The Grand National.

 The Grand National. 

So it is that the spring equinox dawns brightly and beautifully on Aintree, scene of one of the greatest, loveliest and, undoubtedly, the most stunning horse race in the world. Across all the social classes, backgrounds and lifestyles, we will gather around en masse to watch what has now become one of the most endearing of all rituals. For those who only put a bet on either the Grand National or the Epsom Derby, it is a race that transcends all boundaries and one that any jockey or horse can win.

Today it is that the yearly Grand National explodes in a riot of colour, elegant fashions, expensive food and drink in the hospitality boxes and huge quantities of drama, melodrama, glamour and high profile names, riders with distinguished reputations and trainers who have been plying their trade for innumerable decades. 

The Grand National is now officially one of the oldest and most highly respected English national treasures, firmly established in our hearts and still one that captures the imagination of even the most impartial observer. It is sport at its most natural and authentic, possibly quite cruel and barbaric in the eyes of those who belong to the animal rights supporters. But, needless to stay, it's still quite astonishing, barely believable at times, utterly compelling, irresistible and heroically gripping. 

Throughout the years and centuries, the critics have bombarded us with fierce criticism and condemnation. How can you possibly subject one of our most delightful animals to such anguished agony and painful purgatory? Why do we treat our horses so appallingly and callously, traumatising and torturing them with cracking whips, driving them on relentlessly as if their lives depend on it. But this is the Grand National and, besides, it has always been this way. 

In 1956, a horse called Devon Loch approached the final fences at Aintree almost brazenly confident that it had done enough to win the Grand National. Then tragedy struck. Devon Loch, leaping over the final fence with an almost arrogant certainty, landed awkwardly, stumbling, staggering, panicking before collapsing on the hallowed acres of Aintree's grass and had to be put down. It was one of the most horrendous sights we had ever seen in any sport but we were rudely reminded of its ever present life threatening dangers.

Then during the 1970s, one horse emerged from its paddock and stable to become one of the most gorgeously proportioned of all horses. The horse had class, refinement and breeding, the most infectious enthusiasm for the big race and a personality that was both engaging and charming. It was a horse who knew it was important and yet unaffected by all the fuss and commotion and cool as a cucumber. If it could talk and communicate it would probably go into chapter and verse about the history of Aintree. 

For three consecutive years Red Rum dominated Aintree, almost took a mortgage out on the racecourse and firmly believed that it was untouchable and unsurpassable. The very presence of Red Rum could swell the numbers on any race meeting by the thousand since it was the smoothest, silkiest and stylish horse the world had ever seen. 

In 1973 a horse called Crisp was miles away from the pursuing pack, heading frantically towards the finishing line. This looked like a formality, a one horse race with no horse even remotely close to it and all Crisp had to negotiate were the final fences before sprinting for victory. Then Crisp completely ran out of steam, energy seeping away, flagging forlornly and gasping for breath. Crisp became slower and slower, legs now buckling under and clearly betraying the trust of the punters who had backed it in the bookmakers. 

Meanwhile, behind Crisp, the horse who would achieve legendary status Red Rum started galloping flat out with and just determined to hunt down Crisp with an unforgettable turn of pace that was quite startling. Once it had got going there was no stopping Red Rum. Tommy Stack and Brian Fletcher, who would become one of the most polished jockeys Britain had ever produced, did what they had to, bodies purposefully hunched over in the saddle, playfully slapping Red Rum on the back as it flashed past the winning line. It was one of the most uplifting and rewarding moments horse racing had ever seen. 

For the next two years Red Rum would win the National with an almost effortless ease and an inner confidence that defied belief, a suave gentleman who had just walked into the Garrick, spread out the Financial Times in front of him, poured himself a triumphant brandy and then lit up a cigar just for good measure. Red Rum even appeared on BBC's Sports Personality of the Year as if he belonged in exalted human company. Red Rum had deserved this one evening in the TV spotlight. Who could argue?  

And so we move seamlessly to the present day. The names of the horses are still unfailingly amusing, beyond comprehension and evocatively poetic.  There was Coko Beach, Twig, Duffle Coat, Appreciate it, Broadway Boy, Three Card Brag, Chantry House, Hyland, Stumpton, the wonderfully comical, sublime and then the ridiculous such as Monbeg Genius, Intense Raffles, BravesmansGame and finally not but least Meeting of the Waiters. 

Sadly last year's winner I Am Maximus, which does sound gladiatorial and confrontational, failed to repeat the victory of 2024. But the Grand National had succeeded in moving its traditionalists if only because the event was still held on a Saturday afternoon tea time. The seasoned thoroughbreds and not so experienced had retained their place in Britain's affections.

This afternoon Nick Rockett , ridden by son Patrick Mullins, under the guidance of dad Willie, romped home to win the Grand National at 33-1. Second was I Am Maximus who had to be content with the runners up spot while Grangeclare West clinched third place. Aintree then declared itself content with the business of the day. The hardened punters who had been picking winners for years at Aintree flung their hats in the air, cheered hoarsely and then looked gleefully at their betting slip. Then there were the folk who had lost their shirt and just slumped over a bar with several beers at their disposal. You win some, you lose some. The Grand National had got it absolutely right. 

Autism Awareness Month

 Autism Awareness Month. 

During your childhood you were never entirely sure what was going on inside that complex mechanism known as your brain. There were frequent moments when it all felt perfectly normal, straightforward and your behaviour was perfectly acceptable. There was nothing out of the ordinary. You learnt how to walk, talk, articulate toddler's emotions,  learning about all the basic rules and regulations, the laws and customs as they applied to your wonderful parents and what to do when the world expected you to abide by them. 

April marks Autism Awareness Month and as somebody who was diagnosed with Autism in 2009, this is one issue that has to be addressed. You feel sure that we have to be enlightened and discussions on the subject have to be out there in the public domain. Personally this has been a difficult, challenging, problematic if rewarding life journey since living in ignorance of Autism was perhaps the most awkward experience I've ever had. 

But now I have the most wonderfully loving and supportive wife, children and extended family you could possibly wish for and that's all that matters. My whole family have offered unconditional love and affection and for this I can be immensely grateful. The fact is though Autism can often be lost in translation, beyond my understanding and a general pain in the neck. Every so often your patience is tested to the limit since nobody can make head or tail of your body language.

This all goes back to your childhood again when you found yourself in a bewildering environment where friends, family and neighbours saw you in a perfectly rational light, the kid who just wanted to lead his life in much the way they were. And then complications set in very slowly but surely. I was painfully shy, reserved, withdrawn, lonely, solitary, self conscious and with none of the friends that my contemporaries had taken for granted. 

The truth is that the medical profession had suddenly discovered a condition known as Autism because this went much deeper than an obvious breakdown in communication. For those who have experienced Autism in all of its different forms, then you'll know what I'm talking about. There's the insistence on routine and structure, the nagging necessity to be at any specific location at a particular time. Sometimes it's just exhausting and occasionally demoralising since you certainly have no idea why life has to revolve around you. 

I now have my everyday coping mechanisms since Autism is now a fundamental part of life and, although not a source of interference, still makes demands on you subconsciously. You find yourself longing for familiarity, the comforting knowledge that everything is right and going well, craving reassurance should that be necessary. 

This is not to suggest that those with Autism are unusual although they can be unconventional and somehow unique. In a sense we function in the way that most people without Autism conduct themselves in public. But the list of tasks and responsibilities that Autistic people may have difficulty in undertaking are innumerable. Still, I do have a healthy acceptance of the Autistic condition and know all about the trigger points. 

At parties and family gatherings, I used to feel terribly uncomfortable, deeply isolated and confused about looks on faces, knowing the exact moment when to make the right comments in a private conversation. Of course I'm not tactless nor do I make appropriate references but there may be something in our dialogue that somehow goes over your head completely. 

Then there are the moments when you read between the lines in something people may say. Autistic people are, from my point of view, always searching for a deeper meaning to something that could be considered as trivial. And yet Autistic people are far from being conspiracy theorists believing that the outside world is saying nasty or unsavoury things about you behind your back. 

So there you are. This is Autism Awareness Month, whose generous patron is the Duchess of Edinburgh Sophie, whose eloquent support of this condition is much appreciated. Autism has been very good to me and there is a realisation that I'll never be alone in a world that maybe cruel and unforgiving, callous and indifferent at times. It's a mental health issue that has to be high up on the agenda of our supposedly kind and considerate politicians. Maybe just maybe it will always be their foremost concern and priority. We must hope. Thank goodness for the diagnosis of Autism. 

Crystal Palace reach the FA Cup semi final at the expense of Fulham

 Crystal Palace reach the FA Cup semi final at the expense of Fulham

For both Crystal Palace and Fulham this was very much a defining moment in their season. Lose and their Premier League campaign fades into obscurity or win and the sky's the limit, a day of wild celebration and revelry. Both Palace and Fulham have served up some of the most attractive football throughout this season but now was not the time for throwing the dice and calculated gambles. 

Yesterday, down by the placid River Thames, Craven Cottage's always quaint and welcoming ground opened its doors to its local London neighbours from Selhurst Park, Crystal Palace. It was an amiable kind of reception, mutual flattery promptly shared but FA Cup glory was at stake and there was no sentiment or respect for each other here. This is the business end of the season and that meant the last four in the FA Cup had now become a vitally important contest. 

Some of us were hoping that 50 years after their last and only FA Cup Final appearance, Fulham would be going hell for leather, storming the barricades and ready to give blood, sweat and tears for the cause. For the first twenty minutes or so the Cottagers recalled the days of Viv Busby, Les Strong,  John Mitchell, Alan Mullery and, of course, the incomparable Bobby Moore. But Fulham's 2-0 defeat to London rivals West Ham probably still rankles with their fans and here was an opportunity to redeem themselves.

And so here we were at the Cottage, the ground where once the dearly missed and beloved George Best once teased and taunted Hereford United mercilessly in an overwhelming 4-0 victory in the old Second Division. The sight of Best and his fellow exhibitionist Rodney Marsh, dancing and prancing, carousing and cavorting with poor Hereford will live in our memories for an eternity. 

Nowadays Marco Silva, certainly as far removed from Alec Stock as it was possible to be, stood patiently but ultimately sadly as his Fulham side from today's generation were decisively beaten by a Crystal Palace side still trying to shake off the trauma of a heavy FA Cup final defeat to Sir Alex Ferguson's Manchester United 35 years ago. For Crystal Palace this must have felt like the right time and place to exorcise the demons of their past and win the FA Cup this year. 

Palace of course enjoyed some of their greatest and most satisfying match days under both Terry Venables and Steve Coppell. Neither Venables or Coppell reached the promised land and Palace are still looking for their first trophy of any significance in any season. Palace have bounced up and down from the old Second Division and top flight rather like the kid on the trampoline completely without fear or trepidation. But now the Eagles have well and truly landed so to speak. 

After the well educated Roy Hodgson had taken Palace as far as he could, the general consensus was that the South Londoners would always be guaranteed joyous entertainment. But there was none of the stability that other clubs would take for granted. Palace would always be considered as one of those middle of the road London clubs who would never be strong enough or suitably equipped for bigger achievements.

Fulham, for their part, must have been convinced that 50 years is almost too long to decorate their trophy cabinet with at least something to show for their earnest endeavours. Football can be cruel and unforgiving, a game where the thin line between victory and defeat can be so fragile that it just can't be judged or measured accurately. This was not 1975  but rather a perfect opportunity to turn round their fortunes and Crystal Palace had to be theirs for the taking. But the Cottage, although privately expectant and vocal throughout, couldn't force themselves over the finishing line.

Palace were like greyhounds out of the trap, weathering the early Fulham onslaught with an effortless calm and nonchalance that was admirable. Fulham were moderately impressive but Palace surged into attack with a fluency and cohesion that the home side were helpless to repel. Fulham became increasingly ragged  and their disenchanted spectators knew exactly what to expect. Palace played metaphorically like royalty while Fulham looked like commoners who had forgotten their garden party engagement.

For Palace, the likes of the superbly commanding Marc Guehi, dependable full back partner Chris Richards and Tyrick Mitchell, solid as rock, Palace turned on the afterburners, thrusting forward at turbo charged pace and then landing powerful blows on Fulham's forehead. With Adam Wharton, Jefferson Lerma, Ismaila Sarr and the gloriously talented Ebereche Eze almost a force of nature, Palace's measured and more cultured approach to this FA Cup quarter final was too much to handle for Fulham. Jean Phillipe Mateta became the ultimate pain in the neck for Fulham, irritating and annoying their opponents repeatedly.  

Now Palace had all the right cards and were so pumped up for this match over their local rivals that nobody needed to remind them of where they were and knew what was expected of them. Their football was both delicious and delightful in equal doses, short, sharp, and simple passing movements that carved through the Fulham defence like a knife through butter. It wasn't long before Fulham's briefly functioning attack began to fizzle out like a damp firework. 

When Timothy Castagne, Calvin Bassey, Antonee Robinson, Joachim Andersen seemed to stagger and stumble on leaden feet for the home side, they reminded you of those daring souls who keep treading on hot coals and getting their feet burnt. Fulham looked awkward and ill at ease, at times leaden footed and emotionally overcome by the occasion itself. And they paid the penalty for their attacking ineptitude and little in the way of defiance. 

By the time Antonee Robinson, Sander Berge, Sasa Lukic and the ever tricky Alex Iwobi had exhausted their options, Fulham looked punch drunk, wobbling precariously around the pitch as if in a permanent daze. The home side had failed to turn up on the day and after another respectable season in the Premier League, Fulham were beginning to wonder whether it had been worth their while, a side now bereft of ideas and going nowhere. 

Palace of course inevitably took the lead because they had given every indication of doing so. Tyrick Mitchell, a sturdy and steadfast presence for Palace, sent a long, flighted ball with impeccable accuracy into the path of the stunning Ebereche Eze. Eze looks like he could become one of the most influential of all England players. There is just a hint of the Steve Coppell and Peter Barnes about Eze, a winger and midfielder  full of fleet footed trickery and sorcery that bodes well for Thomas Tuchel's England. 

Eze, picking up the ball, went on a breathless run at a now terrified home defence before dropping his shoulder, jinking, dinking and shimmying his body before cracking an unstoppable low shot that was placed neatly into the corner of the net. Palace were now carefree and cavalier and liaising splendidly with each other, their football now absolutely suited for a portrait gallery. 

Minutes before half time, Palace extended their lead and rubber stamped their authority on the day. Ismaila Sarr, never less than lively and enthrallingly energetic, headed home from another lovely cross from Eze. Fulham had no answer to the Palace cavalry charge, their immensely constructive football almost impossible to resist. And now with this match well and truly done and dusted, Palace rubbed the proverbial salt into Fulham's wound. 

Another former Arsenal forward Eddie Nketiah cut inside a now forlorn and over run Fulham and then drove the ball firmly into the Fulham net. Come the final whistle and Palace manager Oliver Glasner switched on a beaming smile. He stared up at his jubilant fans who looked as though they'd won the World Cup rather than the FA Cup quarter final. The Eagles will now be flying higher than ever. Maybe this is their year. There can be no telling but perhaps it could be. We shall see.       

No more Blue Peter

No more Blue Peter.

So the news is out and for some of us, it almost felt as though we'd lost a valuable teddy bear from our childhood or some favourite board game in the cupboard that we were loathe to throw away but had to dispose of because it was just cluttering up our living room. But then we realised that perhaps it had passed its sell by date ages ago and, besides we hadn't used the aforesaid item for ages and it did look pretty old anyway. 

Today, the BBC, perhaps with a heavy heart and with great reluctance, put out to pasture one of its much loved programmes and TV national treasures. Blue Peter is about to end its seven decade occupancy at the height of the now increasingly busy children's TV schedule, a programme so deeply cherished by generations of kids that it's hard to believe that, shortly, it will be no more and just a historic TV gem that always gleamed brightly. Maybe a trickle of tears were seen to be falling from the eyes of the BBC's Director General and a host of boardroom directors. 

For those who grew up with the programme, that infectiously uplifting naval jingle that introduced Blue Peter will live on in the memory for many years. It represented our black and white world where tea time TV during the 1960s made way for a celebrated telly institution that informed, educated and enlightened in equal measure. It was immensely entertaining, reassuring and just delightfully familiar. 

Everybody knew the presenters of Blue Peter because they entered our homes with cheerful invitations from parents who just wanted their children to sit in front of the TV and just watch something that would broaden their mind, stimulate discussion and remind us that life was gentle and inoffensive or seemingly so. Blue Peter was a campaigning children's programme, serious, funny, topical and relevant to all ages, classes and backgrounds. Nobody ever felt excluded when Blue Peter hit our screens because it was always inclusive, diverse, accessible and never felt patronising. 

We grew accustomed to Valerie Singleton, John Noakes and Peter Purves because they were relatable, recognisable, always upbeat, excellent communicators and always ready to explain the complicated in simple terms. We were acquainted with lovable dogs, memorable elephants, rabbits and tortoises no doubt and people who were always ready to boast about their exceptional achievements. Blue Peter was always on two or three times a week and invariably followed Play School and, at times Andy Pandy. 

In one edition there was the unforgettable sight of John Noakes, ever the adventurous type, coming face to face with two adorable elephants in the BBC studio. What followed was complete bedlam and pandemonium, a whole fifteen minute segment of Blue Peter devoted to Noakes hilarious attempts to keep the restless elephants under control.

 As the item unfolded, we were reminded of exactly why we watched spellbound as the sublime became the ridiculous. Noakes, smiling helplessly, struggled desperately to hold on to the said elephants while the animals allowed nature to take its course on the studio floor. At first Noakes seemed to have be coping admirably but then let go of the rope tethered to the elephants, before releasing them as they left their lasting legacy on the floor. 

But what we'll always remember about Blue Peter were the bottles of washing up liquid, the innumerable buttons, pieces of cardboard, sticky back plastic, the glue, the scissors, the countless boxes that were cut up mercilessly, squeezed together with either glue or staple guns and then joined together to create something that simply oozed creativity and originality. We were never sure what we were going to get because it may have come as a pleasant surprise. 

Then there were times when Peter Purves went on epic journeys around the studio on futuristic bikes and then demonstrated ground breaking objects such as computers of the future or phones that would eventually become mobile phones. Valerie Singleton, for her part, was always interested about peculiar inventions, children's art work and the programme's unstinting commitment to exotic charity projects. 

Singleton did her utmost to promote worthy causes with both the underprivileged, needy and disabled receiving the highest priority. She was very much the patient and understanding mother figure, carefully describing details of how much Blue Peter had raised in its Christmas appeal. But the genuine appeal of the show was the frequent appearance of those wonderful dogs. Dogs were always  relaxed and comfortable within the confines of a TV studio. Noakes first dog Shep became the nation's favourite dog until one day Shep passed away and Britain was grief stricken. 

In later years there would be Lesley Judd, Janet Ellis, the late and much missed Karon Keating, daughter of the radio and TV presenter Gloria Hunniford. For the men there was Simon Groom, Simon Thomas, Peter Duncan and a whole host of others who would bring their own unique personality and aura to the programme.

Behind the scenes, there was the permanently enthusiastic and effervescent producer and director Biddy Baxter, a major influence on Blue Peter for years and just there to inject considerable humour where necessary. When the post bag containing the programme's substantial fan mail rolled into the BBC there was a sense here that this children's TV gold nugget had officially confirmed its place as one of the finest the Beeb had ever produced. 

And yet today there are parents and children who will be mourning the loss of a TV classic that never openly swore at its audience, never underestimated the challenges confronted by the likes of its ITV counterpart Magpie and knew how to be both creative, forward thinking, up to date and always working on behalf of children.

 But the 21st century has provided kids with viable alternatives to Blue Peter such as online children's games, sometimes overwhelming screens, Tablets and Smart Phones and every conceivable mobile phone available on the market. It does seem that Blue Peter never really stood a chance but we'll miss you deeply and it is, quite certainly, a sad day for children's TV. Never forget Blue Peter.

England beat Albania in World Cup qualifier.

 England beat Albania in World Cup qualifier.

Last night was all about polite introductions and initiation ceremonies. By the end of it all, we were all on first name terms, civil handshakes had been exchanged and agreeable smiles were much in evidence. Everybody had got on with each other, there were no personal disagreements and the milk of human kindness was overflowing. There was no need for any bad blood, rancour and petty differences of opinion. 

Under new coach and manager Thomas Tuchel, England had beaten Albania in their opening World Cup qualifier for next year's global football jamboree in the USA, Mexico and Canada. Straightforward really, no sweat, no problem at all. But there was a bizarre and mysterious air about last night's game that was perhaps indefinable. We've always known about the underwhelming nature of these World Cup preliminaries since the opposition are marginally more demanding and taxing as a Hackney Marshes 11 on a Sunday morning. 

The fact is that both Albania and Latvia on Monday at Wembley are never likely to shake the foundations of world football at any point in the history of the game. By the hour of yesterday's evening nondescript, meaningless, wretchedly insulting, dull and dreary spectacle at Wembley, most of England's devoted fans were beginning to think about an early exit home for late night tea drinking stimulation. This most blinding of football smokescreens couldn't disguise the sheer futility of the exercise. 

International football has undergone a dramatic evolution in recent years with the arrival of now frequent international breaks during the Premier League season and nothing but probing questions. World Cup and Euro qualifiers used to be valued and a major source of fascination. England used to be presented with tricky obstacles in their way en route to any of both competitions. There was Poland in 1973 when Sir Alf Ramsey anti climactically lost his job for England on their way to West Germany for the 1974 World Cup against the Poles and then Italy four years later when Don Revie's England fell by the wayside against Italy.

When Gareth Southgate recently departed his post as England manager last year, the yawning chasm and gaping gap needed to be filled as quickly as possible. Lee Carsley briefly took over the shop as a means of blooding the next generation of England players and integrating fresh new faces. But the pain and anguish of losing last year's European Championship Final to an embarrassingly superior and technically outstanding Spain side exposed all of the usual limitations and left England gasping for oxygen once again.

So here we went again for England last night, a match that bore no relation to anything that might resemble a proper contest in next year's World Cup Finals. We were again lulled into a soft focus blurred image of footballing excellence. The truth is that this was a caricature of an international match, some pale imitation of football that struggled for any kind of fluidity. England got the result they were looking for but this was rather like being trapped in a dark room desperate for a chink of light. 

And yet Thomas Tuchel will have seen the first faint pencilled outlines of England's future under his honourable and well intentioned management. Tuchel is an exciting and innovative coach who began to build solid bricks and mortar at Chelsea but then experienced subsidence when things went wrong. He remains an unknown quantity at international level but judgments have yet to be formed and we shall see. 

But what on earth was last night's fiasco all about for England? What we had was a genuine demonstration of slow motion, boring, painfully anodyne and insignificant football that belonged exclusively on the training ground and  leisurely five-a- sides before sinking into anonymity. From the kick off, England indulged in stuttering, self indulgent and staccato passing that barely troubled the half way line at times. There were bewildering, keep ball patterns that became increasingly repetitive and to the outsider, simply annoying and intolerable. 

Of course there is a school of thought that the passing game should always be regarded as a thing of beauty and splendour, a marvel of sweet intricacy and purposeful product at the end of it all. Football was designed to be constructed patiently from the back of the defence, shuffled pleasingly through the midfield and then finished with the most incisive finish and goals galore. England though may have put far too great emphasis on over elaboration and overdoing the fancy approach work.

In fairness to Albania, their ex Arsenal player Silvinho, now coach to Albania had worked out a grand masterplan to stifle Tuchel's England. Having erected an eleven man defensive wall in front of them, England would probably have needed an earth remover and bulldozer to break down the visitors. Commonly known as the low block, Albania were almost camped inside their own half permanently, touching and nicking the ball occasionally but then surrendering all hope within minutes of the game.

England though made all the right commendable noises and attacked with both urgency and intensity. But then they started tapping out their version of Morse Code, shifting the ball sideways and then backwards as if treating it like a hot potato. Then there seemed a baffling insistence on the horizontal and the vertical, the ball moving into nowhere in particular before drifting off into a private recycling no man's land. It looked as if they were trapped in a maze or confusing labyrinth where football disappears into a world of its own. 

As for the team itself both the veteran Kyle Walker, Ezri Konsa and the 32 year old Newcastle all conquering Carabao Cup hero, Dan Burn fixed up their defensive picket line and refused to budge. Newcomer and Arsenal favourite Myles Lewis Skelly, a mere child of nature and still learning the ropes, was simply a dazzling revelation, comfortably playing his way out of trouble and just impregnable. The truth is that England didn't really need their defence last night so surplus to requirements were they. 

Liverpool's Curtis Jones was promisingly and impressively adventurous with neat ball control, darting runs and a willingness to run at Albania. Declan Rice, as is customary now, did the simple things correctly, stable, assured and never flustered. He also ventured forward into attack from time to time and now seems likely to become a very capable holding midfield player with a licence to roam forward. 

For his part, Phil Foden sadly vanished from the game after a while and this may be a source of concern and anxiety for Thomas Tuchel. The Manchester City midfield player has hitherto been an essential worker and catalyst at the start of all City's attacks, buzzing, scurrying, tricking and deliberately deceiving opponents with the ball at his feet. Foden though has had a forgettable season for City and his presence in their attack has almost been non existent and negligible. Foden did spark and shine last night but then any remaining energy seemed to drain from him. 

Both Harry Kane and Marcus Rashford did lead England's forward line with a hearty appetite for goal and a sixth sense that there was something in it for them. Kane shepherded the ball admirably into dangerous areas for the captain and Rashford powered his way past players as if determined to prove his doubters wrong. Kane had half chances to score while Rashford kept hunting for goals. 

England's goals though were worth waiting for. With just over 20 minutes gone and tentative sparring with a very meek and submissive Albania, England finally broke through. The remarkably gifted Jude Bellingham, who kept dragging the Albanians out of their formation with some masterful body swerves, picked up the ball deep into the half and then released the most stunning, low through pass past three statuesque Albanian defenders that just split all of them in half. Myles Lewis Skelly, quick on the uptake and superbly responsive, sneaked into the penalty area and seizing the opportunity, clipped the ball precisely past a helpless Albanian goalkeeper for a goal to remember. 

After a second half that came and went in a rapid flash, England went about their business, engaged with the task at hand but never really bothering to leave a lasting imprint on the game. A second goal, although much prized, had become irrelevant.  It did though come and we were more than grateful for its appearance. In any other circumstances, England may have put their foot on the accelerator pedal but this was an England in first gear with no real inclination to humiliate their visitors. 

Firstly Kyle Walker and then Declan Rice swapped what had to be the thousandth passes on the night, before the Arsenal defender floated the ball serenely and high towards Harry Kane. Kane, with polished expertise, brought the ball down from the sky beautifully, turned inside his defender with the deftest touch and then curled the ball delicately past the Albania keeper. Here was a master of his craft, knowing what to do and how to do it. 

So yet again England are off to another flying start in another World Cup qualifier. Latvia at Wembley on Monday are next on their busy schedule. Serbia will follow in due course and theoretically England should be contemplating an advance plane booking to next year's World Cup. But then Sir Alf Ramsey and Graham Taylor must have been thinking along the same lines in years gone by and look what happened to them. Anyway at least Sir Norman Wisdom must have been having a private giggle. Even Albania, in giving Wisdom special status, may have seen the funny side of this game.       

Newcastle United finally win a trophy

 Newcastle United finally win a trophy.

After exactly 70 years without a single domestic trophy, you'd have thought they'd be declaring a national holiday on Tyneside. Footballing droughts are hardly more barren when you've spent seven decades banging your head against the proverbial brick wall. The fact is that Newcastle United have finally won a reputable football trophy and the folks back home are dancing from semi and terraced homes, council estates, cottages, mansions, villages and, surely, shopping centres in the North East. 

Yesterday, Newcastle won their first trophy in dear old England since Bobby Mitchell, the Robledo brothers and Jackie Milburn brought home the FA Cup in 1955 against Manchester City. In 1969, Newcastle laid their hands on the old Fairs Cup in Europe, their precious victory in the Final against Ujpesti Dozsa of Hungary breaking the oldest of underachieving cycles of failure. It's all come right though on the day for Newcastle just when we were beginning to think a gypsy curse may have been placed on the club. 

Up in the celebrity boxes at Wembley, delight and jubilation was unconfined, otherwise cynical figures who may have despaired of ever seeing their club winning anything again, jumping up and down with pleasure quite openly. Ant and Dec, those jolly, chipper and chirpy TV presenters who always seem to see the good in everyone and everything, turned around to one another, hugged each other unashamedly and then congratulated themselves for being there to see their team triumph on this momentous day. 

Meanwhile, Newcastle's greatest, most deeply revered and loved strikers Alan Shearer, a St James Park icon and legend for eternity, threw his hands up into the air, barely able to control his black and white scarf and scarcely able to hold it all back. When Shearer signed for his hometown club during the 1990s from Blackburn Rovers, the feeling was that the local boy had returned home to look for his spiritual roots. Shearer scored lorry loads of goals for Newcastle and the Toon were simply overjoyed. Sadly, the club were never able to deliver the Premier League for Newcastle but the North East had been revived as a major force in the land. 

But it was good to see a team who have been so cruelly starved of any kind of success throughout recent decades being finally rewarded for their stubborn perseverance. In 1998, Shearer's Newcastle were outclassed by Arsene Wenger's seemingly unbeatable Arsenal. You had to go back 51 years ago to find any semblance of black and white striped Wembley glory tarnished only by FA Cup Final defeat to the team they overcame yesterday Liverpool when Kevin Keegan, Steve Heighway and John Toshack were just irresistible on the day. 

Yesterday, Eddie Howe's Toon marauders struck the perfect balance at Wembley by winning the old League Cup Final or the Carabao Cup Final and all was good in the world. Even before yesterday's straight contest between the North East and North West, there was a real excitement. They say that everything comes to those who wait and that patience is a virtue and never has this been more applicable. The stars were shining and the lights were beaming on Newcastle and this vast, sprawling city can finally acknowledge an emotion that they may have thought would become permanently elusive. 

On the day, Newcastle fulfilled their season's long held potential, their up and down, fluctuating Premier League season now redeemed by something tangible and positive. Some of Newcastle's football this season has been astonishingly impressive, free flowing, fluent and enormously pleasing on the eye. But then there have been the roller coaster moments when there have been cracks on the road, defensive shortcomings and spasmodic defeats at home and away. So the Premier League may be their next project, their overriding objective and something to plan ahead for. 

But now they find themselves stuck between the devil and the deep blue sea. Newcastle are still deeply respected by the wider football community and still regarded as a big club. But the more demanding fans will now want more of the same, perhaps more prestigious silverware to adorn the club's cabinet. Their children and grandchildren will now tell their generation and generations to come that St James Park is still the place to watch top class football. 

During Sunday afternoon, the whole of London's West End became a colony of black and white, massive throngs of passionate supporters sitting on the roof of old Covent Garden piazza buildings, firing off flares and then watching small wisps of smoke drifting across that delightful area where once the barrow boys would trundle their fruit and vegetable stalls across the Victorian cobble stones. It was also the venue where Charles Dickens would wander around at midnight, filling up his fertile literary mind with hundreds of ideas, images and symbolism. 

And then finally those same supporters would fan out into Trafalgar Square where the tall, imposing figure of Nelson's column may well have indirectly inspired them to feats of heroism that could hardly have been imagined for years at Newcastle. Then they would raise the scarves in unison again, chanting those famous old songs that were born in the Industrial Revolution.

 For a while they may have pondered on those days of thriving Tyneside mining collieries, the melodious Blaydon Races, the fathers and grandfathers who emerged from the pits with grime and sweat on their faces. This was far from being a rags and riches day for Newcastle since Newcastle fans felt they deserved their moment in the sun. You remembered the cheeky, impish grins of Ant and Dec, that joyous smile on Alan Shearer's face and were deeply grateful for football's endless capacity to enchant and enthral. This was a moving and poignant day for Tyneside and how uproariously triumphant it was.   

The new Old Trafford.

 The new Old Trafford.

Those now decaying football stadiums that were once an integral part of football's rich heritage maybe poised to be phased out altogether. Maybe time has inevitably caught up with them and we are now living in the 21st century and new technologies have taken over completely. The days of hanging around refreshment bars and drinking beer and then devouring burgers next to police on horses, may now be consigned to some medieval page in footballing history. 

We all treasured the atmosphere outside grounds such as Highbury, Upton Park, White Hart Lane and, more, recently, Everton who will also be requiring the services of furniture removal vans to shift their belongings into the new Everton stadium next season. Surely it can't be long before Liverpool  decide to move their mighty Anfield fortress to greener pastures. And yet a huge capacity upgrade has now rendered that possibility a non starter. Liverpool will stay where they are for the foreseeable future. 

Yesterday though those global football giants Manchester United announced their ambitious intentions to move lock, stock and barrel to an even bigger, smarter, posher and more architecturally stunning football stadium. Finally, the rather old fashioned and perhaps frayed looking Old Trafford is now looking its age. It is far from being shabby genteel and behind the times but there is a sense now that Old Trafford is beginning to look a little haggard, rough around the edges and reminiscent, dare you say of it, of an old music hall or some weather beaten department store that has been around for centuries. 

Old Trafford's capacity is now at the remarkably impressive 80,000 and if you listen closely you can also hear and see the ghosts from the past; the vivacious, vital and voluptuous George Best, unmistakably beautiful and almost a supernatural force. There was the late and wonderful Duncan Edwards, the boy who perished in the Munich air disaster in 1958, naturally gifted, an outstanding leader of men, all breathtaking ball control and balletic poise on the ball. The Stretford End has always been the place to be on those emotional European nights at United, loud, feverishly noisy, communally together at all times and utterly influential. 

You now wonder what the likes of the legendary Sir Matt Busby would have thought of this now life changing moment for Manchester United. It's a new stadium, new infrastructure, still vast wealth, very much a transitional era after the greatness of Sir Alex Ferguson and sadly no sign of the continuity that Ferguson must have been hoping for after he left the club. The manager is still the wrong fit or seemingly so and those rose tinted days of Triple winning, multiple Premier League titles and several Champions League trophies now seem an age ago. 

But now the movers and shakers at United want an even larger place to call their home. The news drip dripping out of the media circus in Manchester is that there are plans for a 100,000 capacity stadium, all grand fixtures and fittings, the finest facilities in world football and plenty of room to manoeuvre. United's loyal followers were reassured yesterday that the old Old Trafford will remain where it is although the completion date for the new stadium is scheduled for five years time. 

The fact is that football will now miss those charming old grounds that were somehow a vitally important part of our childhood and still are. There's Aston Villa's Villa Park, a venerable red brick facade outside the stadium with a steepling flight of steps that is still redolent of Victoriana. Crystal Palace's Selhurst Park will always be associated with thrilling FA Cup semi finals in recent times and surprisingly held 50,000 fans way back when. Palace now have a commercial supermarket behind Selhurst Park which always reminds us of the essential role that food and drink play in our lives. 

Sheffield Wednesday's Hillsborough of course will sadly be accompanied by those horrific memories of the 1989 FA Cup semi final crowd tragedy and disaster. Even now it remains one of the most harrowing events in the history of the game, an ordeal made even more traumatic by the 97 Liverpool and Nottingham Forest fans who lost their lives that frightful day. But Hillsborough was the venue for some of the World Cup games in 1966 and still has a spectacular amphitheatre ambience about it. 

And so we return to the immediate matter in hand. Yesterday one of the head honchos at Manchester United Sir Jim Radcliffe outlined the vision and future, the hopes and ambitions for this new Old Trafford. Most of the new state of the art football grounds of today have that magnificent spaceship design about them. The estimated attendance at the new Old Trafford will be 100,000 and as Radcliffe pointed out, United will be hoping to turn the new stadium into the Northern Wembley which may be an exaggeration but you can see his point. Yesterday, it has to be said, that Manchester United's new stadium looked like a vast, well lit marquee. 

At the moment, concerns have been expressed for this season's wretched outcome. When Erik Ten Hag left the club with the club stuttering and then dropping down the Premier League dramatically, it was hoped that Ten Hag's successor Reuben Amorim, their Portuguese coach would produce overnight miracles. The truth is that United have gone from bad to worse in recent weeks and their only trip to Europe next season may consist of several pre-season games in Germany, Spain or Italy. Still, there's a new environment for United fans to get accustomed to and for some of us that may be not before time. The future is still bright for the Red Devils.