be supervising their now electronic boards with thousands of prices flashing and flickering constantly. It is all very British and somehow we'd miss the National terribly if it wasn't there because England is immeasurably poorer without it. 

And then the following week or maybe the week after that, the rowers of Oxford and Cambridge come out of their winter hibernation and most of us will know where we are in relation with the world of sport. They will drop their boats into a slowly warming River Thames, pause at Putney and Hammersmith where their destination will take them and the Boat Race will be up and running. Those observers by the riverside will sip their first bottle of red wine, swap some pate and then cheer themselves hoarse.

The two universities of Oxford and Cambridge will face each other because they always have for as long as we can remember since the 19th century when Gladstone was but a boy. In 1978 Cambridge, half way through the Boat Race, suddenly discovered they were about to capsize in the Thames. Within minutes Cambridge's race was over and Oxford were laughing uproariously all the way to the finish line. 

So here we are at the beginning of the wondrous carnival in Brazil and the threshold of springtime in England. It may be ludicrously premature to even consider cricket but spring never fails to cast a magical spell over us. We instinctively think of Easter, Pesach, the passover, spending long summer evenings delighting in the intriguing rallies of tennis at Wimbledon before enjoying the simple pleasures of life such as family barbecues and endless parties. It maybe March but soon it'll be summer. We have so much to be grateful for.       

Premier League latest.

 Premier League latest.

For the last four seasons the Premier League has been dominated by the same pencil lines, graphs and watercolours, a fusion of the picturesque and stunningly attractive that have proved to be both bewitching and a study in technical virtuosity. Manchester City have won the Premier League by such a convincing margin year after year so much so that you wondered whether they'd ever be toppled from their lofty perch. 

There was a point during this remarkable period of dominance when even Sir Alex Ferguson's treble of trophies with Manchester United seemed just a picnic in the park compared to the lavish feast being served up at Old Trafford. City were exceptional, untouchable at times, classical, ornamental, a model of go ahead innovation, reinvention and sheer poetry in motion. Pep Guardiola must have thought he'd discovered a revolutionary art form and may have been tempted to open up his own gallery. 

But this weekend City are languishing in fourth place in the Premier League after quite the most ordinary season by their exalted standards. Their fall from grace and horrendous decline after reaching the dizzy heights of excellence must have come as a terrible shock to their system. Up until this season their superlative successes had been  achieved by the most simple methods and an attacking philosophy that bordered on the supernatural and transcendental. City must have thought that everything had come far too easy for them and that their exquisite passing game had been created by them and nobody else. 

This weekend though, Manchester City were dwelling on what might have been since the road has been considerably bumpier with innumerable rocks and boulders in their way. Their defeat at Bournemouth towards the end of last year would have been unthinkable a couple of seasons ago let alone in the context of this season. But the Premier League does punch you in the solar plexus when least expected and even City were revealed as mortal and fallible. 

Now City find themselves scrambling for consolation prizes in Europe and a place in the Champions League may be a painstaking struggle if they don't watch themselves. This season is following a script that even they couldn't have imagined possible. The team at the top of the Premier League at the moment once owned the intellectual property on trophy winning rights. They used to be held in the highest esteem by impartial observers and world renowned as a major force in the game and now they're back in charge again. 

Liverpool are now 11 points clear at the top of the Premier League and heading in much the direction that Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley, Joe Fagan and, more recently, Jurgen Klopp had taken the club. Liverpool have almost won 20 League titles both in the old First Division championship and Klopp, in the Premier League himself, during the Covid 19 season when none of the fans were allowed into stadiums and you could have heard a pin drop on Merseyside. 

Now though Dutchman Arne Slot has been instrumental in the revival of Mo Salah's career and the lethal Egyptian striker can do no wrong this season. Once again, Liverpool's football has resembled the most perfect geometry lesson, angles mastered in a matter of seconds, passing through the lines as if the whole exercise had been performed with their eyes closed and the loveliest of movements both in and out of possession. 

Yesterday Liverpool, ironically, had far too much class and footballing intelligence against Manchester City, a complete reversal of roles and a reminder of what can happen when you take everything for granted. Salah celebrated another record breaking goal and even his striking partner Darwin Nunez must have been glowing with envy after that embarrassing miss in front of goal at Aston Villa which might have put the Anfield side out of sight. 

However Arsenal, Liverpool's closest contenders for the Premier League title, are now effectively out of the chase for domestic silverware. Arsenal were beaten by London rivals West Ham United 1-0 at the Emirates Stadium which to some of us came as a pleasant surprise if not a miracle. Jarrod Bowen lunged forward with a low diving header from close range from an excellent Aaron Wan Bissaka cross. Arsenal have normally dictated the pace of games on their own pitch and there was an effortless spontaneity about their passing football that left most neutrals purring with delight. 

Now though Arsenal are beginning to resign themselves to their fate once again, admirable ambassadors for the finer points of the game but just agonisingly short when it matters most. There are now very real grumblings of unrest and dissent at the Emirates although this is certainly not the end of the world. You remain convinced that sooner rather than later that Mikel Arteta will find the consistency and attacking firepower that will get the Gunners over the line eventually. 

Behind Arsenal are both Nottingham Forest and Chelsea and the Premier League is gearing itself for the most hair raising sprint for the line. A certain Brian Clough must be somewhere just willing the present day Forest to re-capture the end of the 1970s. The Premier League is perhaps well out of their comfort zone and reach but Nuno Espirito Santo has to be slapped on the back heartily for this season's sterling endeavours. There are no Tony Woodcocks, John Robertsons, Archie Gemmells, Kenny Burns and Gary Birtles to give this current day Forest jet propulsion but Forest have been entertaining for most of this season. 

Meanwhile, on the other side of Merseyside, Liverpool's fiercest rivals Everton, are bracing themselves for greener pastures. Goodison Park once played host to 1966 World Cup group games and by the time the Z-Cars theme had reverberated around Goodison, the old ground reminded you of an old pop concert venue. But times are changing although the manager has returned from whence he came all those years ago. David Moyes has now revved up engines at Everton once again and next season Everton will be performing in new surroundings. 

When the club were given planning permission to build their beautiful new Bramley Moore Dock ground, it almost felt as if a weight had been lifted from their shoulders. The Everton Stadium hasn't quite the same ring and resonance as Goodison but it shouldn't be too long now before Everton fans are chanting and rhapsodising about their team from this very modern example of footballing architecture. 

And so it is that the Premier League begins to look like a throwback to an intriguing reincarnation of the 1980s. Then Peter Reid, Kevin Sheedy and Paul Bracewell were the cogs and wheels behind the attacking machinery of Graham Sharp and Gary Lineker. Everton even won the old First Division championship but mid table respectability will be their only salvation this season. Football can be the funniest of games. 

   

My book of football poetry Football's Poetic Licence

 My book of football poetry Football's Poetic Licence.

So how's your team doing in the Football League, be it the Premier League, the Championship, Leagues One and Two and what about the Scottish, Irish and Welsh Leagues. Has it been an excellent, fair to middling, moderate or a season to remember? Or would you rather not talk about it because the spectre of relegation is hovering over your team? Are the family arguing over debatable VAR decisions, dodgy offsides, goals that were definitely over the line and is the referee simply biased? And the manager is either good, bad or indifferent. Maybe managers always deserve the sack in the morning. 

The point is that football loves to attract talking points, controversies, bones of contention and people who think they know much more than the pundits and analysts who have played the game extensively, after all. Now for those who simply want to sit down and read some football literature, the Beautiful Game is all about the words, sentences and paragraphs that somehow provide the game with its scenic backdrop. 

I have just the read for you if you're in a mood to pick up a book about football that is both original, different and a tad unconventional. My book of football poetry Football's Poetic Licence is now available at Amazon, Waterstones online, Foyles online, Hatchards online and Barnes and Noble online. Let me explain. Football's Poetic Licence is all about poetry in motion in the written word. It's Shakespeare meeting the modern game, football in the pages of my book.

In Football's Poetic Licence I wax lyrical about the FA Cup, Premier League, Champions League, my late and wonderful mum and dad, there's a warm eulogy to my lovely dad, grandpa Jack who cut the hair of those noble 1966 World Cup winning heroes Bobby Moore, Sir Geoff Hurst, Sir Martin Peters, the World Cup, England, USA, football grounds and Ilford FC, my local team growing up. So treat yourself to some lyrical and poetic descriptions about football. My name is Joe Morris and my book Football's Poetic Licence will make you smile and chuckle. It's a cracking read. Thanks everybody.  

James Bond

 James Bond

For well over 60 years, cinema audiences all over the world have been both entertained, astonished, shocked, horrified and amused at the outrageous antics of one man- James Bond. Of course Bond is a fictitious character who only existed in the fertile mind of Bond's prolific author Ian Fleming. Bond was the most daring secret agent, a man of macho virility, wondrous athleticism, the ultimate ladies man and sex symbol, extraordinary flexibility, little regard for his own safety but always there to save the day. 

Yesterday marked the end of an era for the whole franchise when control of the Bond franchise was handed over to Amazon, an online retail merchandise phenomenon par excellence who could hardly have imagined that they would be the one organisation properly suited to accept such a huge responsibility. For years, Bond was under the sole control of the Broccoli family. 'Cubby Broccoli', surely one of the most familiar faces in the movie industry, was one of the major creative influences behind every decision made when a Bond film went into a Pinewood studio or any venue considered an appropriate location for Bond actors.

When Daniel Craig was supposedly killed off in the last Bond film, it was widely felt that Bond had outstayed his welcome, well and truly passed his sell by date. Ian Fleming, who once wrote one of the most famous children's films and books 'Chitty Chitty Bang Bang', sitting back in his Caribbean retreat and counting his substantial profits and millions from the James Bond conveyor belt of films, may well have wondered what all the fuss was all about. Fleming had made his money and fame from cinema's most recognisable he man and fearless hero. But how far could Fleming take James Bond?

For some of us, the best and finest of all James Bond is a matter of opinion. The first Bond was Sean Connery, a rugged Scotsman who was little known at the time, but soon endeared himself to a whole new generation of movie enthusiasts who had been brought up on a traditional diet of exciting war time films and Carry on comedies made in Britain. But then came James Bond, a brave and romantic character who escaped near certain death and extinction on so many occasions that some of us were open mouthed with wonderment. 

Here was a man who survived countless train journeys by leaping across carriages and then hiding away from gun fire or a bloody death in dark rooms. Here was a man who somehow negotiated a vast array of killing devices such as red hot, burning furnaces, the edge of erupting volcanoes, innumerable buildings with a thousand explosives about to go off and electrical conveyor belts about to crush him. Then there were the evil villains with dastardly deeds, terrible teeth and the deadliest of knives. 

Bond was the most victimised and persecuted of all movie characters and when Connery bowed out of the role to make way for the dashing and debonair Englishman Roger Moore, the whole Bond bandwagon just rolled on relentlessly, a now enthralled age of Bond converts now simply hooked. Some of us perhaps felt it a singular duty to roll up to our local picture house, shell out our shillings and new pences for a bucket of popcorn and the compulsory Coca Cola for leisurely consumption. 

There was Doctor No, On Her Majesty's, Service, the Spy Who Loved Me, Moonwalker, Live and Let Die, Goldfinger and a whole series of fabulously ridiculous and yet pulsating silver screen adventures. This was all about complete suspension of belief and intriguing plots so far fetched that you may just as well have  been snatched from your weekly comic. Bond was barmy, zany, crazy, but lovable figure, a derring-do, devil may care action man, a crusading saviour of the universe committed to the elimination of all the baddies and no good terrorists. 

But yesterday felt like a handover of the keys, a changing of the guard, a new beginning, perhaps a complete reinvention of the Bond persona. This was the man accountable to M or Q, the man or, more recently Dame Judy Dench, a national British treasure, who handed out all of the instructions to Bond on all of those vitally important, make or break missions. And then it happened, exploding all over that vast cinema screen, the evocative music, an always elegant Bond with all of those cute gadgets that nobody would have otherwise dreamt of inventing. 

At the moment, the future of James Bond hangs in the balance. In the old days, we almost expected to be informed of the latest Bond movie because there was a natural break and delay before the momentous announcement. However, this was just a brief hiatus since Bond became a frequent occurrence. Within a couple of months or perhaps weeks, Broccoli and family would always have a neatly packaged bundle of fantasy, fun and sheer escapism in the can. 

But when Amazon came calling, Cubby Broccoli became one of those cuddly, avuncular film producers with a far sighted imagination and bank balance the size of a continent. It will be an interesting time for James Bond because we may have assumed that the likes of Connery, Moore, Dalton and Craig should now have rendered Bond a permanent dinosaur, conventional super heroes with a taste for the high life and danger but now just history personified. 

For those who have probably seen too many variations on a theme, the whole concept of James Bond may be completely dated and irrelevant. We have seen the death defying escapades, the heart in the mouth exploits, hair raising, gripping, nerve racking, epic manifestations. We know that Bond was the most charming of charmers, the man who never gave up, thumping and punching his adversaries, then chucking them off mountains and cliffsides as if it were just another day in the office. 

Now we await further developments in the canon of James Bond. We must have thought we'd seen everything when Daniel Craig jumped over huge acres of crumbling concrete and Roman colosseums, pillars and columns crashing and then subsiding under Craig's feet. Then we remembered the memorable opening sequence of Moonraker where Roger Moore went ski-ing down the most breathtaking slope surrounded by a magnificent mountain range. Then Moore went flying down a cliffside and you had to watch the film consumed with fascination. So our best wishes go to Amazon and James Bond. This could be the most harmonious partnership of all time. Keep going Mr Bond.  

Donald Trump- hero or zero?

 Donald Trump- hero or zero?

It is hard to know where this one is going. We are now a couple of months into the second term of Donald Trump as President of the United States and the jury is still out. Are we watching a re-enactment of a typical war movie where the gallant soldiers are led over the top by a domineering sergeant major barking out orders only to find that the enemy are still firing missiles at them. Trump is still oozing confidence and bravado, still seemingly in charge of his mental faculties and yet there is something inherently wrong here. 

On the one hand, Trump's intentions are honourable but there is a nagging sense of cynicism about his latest bombastic outbursts, his very public threats and grievances, the impassioned rants, the ill judged statements designed to wind up and antagonise. The story of Donald Trump is now so well documented that we have now seen the film about him which he so despised and we know both his blood group and leg measurements. Everything about Trump is now an open book and widely available for social documentary, for comment and reaction.  

You can't hide his past and his future looks pretty transparent as well. In fact most of us can probably predict his next course of action in much the way that crystal ball gazers can see what might happen in six months time. For a while it looked as if Trump was both positive, proactive, admirable, sensible, even, quite possibly, constructive. It did look as if rational thinking had kicked in and the planet would be a safe place sooner rather than later. But now he seems to have made a rod for his own back. 

On Saturday we witnessed the release of three more Israeli hostages from captivity. Some of us were just overjoyed and mightily relieved since this could be the precursor for yet more good news in the Middle East. Hamas menacing body language and infuriating stubbornness suggested that the ceasefire was over and we were back on a war front. But then there was a volte face, a sudden change of heart and mind so the ceasefire between Israel, Hamas and Hezbollah was still intact. 

This morning, peace is still a blissful reality, a heartening sight and sound but then we begin to listen to Trump's more up to date ultimatums, the olive branch of peace to both Ukraine, Russia and President Putin. And yet there is something missing in the jigsaw piece. On Sunday evening, Trump took up residence next to a plane again and blurted out yet more worrying pronouncements about war, brutish belligerence and if Russia ignore him, the Trump card has got a problem and he's the grizzly bear.

There is something dark and sinister about Donald Trump when somebody insists on getting on his nerves. In fact at some point Trump may yet explode in front of TV news cameras and it won't be a pretty sight. This morning, Trump came out with some ridiculous nonsense about the mentally disabled or words to that effect and everything about the man has the air of a freak show. But once again this may be a gross exaggeration, a complete fallacy. Perhaps he's a saint and paragon of virtue. Who are we to say?

You can't help but think though that rather than showing the dynamic leadership qualities one has every right to expect of the President of the United States, Trump simply loves soundbites and controversies. He can't get enough of them. The man who used to be completely dependent on social media for some of his more outrageous words of wisdom, is still bleating, accusing, threatening again, blasting the eardrums of anybody prepared to indulge him. 

In fact, you remain convinced Trump sounds like a man forever rehearsing for a lengthy run in a mainstream TV soap opera. There is a bizarre theatricality about him that almost becomes patently obvious at times. Everything is a dramatic moment in his life, the indecipherable finger gestures, the endless gesticulating, the underhand handshake with fellow prime ministers and presidents and the limited vocabulary when matters of state demand a more rounded eloquence. 

And then you notice his behaviour behind the Oval Office wood panelled desk. He sits at the said desk with a number of vitally important papers and documents which have yet to be signed. Essentially, everything looks normal but the handwriting looks an awkward and laborious operation. He picks up the pen and then scrawls on the page painfully. The result may be a legible one but calligraphy experts may think otherwise. 

Now it is that the words spill from his melodramatic tongue like acid from a scientific test tube. Trump is ruthless, uncompromising, angry, irascible and moody. It is as if he deliberately wakes up on the wrong side of the bed. Initially, there is the understandable diplomacy, the right time and place. But then we briefly forget who we are dealing with here. Trump gets all niggly and unpredictable, rather like somebody being poked with a red hot poker.

The truth is that Trump comes across as a mass of contradictions and paradoxes, nice as pie one minute and fairly decent before losing his temper with that maddeningly argumentative tongue. At the moment, everything is still at the discussion stage, hundreds of ministers and talking heads trying desperately to hold everything together. 

Sadly, one of the warring countries has been left out in the cold. Ukranian president Zelensky, a likeable and patient man, has been cold shouldered by Putin and Russia as if the man were somehow invisible. While the rest of the world wants peace, normality and stability between the Ukraine and Russia, the sullen and sulky Vladimir Putin just mopes around the room like some discontented prima donna who keeps playing up before a big show. 

Meanwhile the man with the orange hair continues to give the impression of a man who is convinced that everything he does is right but then gets stuck in the revolving doors of a hotel going around and around. Suddenly Trump is attacked, criticised relentlessly for tactless drivel, putting his foot in it. As the days and weeks pass, Trump will certainly divide opinion and then resemble the village idiot. But don't panic everybody because Donald Trump is here to stay and at heart, a colourful character who will never bore us. In Trump we must have faith. Smile America, this is happening now. We're living it.